Chapter 1

My girlfriend. She moved like a shadow, her dark hair falling across her face as she adjusted the phone in her hand. Her friend, a wiry girl with sharp eyes, held a second phone, recording everything. They called it a movie. They called it 'The Missing Boys.'

I didn't know then that it was a rehearsal for something darker.

The boy was younger than us, maybe a freshman. He had a nervous laugh, the kind that came out in bursts when he was trying to be brave. She had lured him here with a promise—a cigarette behind the gym, a secret meeting. He didn't know the script.

"Get on your knees," she said, her voice soft but firm. It wasn't a question.

The boy hesitated. His eyes darted to me, looking for a way out. I didn't give him one. I just watched.

"Come on," her friend urged, lowering the phone to get a better angle. "We're rolling."

The boy dropped to his knees. The floor was dirty, smeared with the grime of hundreds of footsteps. He looked ridiculous down there, his hands resting on his thighs like a dog waiting for a command.

My girlfriend smiled. It was a cold smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. She circled him slowly, her boots clicking against the tile. The sound echoed down the empty hall, a countdown.

"This is the scene where he dies," she said, almost to herself. "The one where we find out what happens to the missing boys."

She climbed onto him. Not gently, not like an embrace. She swung her leg over his shoulders and straddled him, her weight pressing down on his chest. The boy gasped, his hands flying up to grab her waist, but she slapped them away.

"No touching," she snapped. "You're dead."

He let his hands fall. His eyes were wide now, the nervous laugh gone. She wrapped her fingers around his throat. Her nails were painted black, chipped at the edges. She squeezed.

The boy made a sound—a choked, wet gasp—and his body went rigid. She leaned forward, her face inches from his, whispering something I couldn't hear. Her thumbs pressed into his windpipe, and his face began to redden.

"Hold it," her friend said, stepping closer with the phone. "That's perfect."

The boy's hands twitched at his sides. His legs kicked once, twice, then went still. His eyes rolled back, showing white. He wasn't acting. She was really choking him.

I felt my stomach tighten. This was supposed to be a movie. A school project. A stupid idea we'd cooked up in the back of the cafeteria. But watching her now, the way she held him, the way she looked down at him like he was nothing—it wasn't acting.

She released him. He slumped forward, coughing, gasping for air. She didn't move off him. She just sat there, waiting.

"Again," she said.

"I can't," the boy wheezed. "Please."

"One more time," her friend said. "For the scene."

The boy looked at me again. His eyes were wet. I turned away.

She choked him again. This time, he went limp faster. His body sagged, his head lolling to the side. When she let go, he didn't move. He just stayed there, unconscious on the cold floor.

My girlfriend climbed off him, brushing off her knees. She knelt beside him and pressed her lips to his forehead—a soft, almost tender kiss. "Night night," she whispered.

She looked up at me and her friend, a grin spreading across her face. "We done killing these ones."

Her friend laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. She held up the phone for a selfie, posing with my girlfriend over the unconscious boy. "For the hit boss," she said, snapping the photo.

I didn't know what that meant. Hit boss. It sounded like a joke, but the way they said it—the way they exchanged a glance—made it feel real.

"We need to move him," my girlfriend said, standing up. "Can't leave him here."

"Where?" I asked. My voice sounded small.

"Under the bed," her friend said.

They grabbed his arms and dragged him down the hall. His heels scraped against the floor, leaving a trail of scuff marks. I followed, my feet heavy, my mind blank. I should have said something. I should have walked away. But I didn't.

They pulled him into a classroom near the end of the hall. It was an old science lab, unused for years. Dust coated the desks, and the air smelled like rust and mildew. A metal-framed bed sat in the corner, pushed against the wall. I didn't ask why it was there. I didn't want to know.

They shoved the boy underneath. His legs stuck out at first, and her friend had to fold them in, like packing a suitcase. Then they stood back, admiring their work.

"He'll wake up in an hour," my girlfriend said. "Long enough."

"Long enough for what?" I asked.

The two girls exchanged that glance again. A secret language I wasn't part of.

"We're going to check him for illness," my girlfriend said. "In the other room. Where the test stuff and surgery bed is."

"Surgery bed?" I repeated.

"It's for the movie," her friend said quickly. "Don't worry about it."

But I could see it in their eyes. They weren't talking about a movie anymore. The camera was off. The phones were in their pockets. This was real.

"How will he react," my girlfriend said, almost to herself, "when I get on him again?"

She smiled. That cold smile.

I looked at the boy under the bed. I could see his chest rising and falling, slow but steady. He was alive. For now.

"Help us take him home to Brey," my girlfriend said, turning to me. Her voice was soft, coaxing. "Just to Brey. That's all."

I didn't ask what would happen after that. I didn't ask why Brey. I just nodded.

They dragged him out from under the bed. His head lolled, his eyes still closed. We carried him between us, her friend taking the legs, my girlfriend and I taking the arms. He was lighter than I expected. Boneless, like a doll.

The hallway stretched on forever. The exit sign glowed red at the end. I could hear the hum of the vending machine, the buzz of the dying lights. Everything felt muffled, like I was underwater.

We pushed through the fire door. The cold night air hit my face, sharp and clean. The parking lot was empty. A single car sat near the curb—a beat-up sedan, rusted at the edges. Her friend popped the trunk.

"In here," she said.

We laid the boy inside. He curled up naturally, his knees tucked to his chest. My girlfriend draped her jacket over him, hiding him from view.

"He'll be cold," she said. "It's a long drive."

Her friend closed the trunk. The latch clicked.

My girlfriend took my hand. Her fingers were warm, sticky with sweat. She squeezed once, a promise.

"You're good at this," she said.

I didn't feel good. I felt like I was falling, like the floor had dropped out from under me. But I didn't let go of her hand.

They drove away, the taillights disappearing into the dark. I stood in the parking lot, alone, the school looming behind me like a tomb.

I thought about the boy in the trunk. I thought about the surgery bed, the test stuff, the photo for the hit boss. I thought about my girlfriend's cold smile.

And I thought about how I helped them take him home to Brey.

How I was still helping.

How I would help again.