Many in his class called Ha a creep. He was known for stalking random people for seemingly no reason, stalking for stalking’s sake, he would shadow a person until he was found out, usually receiving a beating for it; it was as if stalking was just another leisure activity that he would put in time honing his skills on for funsies; in his defense, he excelled at it. His unremarkable appearance played to his advantage and helped him blend into the background, not to discount the considerable amount of effort he put into deciphering the most mundane and inconspicuous attires; contrary to the common depiction of a stalker, a dark-colored hoodie makes you look like a freak and is not a suitable choice for the job.

When Ha walked into the classroom, people within looked at him with strange eyes since he obviously wasn’t from around. He stared wide-eyed, silent, and still like a statue standing at the door, before suddenly yelling: “Blue Copperfield?” 

“Who are you?” 

“A friend of Son Syun.” Ha said, before adding: “I‘m also an international student. We came from the same city.”

“Ok?” Blue was visibly uncomfortable. Ha’s hair was messy as a bird's nest, and his uncouth attires matched that of the lowest bum one could only find in the city. “Never heard of her joining y’all’s international student’s club, but maybe I’m just slow on that. It’s good! She needs more friends, and people that can guide her in this unfamiliar environment. She’s been hanging around with some strange people lately, I’ve seen one of them, the boy who looked a tiny bit like a girl, is he an egg? I don’t want to accidentally misgender anybody, the boy’s from Class C5, I think? He and the bunch Son was hanging out with had me worried, I really am, there are some dangerous people in this place and I don’t want her to get in trouble. What’s this about?” 

Stunned and disoriented, Ha simply left behind a “Nevermind” and fled the scene. 

Conroy stood six feet one at the blossoming age of sixteen. Optimistic to a fault and slightly airheaded, he was the muscle of the club, the bouncer, the good-hearted bodyguard. And indeed it seemed the countless days he spent in the gym doing reps and push-ups had paid off, as not a soul who had seen him would dare to question anything in regards to his health or physicality, and yet almost paradoxically, he was incredibly soft and aversive to violence, evidenced by his many attempts at becoming a vegan because short videos of animals in industrial farms just tuck on his heart string that much; unfortunately, his love for bacon would ultimately trump his desire for animal welfare.  

“That one? That’s the biggest one on the coast. That must be Ethan’s.” 

Lehmann took a look at her phone, “Yeah, that should be it. There are um… a lot of people there.” 

The dropouts hung out near the coast a lot. The boardwalk that used to be a thriving business center for youth and elders alike in the last century had become a ghost town of abandoned warehouses and park rides skeletons, a place that naturally attracts unlawful hyenas seeking a place of operation. Ethan Cowell’s mansion built during the boardwalk’s heyday stood out like a sore thumb against the vast backdrop of dereliction. 

“I don’t think knocking on their door and asking if Fluorite is in there is a good idea.” Conroy said, slightly shivering in dread, “If she is indeed hiding out there, that is.” 

“Where else could it be?” Lehmann followed, “And yeah, that doesn’t sound like a good idea at all. Though we might still have to try.” 

“No we don't! Look at them cronies, we will be beaten to a pulp, Lehmann!” 

Lehmann let out a string of light-hearted giggles, “I wouldn’t worry about that. You are here, Conroy! I’m sure you will ensure my physical safety, will you not?” 

He was absolutely infatuated with this girl and had sworn fealty to her in many sleepless nights; the answer to that question was obviously a resounding affirmation.    

Back in the crumbling old house overrun by greenery, in that dingy study where a lonesome lamp illuminated the center of the room against encroaching darkness, Finch hadn’t moved an inch from her seat for the past hour. Her focus was entirely locked on the degeneracy on screen. What used to be called Asperger, she never took her spectrum diagnosis too seriously, after all, she saw, perhaps not incorrectly, the entire field of psychology as pseudoscience; but the autism manifested itself in many aspects of her life. A certain event in her life cursed her with immense technophobia, so the fact that she had been staring at one for so long without lashing out just went to show her unmitigated willpower and determination.     

It started with a sleeve. Nobody ever showed their face in that video, and outside of the mole on the copulator’s left asscheek, there was little identifier for those involved. Sleuthing through the video frame by frame, Finch noticed an arm in the corner of the screen with a very peculiar sleeve, one that reminded her of long-lost millennial Goth and Emo cultures. She poured over every picture she could find of that party on social media, enduring the immense emotional distress navigating through a computer had brought her. On one particular picture of the dance floor with a lot of people in the frame, she painstakingly counted everyone present and took note of their shirts, trying to see if a match could be produced. Cups after cups of hot coffee exhausted, dark rings emerged beneath her glassy eyes              

And eureka, there he was, a boy wearing the shirt of a dated nu-metal band. The pattern of his shirt sleeve matched exactly the one shown in the video. The boy looked surprisingly aged and was seemingly surrounded by people who also looked as aged as he was, and Finch instantly realized what was going on: these weren’t high schoolers.

On her way home, Son was jumped by a bunch of people all dressed in hoodies.

“Better come with us, girl.” The leading girl said to her. 

She didn’t resist. She had dreamt of this hundreds of times since the fire, more than even the number of days between now and then; she slept more than once a day. And for every one of those dreams, she reacted differently to the hypothetical; in one she reacted with sundering anger, initiating a dire struggle for self-preservation; in another one she reacted with overwhelming despair, bawling and begging for the assailants to spare her; in this one she was in complete control, fighting back her attackers with unseen methods like the protagonist of an action film; and there was this one where adrenaline took control and she ran for her life.

But when the moment of reckoning finally cemented itself in reality, indifference was all she could find. Her face frozen solid with an expression that carried neither emotions nor concentration, only two wide eyes and two chapped lips sealed shut with silence. She nodded to the approaching men and followed them to their car. 

The car was cheap and its interior smelled like burnt plastic. She was squished between two guys in the back seat. No one said a word the whole ride. When they dropped her off at a small garage near the host, the leading girl slapped her across the face the moment she stepped out of the car. 

“I don’t beat women.” Said one of the boys, “but we have girls that do.”