Chapter 2

I should have gone home. Should have walked back to my house, climbed into bed, and pretended none of this had happened. But my feet wouldn't move. They were rooted to the asphalt, heavy with the weight of what I had done. I helped them. I helped them take him to Brey.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A car passed on the main road, headlights sweeping across the parking lot for a moment before disappearing. I was alone. Completely alone. The thought should have been comforting, but it wasn't. It felt like the world had shrunk to just me and the dark, and the dark was winning.

I finally forced myself to move, my legs stiff and cold. I walked home through the empty streets, the streetlights casting pools of orange light on the pavement. My house was dark when I reached it. I slipped inside, locked the door, and stood in the hallway, listening to the silence. My parents were asleep. Everything was normal. But nothing felt normal.

I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the image of the boy's face burned into my mind. His eyes, wide and wet, begging me to help. And I had turned away. I had helped them drag him into the trunk.

The next morning, I went to school like nothing had happened. The hallways were the same—the same scuffed floors, the same flickering lights, the same smell of stale air and floor wax. But it all felt different now. The walls seemed closer, the shadows deeper. I walked past the science lab and saw the door was closed, a yellow tape across it that hadn't been there before. Maintenance, maybe. Or something else.

I found my girlfriend and her friend by the lockers near the gym. They were huddled together, whispering, their heads bent close. When they saw me, they straightened up, their faces smoothing into smiles.

"There you are," my girlfriend said. She stepped forward and took my hand, her fingers cold. "We were just talking about you."

"About what?" I asked. My voice sounded hollow.

"About the next scene," her friend said. She was holding her phone, her thumb scrolling through something. "We need to check him for illness. Like we said."

"Where is he?" I asked.

My girlfriend's smile widened. "Safe. In a place we know. A place with a surgery bed, like in the movie."

"The movie," I repeated. The word felt wrong in my mouth, like a lie.

"Yeah," her friend said. "The Missing Boys. It's going to be perfect."

They led me out of the school through a side door, past the dumpsters and the dead grass. A car was waiting—a different car, a black sedan with tinted windows. My girlfriend opened the back door and gestured for me to get in. I hesitated, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"Come on," she said. "It's fine. We're just going to check on him."

I got in. The seat was cold, the fabric rough against my legs. Her friend slid in beside me, her phone already out, the screen glowing. My girlfriend got in the driver's seat and started the engine. The car hummed to life, and we pulled out of the lot.

We drove for what felt like an hour, winding through back roads and past empty fields. The houses grew fewer, the trees thicker. Finally, we turned onto a gravel path that led to a small, squat building set back from the road. It looked like an old warehouse, its windows boarded up, the paint peeling in long strips.

"This is it," my girlfriend said. She turned off the engine and looked at me in the rearview mirror. "You ready?"

I didn't answer. I just opened the door and stepped out.

The air smelled different here—damp and moldy, with a hint of something metallic. Gravel crunched under my feet as I followed them to the front door. Her friend pulled out a key and unlocked it, pushing the door open with a creak.

Inside, it was dark. The only light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room. There was a metal table in the center—a surgery bed, just like they had said. It was stained, the surface scratched and worn. Restraints hung from the sides, leather straps with metal buckles.

"He's in there," my girlfriend said, pointing to a door at the back of the room. "We brought him here last night. After you helped us."

I walked toward the door, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. I pushed it open.

The room was small, no bigger than a closet. A cot was pushed against the wall, and on it lay the boy. He was awake. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. When he saw me, his face twisted—fear, anger, maybe both.

"You," he said, his voice hoarse. "You're with them."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

My girlfriend pushed past me, her smile gone. She knelt beside the cot, her hand reaching out to touch his face. He flinched, but she didn't stop. She ran her fingers down his cheek, his jaw, his throat.

"We need to check you for illness," she said softly. "It's for the movie."

"There's no movie," he said. "You're crazy. Both of you."

Her friend laughed from the doorway. "He's got spirit. I like that."

My girlfriend ignored her. She leaned closer, her lips near his ear. "How will you react when I get on you again?" she whispered.

The boy's eyes went wide. He tried to push himself up, but his wrists were bound to the cot with strips of cloth. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Please," he said. "Just let me go. I won't tell anyone."

"Of course you won't," my girlfriend said. She stood up, brushing off her knees. "Because you're going to be part of the movie."

She turned to me. "Help us move him to the surgery bed. We need to get him ready."

I felt my stomach lurch. "Ready for what?"

"For the test," her friend said. "We told you. Illness check."

I looked at the boy. He was crying now, silent tears streaming down his face. He looked so young, so scared. I thought about the night before—the way he had begged, the way I had turned away. And here I was again, standing in the same place, about to make the same choice.

"I can't," I said.

My girlfriend's eyes snapped to me. They were hard, cold, like chips of ice. "What did you say?"

"I said I can't. This isn't a movie. This is—" I stopped. I didn't know what it was.

"This is exactly what we said it was," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "You're either in or you're out. But if you're out, you're not walking away clean. You helped us. You're part of this now."

She was right. I was part of it. I had helped them drag him to the car, helped them hide him in the trunk. I had stood by while she choked him unconscious. There was no going back.

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

Her smile returned, soft and sweet. "That's my girl."

We lifted the boy off the cot. He struggled, but he was weak, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. We carried him to the surgery bed and laid him on the cold metal. My girlfriend buckled the restraints around his wrists and ankles. He didn't fight anymore. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"Good," her friend said. She held up her phone, the camera pointed at the bed. "Say cheese."

The boy didn't respond.

My girlfriend leaned over him, her hair falling around his face like a curtain. She pressed her lips to his forehead, a soft kiss, and then she whispered something I couldn't hear. He closed his eyes.

"We done killing these ones," she said, echoing the words from the hallway. She looked at me, her eyes bright, her smile wide. "For the hit boss."

Her friend snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the room for a split second, capturing everything—the boy on the bed, my girlfriend's cold smile, the shadows on the walls.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Now we wait," my girlfriend said. "He needs to rest. Then we'll check him for illness."

She walked toward the back of the room, where another door led to a small office. Her friend followed, her phone still in hand. I stood alone in the room with the boy.

He opened his eyes. "Please," he whispered. "Please help me."

I looked at him. I thought about running, about calling the police, about doing something right for once. But I could hear my girlfriend's voice in my head, telling me I was part of it now. Part of them.

I turned away and walked toward the door.

Behind me, the boy started to cry.

I didn't look back.