"Stay here," I ordered before helping the teacher close the windows and draw the curtains. We piled chairs in front of the door. We turned off all the lights, and I joined the huddled students, all trembling with fear. Some covered their mouths while silently crying.  

I can't shed a single tear.  

I don't feel fear right now. What I feel is anger—anger toward these people who can commit such horrendous, unjust acts. It's not just one school they've targeted; they've gone to nearly every school to spread chaos and tragedy.  

If no one can stop them through legal means, I will personally return to them everything they've done, even if it means getting arrested. I don't care anymore. If I have to kill them, I'll do it without hesitation.  

I clenched my teeth as I looked toward the windows, where I saw shadows moving in the hallway.  

I noticed the male teacher seriously observing the silhouettes from both windows. I glanced at Clarissa, who had her knees drawn to her chest, her head down.  

The music keeps playing, haunting us with gunshots echoing everywhere.  

I frowned when I saw a silhouette—curved chest, hair tied in a ponytail. It stopped and looked at the window, the very one I was facing.  

The teacher trembled, biting his lip, his gaze fixed, his eyes blazing with anger. I couldn't quite explain the feeling, but it seemed like she was staring at us—menacingly—as she sang along to the second verse.  

I've waited for a long time  

Yeah, the sleight of my hand is now a quick pull trigger  

I reason with my cigarette  

Then say, 'Your hair's on fire, you must have lost your wits, yeah.

Her voice is soft, almost angelic, like a lullaby meant to put a child to sleep, yet there's danger within her soothing tone.  

My eyes widened when I noticed the man about to step on a stick that would surely make a sharp sound in the silence of the room. I was about to stop him, but someone else did it for me. I turned to the man who intervened, and I was shocked to see who it was.  

He had a diamond-shaped face, short dark brown hair in a wolf cut—messy yet fluffy. His thick eyebrows framed cold black eyes with dark circles underneath. His high nose and prominent cheekbones stood out on his determined face.  

It was Clark.  

Wait, so, he's still a student?  

I looked at his ID. Judging by the color—red—he's a STEM student. And by the black strap, it means he's a Grade 12 student. I glanced around at the IDs of the students in this class—they're HUMSS, Grade 11, with pink IDs and white straps. What’s he doing here?  

I turned back to the woman outside the window. She knows someone is here. It’s obvious; she wouldn’t stay otherwise.  

"Hello, everyone!" she greeted, and the students hugged each other tighter, trembling with fear. "Have you seen the detective pretending to be a teacher here in your school?" she asked.  

No one answered.  

Detective?  

"No?" She continued walking and cocked her gun. "Okay, I won’t disturb you. Good luck. Pray to God that my people won’t find you here." With that, she said goodbye, and her shadow disappeared. Who is she? If she belongs to the shooters, why didn’t she shoot us?  

For more than an hour, gunfire rang out nonstop. It stopped only when the police and SWAT entered the school. But the shooters were nowhere to be found, as if they had vanished like mist without leaving a trace.  

I stood behind the inspector, listening to the detective who was frustrated at not finding any leads.  

"R-Rose..." I turned to Clarissa, her face still etched with fear. "I’m so glad you were by my side... What if I hadn’t invited you to go with me to the canteen... W-what would’ve happened to me?!" Tears streamed down her face as she clung to me, her heart pounding so loudly I could hear it.  

Many were killed, many injured. It was inevitable, especially since we were defenseless against armed people. But luckily, in the room where I was hiding, no one was killed or injured.  

The young-looking male detective caught my attention. The inspector beside him, on the other hand, had visible wrinkles on his face.  

"Rosalinda!" The detective smiled and took a few steps toward me. "I’m glad you’re safe. I’m sure you’re traumatized by what happened. Please, go home and rest. Be safe."  

I narrowed my eyes. "Who are you?"  

His mouth fell open, as if his world crumbled at my question. "Y-you don’t remember me?"  

"No," I replied coldly.  

His energy drained, and he looked down. "I’m your uncle, Rosalinda," he said in a low tone, his voice heavy with sadness.  

I raised an eyebrow. "Your name?"  

"Joshua Bustamante."  

"Never heard of it."  

He looked even more dejected at my words. "Why are you so cold, Rosa?"  

The inspector frowned and glanced between the two of us. "Detective Joshua, we still have to investigate this case. Stop standing around and do your job." Then he turned to me. "Please, both of you, go home. And please be safe on your way, or call your parents and let them pick you up."  

"Yes, sir," I said before turning to Clarissa. "Let’s go home now, Clarissa."  

"I don’t want to be alone in the unit! My roommate isn’t back yet since she promised her mom she’d go home to help with her dad." Clarissa wiped her tears slowly. "Can I sleep at your unit for now? Just temporarily. Please, Rose!"  

I sighed. "Okay."  

She smiled, hugging me even tighter. "Thank you so much, Rose! You’re so kind! I’m really sorry for the inconvenience; I’m just so scared to be alone right now..."  

"I understand." She’s still terrified by what happened and is most likely traumatized. I’m scared too, but I’m stopping my body from shaking, showing everyone—especially her—that I’m not, that I’ve already moved on from the incident. But I haven’t.