He should’ve stayed in the shadows.

That was always the play.

Observe. Listen. Catalog.
Don’t step into the middle of the mess unless the building’s already burning down.

But then Benji said her name.

Heather Goodwin.

And everything Eli had been tracking—the bad dreams, the flickers in her eyes, the way the dark seemed to lean toward her lately—clicked into place.

It didn’t shock him.

Not really.

He’d known from the beginning that Heather was the type to bring storm clouds in her wake. The Sunnyvale smile. The razor tongue. The buried grief pretending to be glitter.

Trouble, wrapped in perfume and panic and pride.

Eli had watched her claw her way into their group like she belonged there. Like she earned it.

And yeah—maybe she’d proven she wasn’t just playing some long con.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

Now her name was on the wall. Carved next to the cursed. Fresh.

And suddenly, all the gut feelings he hadn’t said out loud didn’t feel so paranoid anymore.

He’d leaned in close to Max, barely above breath:

“She’s not possessed. But she’s marked.”

Max had just nodded—tight, grim.

And then Caleb’s voice cut through the room.

“Say it again.”

Shit.

Eli slowly straightened, eyes meeting Caleb’s. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.

Because Caleb was right.

Secrets were how the curse survived.

Eli glanced once at Heather—still on the couch, still silent, still pale—and then back at the group.

“I said she’s not possessed,” Eli said flatly. “But she’s marked.”

Max didn’t interrupt. Alice didn’t blink.

He kept going.

“There’s a difference. The others—Slater, Ruby, the ones before—they were vessels. Empty. Used.”

He nodded toward Heather.

“She’s not empty.”

Silence pressed around the room like the air had thickened.

“I don’t think it’s taken her,” Eli added, voice low, “but it’s watching her. Following her. Waiting.”

His eyes moved to Benji, then to Alice, then back to Caleb.

“And that name on the wall? That wasn’t a warning. It was a claim.”

He didn’t bother softening it.

Didn’t dress it up in hope or comfort.

Because sugarcoating wasn’t going to save anyone.

And if they were going to fight this thing, they needed to know exactly what they were up against.

Even if that meant admitting the curse had already chosen its favorite.

The word claim hit harder than anything they’d seen in the tunnels.

Harder than the smell. The cold. The names on the wall.

Even hers.

Benji flinched like it had been aimed directly at him—because in a way, it had.

Eli’s voice echoed in his head, blunt and merciless:

“She’s not possessed. But she’s marked.”

Marked.

Like a target.

Like a countdown.

Benji’s knuckles tightened around the edge of the couch cushion until it squealed under his grip. He hadn’t realized he was still holding her hand until Heather shifted slightly beside him, not pulling away—just… adjusting. Like even now, she was trying not to lean too hard.

But she could’ve leaned with everything she had, and he still wouldn’t have moved.

He felt it then—raw and sudden—this flood of no that rose up like a tidal wave under his ribs.

No.
Not her.
Not now.
Not when he was just starting to get it. Just starting to feel it.

Because yeah, maybe it had been a slow build. Maybe he’d pretended for weeks that she didn’t get under his skin, that her eye rolls didn’t land like fireworks, that he didn’t feel steadier when she was nearby—even when she was yelling.

But down in that tunnel, when he saw her name…

It wasn’t fear that hit him first.

It was love.

Terrifying, inconvenient, bone-deep love.

And now he didn’t know what to do with it.

He didn’t realize the room had gone silent again until Alice Mae’s gaze cut sharply toward him—expectant. Waiting.

They were all waiting.

Benji swallowed hard, throat like sandpaper. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing was keeping Heather tethered upright.

But someone had to.

He forced the words out, voice low, scraped raw.

“She didn’t look surprised.”

That made heads turn.

He kept going.

“When I said the names… all of them… she didn’t even blink. Not until I got to hers. And even then—she didn’t flinch. Not really.”

He looked at Heather then.

She was still pale. Still frozen.

But her eyes flicked to his—just once.

And in that second, he knew she was scared. Not of the curse.

Of him seeing her like this.

Benji’s throat closed again.

“She’s been dreaming about them,” he added. “She hasn’t said it, but I can tell. The way she’s been lately—quiet one second, angry the next. Like something’s crawling around under her skin.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice softer now.

“I think she’s been living with this for longer than the rest of us. I think it started with her.”

Another pause.

“And I don’t care.”

That got their attention.

Benji looked up, defiant now.

“I don’t care if the curse put a target on her. I’m not letting it take her. And if you think we’re gonna vote on that—if anyone even thinks about leaving her behind—”

He looked around the room.

One by one.

“You’ll have to go through me first.”

His hand found Heather’s again.

This time, he didn’t loosen his grip.

She didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

Not after Eli called it a claim.

Not after Benji’s voice cracked wide open around Heather’s name.

Not even when he said he’d fight anyone who tried to leave her behind.

Max just stood there.

Still.
Silent.
Listening.

It was all clicking into place now.

The whispers.
The shift in the air.
The way Heather had started showing up in Max’s dreams—but not like a friend.

Like a mirror.
Like a warning.

Max had seen the curse take people before.
Heard the stories.
Read the posts.
Studied the patterns.
She’d built her blog on them, stacked every Shadyside tragedy like evidence on a courtroom table, convinced herself that knowing the history might keep it from happening again.

But knowing wasn’t the same as surviving.

Not when your friend’s name was etched into a wall like a prophecy.

Max’s stomach turned.
Her trailer smelled like stale tea and woodsmoke, but now all she could taste was rust.
Like the tunnels hadn’t stayed underground. Like they were still here, bleeding through the floorboards.

Heather sat like a statue.
Benji clung to her like he could anchor her to the now.
Alice Mae looked ready to swing at the curse with her bare hands.
Eli, arms crossed, silent but deadly as ever.
And Caleb—bless him—still thought maybe this could be solved with muscle and logic.

It couldn’t.

Max had always known it would come back.
The curse never ended, it just waited.

And now it had found new names.

She ran a hand through her hair, fingers shaking before she tucked them into her hoodie pocket. No one noticed.

Good.

Max straightened up and spoke before anyone else could.

“We’re not guessing anymore.”

Her voice was calm. Clipped.

“This isn’t some echo of the curse. It’s not a maybe. Not a metaphor. It’s back. Fully. And it’s started with Heather.”

No one interrupted her.

“The dreams, the names, the tunnel—it all matches. The possession pattern, the death map, the shifts in town energy—hell, I’ve been tracking it for months and didn’t even realize it was starting again.”

She turned to Eli without blinking.

“That mark you saw down there? It’s Goode. Twisted, but Goode. Like someone’s trying to rewrite the rules.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to Heather, then back up.

“But the thing about rules? You can’t break them without consequences.”

Max stepped forward, into the center of the room, voice gaining heat.

“Deena Johnson didn’t survive because she ran. She survived because she fought. Samantha. Josh. All of them. They faced it head-on.”

She looked at her friends—her people—one by one.

“So yeah, this thing thinks it owns Heather. It thinks it owns us.”

A beat.

“I say we remind it who it’s messing with.”

Max’s voice dropped, sharp as glass:

“It picked the wrong damn group.”

Max’s words hung in the air like the final click of a trigger.

Alice Mae didn’t flinch.

She’d grown up in a town that taught you to smile, to win, to never believe in monsters.

But Shadyside was different.
It didn’t need belief.

Here, the monsters were real.
And they had names.

Alice Mae could feel the shift in the room, low and shivering—like the curse itself was listening.

Heather hadn’t spoken.
Benji’s jaw was clenched like he could hold the world together with his teeth.
Caleb looked like he’d forgotten how to blink.
Eli watched everyone like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
And Max—God, Max stood like a blade in the dark, daring the universe to try her.

Alice didn’t want to speak.
She had spent years pretending none of this was real.

But she couldn’t stay silent now.

Not when Heather’s name was carved in stone.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, voice a little rough. “It’s back.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment.

It was recognition.

And still—Alice felt it.

The subtle way the others turned slightly toward her.
The way their eyes narrowed, not cruel, but cautious.

Because she wasn’t from here.

She wasn’t one of them.

“I know I’m not from Shadyside,” she said, before anyone else could. “And I know what Sunnyvale means to most of you.”

She paused. Let it land.

“But I’ve seen enough now to stop pretending I’m not part of this. We’re all in it. And I don’t care what side of the divide I was born on—if this thing is coming for Heather, it’s coming for all of us.”

She stepped forward then, slowly, so they could see she wasn’t afraid to stand with them.

“When I first moved here, I found old clippings. About Deena Johnson. Samantha Frazier. Josh Johnson.”

The words tasted like truth now—not legend.

“They stopped the curse once. Or they thought they did.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Heather, whose silence felt louder than anything.

“But it never ended. It just… shifted. Waited.”

A long breath.

“And now it’s got her name.”

Alice looked at each of them in turn—Max, Eli, Caleb, Benji.

“So yeah, maybe I’m from the town that always walked away clean. But I’m not walking away from her.”

A beat.

“Not now. Not ever.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake.

But she meant every damn word.

And the curse?

It could come and see for itself what a Sunnyvaler was willing to burn to keep her people safe.

She’d read about them all.

Late at night, screen dimmed low, heart pounding in her throat while she scrolled past headline after headline.

Teen Girl Kills Friends in Nighttime Slaughter.

Masked Boy Goes on Rampage in Sleepaway Camp.

Local Student Found Covered in Blood—Says She Doesn’t Remember.

She used to read them like ghost stories.

Urban legends dipped in tragedy, soaked in gore, and always ending the same way:

Dead.

Possessed.

Forgotten.

And now her name was on that wall.

With theirs.

Like a whisper from the grave pulling her closer.

Like a signature on a dotted line she never signed.

Heather Goodwin.

Right there.

Fresh.

Claimed.

Her chest felt tight, like something was coiled around her lungs. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking, not even when Benji gripped them like they were a lifeline. Not even when Alice sat beside her like a fortress. Not even when Max declared war on the curse itself.

Because Heather knew what happened to girls with their names on that wall.

They didn’t get tearful candlelight vigils.

They got mugshots.

Bloody photos.

Breathless newscasters saying things like “We never saw it coming,” and “But she was from Sunnyvale.”

And maybe that was the worst part.

Knowing that when—if—she snapped, people would just shrug.

Like it had always been inevitable.

The curse was cruel like that.

She could feel it now—pressing in at the edges, curling cold fingers around the back of her neck, whispering why not you?

She wasn’t Deena Johnson.

Wasn’t Sam.

Wasn’t built of anything strong enough to survive this.

She was terrified. She was marked. And she was so goddamn tired of pretending otherwise.

But mostly?

She was angry.

Angry that her mouth couldn’t work even though her heart was screaming.

Angry that the girl who used to take no one’s shit had been quiet for this long.

Angry that she finally—finally—had people. Real people. People who saw her, believed her, loved her. And she was going to lose them. Maybe by accident. Maybe by choice. Maybe with a blade in her hand and no memory left.

And it was going to be her fault.

Because of bloodlines.

Because of history.

Because of a name.

No.

No.

No.

The fire inside her sparked. Then flared.

And suddenly, she was done.

Done letting the curse make her feel like a fucking ghost.

Done watching everyone else speak while her voice drowned in fear.

Done waiting for her obituary to write itself.

Heather sat up straighter.

Her fingers tightened around Benji’s without warning.

And then, finally—finally—her voice broke through.

Quiet. Cracked. But hers.

“If any of you try to die for me, I’ll kill you myself.”

The silence after it was stunned.

She looked up.

Eyes burning. Breath unsteady. But back.

“I mean it.”

She looked at each of them in turn—Caleb, Eli, Alice Mae, Max.

And then Benji.

Especially Benji.

“I’m not letting this thing win. Not like that. Not by making me the tragedy before I even get to live.”

A shaky breath.

“I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to be good enough. Smart enough. Sunnyvale enough. And now I’m supposed to be a headline?”

Her voice sharpened, steel under flame.

“No. Screw that. If it wants me, it can come get me. But I’m not going out quiet.”

She turned to Max, eyes burning.

“You said the curse picked the wrong group?”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped.

“It picked the wrong bitch.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, crackling with heat.

“I hope it’s listening.”

Heather was back.

Not all the way—he wasn’t stupid—but the fire was there again.

The bite in her voice. The sharpness in her spine. The girl who would threaten to kill them if they died for her.

Classic Heather.

And damn, he was grateful for it.

She’d scared the shit out of him sitting frozen like that, quiet and pale and shaking from the inside out. That hadn’t been her—not the version of her he’d come to know like an annoying little sister who always had to get the last word in.

But now?

Now she was pissed, and that, at least, felt familiar.

Caleb exhaled, finally letting his shoulders drop an inch.

And that’s when he looked at Alice Mae.

She hadn’t moved much since the firestorm of confessions started. Still perched beside Heather like a shield. Still calm. Still strong.

But Caleb knew her too well to miss the cracks.

The way she hadn’t blinked since Heather spoke.
The way her shoulders were squared like she was holding up more than just her own weight.
The way she looked like she’d fight God if it meant keeping her best friend safe—but she didn’t know what the hell to swing at.

He moved closer.

Not with fanfare.

Not with words.

Just one step forward, quiet but steady, until he was standing beside her.

Not touching.

Not asking.

Just there.

So she’d know.

So she’d feel it.

He was here.

With her.

For her.

And when he turned to the group, his voice didn’t crack or shake.

It just was.

“We’re getting through this,” he said, firm. “All of us. No matter what it takes.”

No flourish.

No dramatics.

Just truth.

And when his eyes flicked back to Alice Mae, the message was clear:

He wasn’t just talking about Heather.

He meant her, too.

Especially her.

He didn’t trust easy.

Didn’t follow blindly.

Didn’t believe in group hugs and heartfelt speeches and all-for-one declarations.

He believed in facts. Patterns. Precautions.

People broke. Promises failed.

And curses?

Curses didn’t care how much you meant it.

They just took.

So yeah—he was watching all of them. Carefully.

Heather, now crackling with fire again. Angry enough to burn down the curse itself if she could get her hands on it.

Benji, hopelessly in love and ready to throw himself into the flames like that would fix anything.

Max, fierce and focused, already halfway to blueprinting a battle plan in her head.

Caleb, solid as bedrock, stepping up beside Alice Mae like it was muscle memory.

And Alice—hell, Alice. Standing there like she was carved out of grief and resolve, shoulders squared even with the weight of losing her best friend looming right in front of her.

Eli had spent weeks thinking Heather would be the problem.

She was too loud. Too pretty. Too Sunnyvale.

Too willing to insert herself into a group that wasn’t built to let outsiders in.

And yet… she was still here.

Still fighting.

Still holding Benji’s hand like it meant something.

Still herself, even when her name was carved into stone alongside the killers.

And Eli had to admit—just to himself, and only for a second—it meant something that none of them had walked away.

He watched Caleb speak to the room, voice steady:

“We’re getting through this. All of us. No matter what it takes.”

It should’ve sounded naive.

It should’ve made Eli roll his eyes.

But it didn’t.

Because for the first time since this mess started—since the tunnels, since the dreams, since the goddamn wall—he believed them.

The Sunnyvalers weren’t running.

They weren’t pretending.

They weren’t here out of convenience.

They’d made a choice.

And Eli?

He was still cautious. Still calculating.

Still waiting for the moment everything cracked wide open again.

But maybe—just maybe—he and Max didn’t have to do it alone.

Not this time.

Not with them.

He folded his arms across his chest, eyes sweeping the group one last time.

If the curse wanted to drag them under, it was gonna find out just how deep this team could dig.

And Eli?

Eli would be the last one to blink.

Eli didn’t finish his sentence.

Didn’t have to.

Benji felt it—like the last bolt sliding into place. Like something inside the room shifted from scared to ready.

No more ghosts hanging in the silence.

Just them.

Their names.
Their faces.
Their fire.

Heather’s hand was still in his, thumb brushing his knuckles in this absent, steady rhythm like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. But he did.

And God, he held onto that.

The way she came back to herself in pieces and flame.
The way Caleb stepped forward without asking.
The way Alice Mae’s voice didn’t shake when she promised war.

Even Eli, who never trusted anyone without a six-month background check and a surveillance feed, stood a little closer now.

Benji hadn’t meant to become part of a group like this.

He was the guy you invited to a bonfire, not a war.

But this—
this felt like more than a fight.

It felt like a vow.

His eyes scanned the trailer—peeling wallpaper, half-dead lamp, mug full of mismatched pens—like it might be the last normal place they’d stand before everything changed.

It probably was.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but clear.

“We need a plan.”

Max nodded once—already halfway to opening the binder on her makeshift table. He could see the tabs from here. Color-coded. Of course.

“We need answers,” he added. “The wall. The mark. The order of the names. Why Heather’s is last.”

His grip on her hand tightened slightly—not for her.
For him.

“And we need to know who the hell wrote them.”

Because someone did.

Someone—or something—was watching. Waiting.

Marking them like a checklist.

Benji’s eyes darkened.

“We find it before it finds the next name.”

Then softer, almost to himself—

“I’m not watching this curse take any more of us.”

Not Heather.
Not anyone.

Not while he was still breathing.

Benji’s voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t.

He looked like a storm in a glass bottle—tight, furious, one knock from breaking.

“We need to know who wrote the names,” he said. “Why Heather’s is last.”

Max didn’t look away.

Didn’t shift. Didn’t soften.

She’d been holding back for the last hour. Letting them speak. Letting Heather find her fire. Letting Alice take up space. Letting Caleb and Eli do what they always did—stand steady or quiet, depending on what the moment needed.

But this?

This she couldn’t leave unsaid.

“Heather’s last,” Max said quietly, “because she’s the next Shadyside killer.”

Silence fell.

Not a crackling one.

A dead one.

Benji’s whole body went still.

Heather didn’t breathe.

Max met their eyes—one at a time—and didn’t flinch from any of it.

“It’s always the same pattern,” she said. “The names go in order. Timeline, location, escalation. The last name is always the one the curse is claiming next.”

A pause. Her voice hardened.

“It doesn’t start with murder. It starts with marking. Whispers. Dreams. The pull toward blood. The decay in the air. The shadows that follow. You think the curse just flips a switch? No. It builds. It grooms.”

She turned to Heather—who hadn’t moved.

“It’s not about whether you’re a good person. It’s about whether you fit the story.”

Her tone stayed even, but her fists were clenched at her sides.

“The curse doesn’t want another tragedy. It wants another headline. A legacy. A killer with a name people won’t forget.”

Max swallowed.

“And Heather? You’re the perfect storm.”

There was no cruelty in it.
Just truth.

Heather, pale but blazing, stared back at her with something like horror—and something sharper underneath.

Benji, shaking now, voice low:

“She hasn’t killed anyone.”

Max’s jaw tightened.

“Yet.”

That word landed hard.

She gave it space.

“But if we don’t stop it—if we don’t find a way to sever the link—it won’t matter what she wants.”

Max stepped forward, slow and deliberate, binder in hand now, already flipping through old maps, crime scene notes, her grandmother’s annotations scribbled in red ink on half-ripped pages.

“We’re not just dealing with ghosts. We’re dealing with a system. A design. Someone—something—is keeping it running.”

She looked around the room—eyes blazing now, voice steady.

“So we stop it. We burn it down. We rewrite the story before it finishes writing her.”

She turned to Heather one last time.

“You are not a killer.”

A breath.

“But if we don’t move now, that wall won’t care.”

She’d been holding her breath.

Since the mall. Since the wall. Since Heather went still and Benji went soft and Max went sharp.

But it was that word—yet—that finally punched the air out of her lungs.

Heather hasn’t killed anyone.

Yet.

Alice Mae barely kept herself upright.

The fire under her ribs sparked hot and instinctual, but she held it. Buried it. She couldn’t afford to lose control—not now.

Because Max was right.

Because she’d known it the moment Heather said she could hear their names before Benji ever spoke.

Because she’d felt it in the way Heather’s dreams had changed. The way the air curled around her like it recognized her. The way she’d stopped humming while brushing her teeth. The way she’d started locking her bedroom door when she thought Alice wasn’t looking.

Heather was changing.

The curse wasn’t hunting her.

It was shaping her.

And Max had finally said it out loud.

Alice didn’t flinch.

She looked at Heather instead.

Heather, who hadn’t spoken since.
Who hadn’t blinked.
Whose fingers were still wrapped around Benji’s like a lifeline she didn’t believe in anymore.

Alice moved before she thought about it.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just one shift—sliding down from the arm of the couch to the cushion beside Heather, knees knocking together, shoulder brushing hers on purpose.

“You’re not going to be the next killer.”

She said it simply. Like fact.

Heather didn’t answer.

So Alice leaned in closer, voice low but fierce.

“You’re not. Because we’re not letting that happen.”

She turned to Max then, sharp.

“And if this thing wants a legacy—it’s about to choke on it.”

There was heat in her voice now, barely leashed.

Because she’d stood by Heather through breakups and breakdowns, through essays written at 3 a.m. and fights with parents and every awful, awful moment of high school that tried to carve her down into something palatable.

She’d be damned if she let a centuries-old curse finish the job.

Alice’s gaze swung back to the room.

“So we find the link. The pattern. The power source. Whatever’s keeping this thing alive.”

Then softer, but still unshaking:

“And we end it.”

No one moved.

Not right away.

But Alice didn’t need a roar of approval.

She just needed Heather to breathe again.

To blink.

To fight.

And Alice Mae Williams?

She’d burn down every piece of Shadyside history if it meant keeping the girl beside her whole.