The next day, the cafeteria at Crestwood High buzzed with noise—metal trays clattering, laughter bouncing off the walls, the greasy smell of pizza hanging in the air. Emily sat quietly at the end of a table, half-listening to Lily ramble about a TV show. She wanted to believe she could be invisible again, that maybe today would pass without incident.
But fate never gave her that mercy.
Rick's shadow fell across the table. Jason's friend. Smirking, eyes sharp with cruelty.
"Well, well, look who's still walking around like she belongs here," Rick sneered. His voice carried, pulling the attention of half the room.
Emily froze. Her hands trembled against her tray.
Rick grabbed her water bottle, twisted the cap, and poured it over her head. The liquid soaked her hair, dripped down her face, plastered her shirt to her skin.
"Stupid bitch," he spat. "Freak."
Laughter erupted. A chorus of voices joined in, cruel and relentless, echoing like thunder in her skull.
The diary pulsed in her backpack. The vibrations rattled her spine.
Write his name.
It's time.
Emily pressed her palms to her ears, but the whispers slithered through anyway. Her teeth clenched.
Before she could break, Lily shot up, fury sparking in her eyes. She swung at Rick, her fist slicing the air—but he dodged, laughing as he retreated to his friends. Their mocking howls followed him out of the cafeteria, leaving Emily drenched and trembling.
Lily's arm slid around her shoulders. "Ignore them. They're not worth it."
Emily wanted to believe her. Wanted to. But the voices hissed louder:
He will pay. Write the name. The debt must be paid.
The playground was quieter, but Emily couldn't shake the burn of humiliation. She sat on the swing as Lily tried to cheer her up with half-bad jokes and stories about her little brother. Emily laughed weakly, but the weight never lifted.
Later, walking back toward class, they saw him again. Rick. Leaning against the lockers with his friends, grinning.
"Psycho freak," he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Emily kept her head down, willing herself to disappear.
As she passed, his leg shot out. Her foot snagged. She crashed to the floor, books scattering, laughter exploding down the corridor.
"That's what you deserve, bitch!" Rick crowed. "Get out of here!"
The hallway spun. Emily's face burned hot with shame.
The diary roared in her bag. This time the vibrations were violent, rattling like an earthquake.
WRITE HIS NAME.
HE SHOULD DIE.
THE DEBT DEMANDS BLOOD.
Rick loomed above her, still laughing. But then Lily charged in like fire. Her fist cracked against his jaw. His body jolted backward into the lockers with a thud. One of his friends doubled over as Lily's boot slammed into his crotch.
She stood over them, breath ragged, fists tight. Her voice was steel.
"If you ever touch her again, the next name on the news will be yours."
For a moment, the corridor went silent. Then Rick scrambled up, clutching his jaw. "You'll pay for this," he snarled, backing away with his friends. "Both of you."
They ran.
Emily could only shake as Lily pulled her to her feet. She buried her face in her friend's shoulder, sobbing.
"Thank you," Emily choked. "If it wasn't for you… I don't know what would've happened."
"That's what friends are for," Lily whispered, stroking her back. "Don't let them break you."
Emily nodded, but the voices drowned everything out.
Write. Write his name. Or the book chooses for you.
That night, her hands trembled as she opened the diary. She hadn't touched the pen—but the page was already moving, ink unfurling across the surface like veins:
"It's time."
The words thickened, curling deeper into the parchment, until they etched themselves like a commandment:
"Second Rule: If no name is written, the book chooses its own victim daily—always someone within the holder's orbit. A classmate. A neighbor. A friend. The closer the bond, the heavier the debt."
Emily's breath hitched. Her blood went cold.
Her orbit.
That meant Lily. Her parents. Aunt Margaret. Everyone she still had left.
She couldn't lose anyone else. Not her. Not again.
Her hand reached for the pen. No hesitation this time. The whispering in her skull wasn't foreign anymore—it was familiar, comforting, almost hers.
The nib touched paper. She wrote his name in black, jagged letters:
Rick Donovan.
The diary shivered, ink bleeding across the page in bold strokes:
"One debt paid. More to go."
Emily's lips curved into something dangerous—a smirk, dark and sharp. The humiliation melted, replaced by something intoxicating.
For the first time, she felt it: power.
And it was hers.