They had stopped in the middle of the footpath, roughly a hundred yards from the maths building. The nearest students were scattered a few yards away, drifting toward their post-recess csses in loose groups or walking alone. Jet stood before Beatrice, frozen, his mind tumbling over itself. When a student from the grade below, someone moderately popur, passed by and waved, Jet’s charming smile flicked on automatically. He waved back, the action smooth, controlled.

  “Hey, Jet!” A group of girls called out next.

  His smile remained effortless as he greeted them by name, watching their eyes brighten, their faces flushing as they giggled and walked away. But even as he pyed his part, he could feel Beatrice’s gaze drilling into him. Cold. Amused. When he finally turned back to her, he caught the slight upward tilt of her lips—a knowing, almost mocking smile.

  His own smile faded by a fraction.

  “Beatrice,” he said carefully, keeping his tone measured. “I understand you’re upset about Wade’s passing. But this kind of accusation? It’s not only unfounded—it’s dangerous.” He exhaled, concern shading his voice. “Maybe I’m not the right person to talk to about this. If you’re struggling, you should speak to someone. A professional.”

  Beatrice’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, her lips curled into a slow, taunting smirk. “Why are you so nervous?” she asked, her voice light. “It’s not like I can prove it.” She took a step forward, lowering her voice just enough to make him lean in. “Imagine me walking into a police station and saying, ‘Excuse me, sir, a student murdered another student—through dreaming.’” She let out a short, dry ugh. “They’d call me insane. Probably caution me for wasting police time.” She stepped in closer, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.

  Jet didn’t move. His gaze remained steady, but beneath the surface, a storm raged.

  Dream-jacking.

  She knew.

  He had secretly hoped she would present a fabricated theory about poison or some other mundane, realistic method of murder. But no—Beatrice had gone straight to the heart of the matter.

  She knew what he had done and how he had done it.

  His pulse smmed against his ribs like a caged animal, but outwardly, he seemed composed. He studied her intently, his face calm, offering nothing. He wouldn’t admit to anything—obviously. For all he knew, she could be recording this conversation. Not that it would matter from a legal standpoint. Even if he confessed on tape to dream-jacking, the police would dismiss it outright. Who in their right mind would believe such nonsense?

  The legal-criminal ramification was the least of his concern.

  What worried him (if she were indeed recording) was the perception of it. Should word get out—if people thought he actually believed in this dream-murder nonsense, it would stain his reputation. A future school captain, a leader, couldn’t afford to be seen as mentally unstable. And if he were branded as delusional? His long-term ambitions would be over before they even began.

  Who would vote for a lunatic as school captain?

  Jet inhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to settle, his expression smoothing into something gentler—concerned, even. When he finally spoke, his voice was warm, patient, but with a subtle undertone of something else. Not quite insincerity, but close.

  "Beatrice," he began, as if speaking to a child who had convinced herself that monsters lived under her bed. "I can’t begin to imagine how difficult Wade’s passing must be for you. He was a part of our lives, a dear friend of mine, and a wonderful vice-captain.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes full of quiet sympathy. "It’s not unusual for grief to manifest in...unexpected ways. There’s actually a psychological phenomenon tied to it—sometimes, the mind struggles to process loss, so it fills in the gaps with alternative narratives. It’s a form of grief-induced psychosis, not uncommon when someone is mourning deeply."

  He sighed, as if genuinely saddened, and took a careful step closer, his voice still soothing. "I don’t bme you for this. Your brain is simply trying to rationalize something painful, something that feels too abrupt, too unnatural to accept. But Beatrice,"—he offered a small, knowing smile—"Wade’s passing, while tragic, was a natural event. And I’d hate to see you burden yourself with ideas that will only make this harder for you."

  Beatrice had been silent the entire time, but now, she smiled—a mirthless, hollow curve of the lips. It was almost pitying.

  The expression was strange.

  Because even though she was the one looking up at him, Jet suddenly felt as though she were peering down at him from some great height, disappointment clouding her gaze—like a mother watching her child feign innocence after breaking a vase.

  A flicker of something sharp and hot twisted in his chest.

  The urge came then, unbidden, dark as starless night. He could wrap his hand around her throat and snap it like a twig. The girl couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. She was tiny—a peep-squeak—a little rat.

  A dozen different methods flickered through his mind, each more brutally efficient than the st. A sharp, upward punch—shattering her nose, sending the bone straight into her brain. A quick jerk of the wrist—snapping her cervical spine before she even had the chance to scream. Even something subtler, quieter—pushing her backward just right so she tumbled, the back of her skull cracking against the pavement.

  It would be easy.

  So, so easy.

  But he reined it all in, shoving the thoughts away.

  Not here. Not while he was awake.

  "Rex," Beatrice murmured, watching him with quiet amusement, as if she could see every thought flickering through his mind. "It’s not how you killed Wade that interests me. That’s insignificant." She tapped a finger against her chin, her lips curving in pyful thought. "It’s why."

  Jet remained still, his expression bnk.

  Beatrice mused. "That’s what I can’t quite figure out. Surely, it wasn’t just because he was running against you for school captain. I mean, that would be—" she gave a small ugh, as if entertained by the absurdity of it, "excessive." Her gaze locked onto his, sharp and precise. “Why did you really kill Wade, Jet?"

  Silence stretched between them for several seconds.

  Then—Jet sighed. A slow exhale like a fog lifting off a mountain. When he looked at Beatrice again, the storm in his eyes had quieted. His posture eased, his smile softened—genuine, almost brotherly, yet a crease of disappointment lingered on his brow. "Beatrice…” he began, “it saddens me that this is how you’ve chosen to process your grief. Truly, it does." His voice was low, soothing, touched with just the right amount of regret. "I can’t imagine how painful it must be to lose a friend and to feel so lost in it that your mind is searching for answers where there are none." He let his gaze soften further, exuding nothing but warmth and sincerity. "I know it’s easier to believe in something extraordinary—to create a reason, a vilin, a story. Because sometimes, accepting that death is just… death, that it can come so suddenly and without warning, is too much to bear. But the truth is, Wade’s passing was nothing more than a natural process. Unfortunate, yes. Tragic, absolutely. But there’s nothing supernatural about it." He reached out then, a comforting gesture, though he let his hand hover rather than actually touch her. "I want you to know, no matter what, this doesn’t have to create a rift between us. I still see you as a peer, as someone I care about, and if you ever feel overwhelmed by all of this, you know where to find me. You have my number. I’m always happy to talk—whether it’s about Wade or school, or anything else on your mind. You’re not alone in this, Beatrice. I just hope...you don’t let yourself become lost in something that isn’t real."

  Beatrice didn’t respond. She simply stood there, watching him, her expression unchanged—unreadable.

  Jet held her gaze for a moment longer before exhaling lightly, as if dismissing the conversation entirely. "If there isn’t anything else, I’ll be heading to css," he said, his tone polite but final. "See you there shortly."

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the maths building, his movements confident and unhurried. Behind him, Beatrice remained rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on his retreating figure. As Jet gained distance, her posture gradually changed. The quiet self-assurance that had cloaked her just moments ago began to dissolve. Her shoulders slumped, her chin dipped slightly, and her arms tightened around the strap of her bag. The poised, piercing gaze was repced by something softer, almost hesitant. When a few boys passed by, their curious gnces lingering on her, she offered them a small, bashful smile—demure, almost uncertain.

  By the time she turned to follow Jet’s path to maths, she looked like the same girl she had been in the cafeteria—quiet, unassuming.