L I R A 

The whispers don’t stop after Dray’s announcement. They follow me down the hall, into my locker, even into my sleep. By morning, it feels like the whole school is chanting heritage ceremonies like it’s some kind of festival instead of a death trap.

I don’t last two periods before snapping at Mr. Voss. He drones on about “tradition” while chalk dust clouds the board, and my mouth moves before I can stop it.

“Tradition doesn’t kill people,” I blurt. “The bell does.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Half the class stares at me like I just confessed to murder. Mr. Voss’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t argue. He just writes a slip.

By lunch, I’m in detention.

The room is old and stale, chalk lines still ghosting the blackboard from a decade ago. The radiator clanks like it’s coughing up bones. Only two of us inside: me and Theo Park.

Theo doesn’t look bothered. He’s slouched in his chair, hoodie up, crumbs dusting his hands as he flicks bits of granola bar out the cracked window. Outside, a dozen crows gather along the sill, tapping their beaks against the glass.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

It’s not random. It’s a countdown.

“You’re feeding them?” I hissed.

Theo shrugs, not looking guilty. “They like me.” Another crumb, another synchronized tap. “Better them on our side than against us.”

My skin crawls watching the crows fight over each crumb. Black wings, sharp beaks, the sound of metal against glass. Their eyes gleam with too much intelligence, like they’re waiting for something.

I glance toward the door, wishing I’d taken the suspension instead. The air feels colder than it should, a faint white fog bleeding across the corners of the windows.

Theo leans back, totally calm, like this is a normal lunch break. “They always come before it tolls,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Guess we’ll see what they’re counting down to.”

The tapping grows louder.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

And I start to wonder if detention isn’t punishment then it’s bait.

The longer we sit, the less it feels like detention and more like we’ve been locked in an observation cage.

The crows multiply. First a dozen, then more. Their bodies blur together until the entire sill looks alive, black feathers shifting in waves. Every beak strikes the glass in rhythm—tink, tink, tink—like a metronome keeping time for something only they hear.

Theo doesn’t flinch. He just breaks another crumb in half and flicks it out.

“They’re not pets,” I snapped, my voice too sharp in the hush. “You’re feeding them like they belong to you.”

He finally glances at me, dark hair falling into his eyes. “You think anyone here belongs to themselves?”

I don’t have an answer.

The tapping keeps going. Faster. Louder. A dozen tiny hammers on the glass. My shoulders press tight as the room temperature drops, condensation crawling across the inside of the window. Frost veins snake outward from the edges, delicate at first, then thicker, like roots spreading through soil.

Theo leans forward, watching with quiet fascination, not fear. “See? They know it’s close.”

“What’s close?” I whisper.

His grin is small, unsettling. “Whatever comes next.”

The lights overhead buzz, dim, then flare too bright. Shadows jitter across the walls, stretching wrong, too long for their sources. The radiator lets out a screech, then falls silent.

The whole room feels like it’s holding its breath.

My heartbeat thrums in my ears. I grip the edge of the desk, nails digging into wood. “We should get out of here.”

Theo doesn’t move. He just tilts his head, listening. “No use running before it calls. You can’t beat a countdown.”

The words scrape down my spine, colder than the frost spreading thicker on the window. Letters almost form in the condensation, blurred and crooked, like words trying to be born.

I push my chair back with a scrape that sounds too loud, too desperate. Every crow outside pauses mid-peck, heads jerking toward me in eerie unison.

Their eyes glint metallic, sharp as coins stamped fresh.

Tink.

One beak strikes again, harder than the rest.

And the window groans like it might break.

The groan comes first. Low, grinding, deep enough to rattle the floorboards under my shoes.

Then the ceiling cracks. A line spiders through the plaster overhead, dust sifting down in a pale curtain. Theo finally sits up straight, his usual calm slipping for the first time.

I don’t move fast enough. My chair sticks against the warped tile as I try to shove back, and before I can free myself, the plaster above gives a sharp, splintering pop.

Arms close around me before the ceiling can.

The impact never comes. Instead, I’m pressed into the warm weight of someone’s chest, the air sharp with rain and smoke. His hand braces the back of my head, shielding me as plaster dust rains down around us.

Callen Roe.

Of course it’s him.

He stands solid between me and the falling debris, hood shoved back, storm-gray eyes narrowed on the ceiling like he can stare it into holding. Dust streaks across his cheekbones, catching on the curve of his jaw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. His voice is low, rough, too steady for the chaos above us.

My pulse trips. “Neither should you.”

His arm tightens just slightly around me, like he doesn’t trust the building or maybe me to stay standing. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

The words sink deeper than they should. The space between us is a furnace compared to the icy air, too close, too much. My chest hitches against his, and I hate that part of me leans into it, like I’ve been waiting for this gravity to claim me.

Theo clears his throat from across the room. “Guess the crows called in backup.” His tone is flat, but his eyes are sharp on Callen, like he’s measuring something invisible.

Callen ignores him. His focus never leaves me.

The plaster stops falling, but he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t loosen his hold.

“Callen,” I whisper, not sure if it’s a question or a warning.

He just shakes his head once, slow. “Stay close.”

The frost on the windows flares white, veins knotting into sharper lines, letters threatening to carve themselves clear.

And still, he doesn’t let go.

The silence after the crack feels heavier than the dust. The crows outside don’t resume their tapping, they just watch. Dozens of black eyes glinting through the frost, unblinking.

Then one moves.

A single crow squeezes through the narrow gap Theo left in the window. Its claws scrape metal as it lands on the radiator, head cocked like it’s inspecting us.

I freeze.

It hops once, twice, then launches. Wings beat the air sharp, scattering chalk dust as it lands on my desk. Its beak clacks once against the wood. Then it drops something shiny from its mouth.

A strip.

The sound of it hitting the desk makes my stomach drop.

Thin steel, edges rimmed in frost. Letters carved so deep they almost split the metal. Not my name this time. Just one word:

RUN.

Theo swore his dad once called crows ‘tax collectors.’ The adults always had nicknames, but never explanations

My breath catches. The crow taps the strip once with its beak, like punctuation, before hopping back.

Theo whistles low, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s new.”

“New?” My voice is a rasp. My fingers twitch toward the strip but stop short, because I already know better. Touching it is asking for the frost to crawl into my skin.

Theo shrugs, eyes bright with a kind of curiosity that makes me want to shake him. “Usually they’re names. This is more like… instructions.”

Callen’s hand slams down flat on the desk, inches from the strip. His palm hovers there, not touching, but close enough that frost webs outward in thin cracks around the metal. His jaw clenches hard.

“It’s not a suggestion,” he says. His voice is low, dangerous.

The crow caws once, sharp and grating, then wings its way back out the window. The rest of the flock erupts into noise, a storm of black feathers beating against glass.

RUN.

The word blazes in my vision even when I look away, like it’s already branded into me.

And I can’t tell if it’s warning me about the curse… or about the boy standing too close, shielding me like he belongs between me and the frost.

The crows don’t settle when their messenger leaves. They go wild. Wings beat against the glass, claws scraping metal, beaks hammering in a frenzy that rattles the whole frame.

Then the frost moves.

It creeps faster than before, veins racing across the windowpane until the entire surface is white. My pulse stumbles, because I know what comes next. I’ve seen it.

Letters burn through the frost like someone carving with invisible blades.

D U E / 2

Each stroke is clean, sharp, final. The glass doesn’t fog, it scars.

Theo exhales a low whistle, too calm for what we’re staring at. “Guess we’re on a schedule.”

My chest caves in. Two. Two what? Days? People? Toll strikes?

Callen’s hand still hovers near the strip, fist tight, knuckles white. His storm-gray eyes lift to the window, narrowing, reading the letters like they’re meant for him.

I want to ask what he sees. I want to demand what he knows. But the words die in my throat, crushed under the weight of that number.

Two.

The crows fall silent all at once, as if the word finished the sentence they were waiting for.

The strip gleams cold on my desk, the letters RUN etched like a command.

Theo leans back again, as if this is nothing but detention with extra sound effects. “Guess class is dismissed.”

But I can’t move. My sneakers feel nailed to the floor, my body locked between Callen’s shadow and the frost’s tally.

Because the bell didn’t just count Jess.

It’s counting down to me.