The sirens fade into the night, swallowed by the weight of rain. LanVille's art wing stands half lit, its hallways crawling with campus security and police officers. The echo of Alisson's scream still clings to the walls, haunting every student gathered outside in their pajamas and confusion.
Inside the studio, the chaos has settled into murmured questions and the faint hum of radios. Alisson sits on a wooden stool, her hair damp from the rain, hands trembling as an officer gently wraps a blanket around her shoulders. Her painting, The Weight of Shadows stands damaged, the lower corner smeared with the carved words that started it all.
Professor Gibson, head of the art department, bends low beside her. His expression is drawn with concern.
"You're safe now, Miss West," he says quietly. "Whoever that was, we'll find them."
Alisson doesn't respond. Her eyes are fixed on the shadowed corner of the room the same corner where she saw movement before everything went black.
Across the hall, two officers emerge, dragging someone in handcuffs. The crowd outside gasps. It isn't McCary.
It's Patrick Hale, a quiet third-year photography student who'd worked alongside Alisson during past exhibits one she barely noticed, except for his camera always pointed just a second too long. His hoodie is torn, and his eyes dart wildly as the flashlight beams hit him.
"You don't understand!" Patrick shouts, struggling against the officers. "She looked at me, she saw me! I just wanted her to see it again!"
The crowd recoils. Kaitlyn, still pale and bandaged but out of the hospital, gasps softly. "That's Patrick? He helped set up her showcase last semester."
Professor Gibson's face hardens. "Not anymore."
Alisson finally looks up. Her voice is strong.
"He's been watching me?"
"For months," one officer replies grimly. "We found photos in his dorm, your paintings, your dorm room, even the studio last week. Some were taken from outside your window."
Her breath catches, the room tilting for a moment. Stiles, who arrived minutes earlier after being called by Gibson, kneels beside her, taking her shaking hand in his.
"It's over," he whispers. "He can't hurt you anymore."
Patrick glares at him as he's pulled past, muttering, "She was never meant for you."
The words send a chill through the room. Alisson flinches, but Stiles squeezes her hand tighter, grounding her.
Hours pass. The students disperse. The police leave. By dawn, the rain has stopped.
Alisson sits on the campus bench overlooking the courtyard, wrapped in her blanket, hair tangled, eyes lost and confused. The air smells of wet ground from the rain. Stiles joins her silently, carrying two steaming cups of coffee.
"You didn't have to stay," she says softly.
"You say that a lot," he replies, sitting beside her. "And yet, here I am."
She lets out a faint laugh, tired, fragile, but real. "I can't believe it was Patrick. I used to lend him my brushes."
"That's the thing about people like him," Stiles says. "They hide behind normalcy until they don't."
They sit in silence for a while,waiting for the perfect moment. The first light of morning hits the art building's windows, fractured by raindrops.
"You're still shaking," Stiles says gently.
"I just… I feel like my whole world was built on glass, and now I can finally see the cracks."
He studies her face, the exhaustion, the resilience, the quiet defiance that has carried her this far.
"Then maybe it's time to rebuild," he says. "Not alone."
Her eyes meet his, soft, uncertain, searching. "You really think we can just go back to normal?"
He smiles faintly. "Normal's overrated."
That draws a small, genuine laugh from her. "You and your literature quotes."
"Not a quote," he says, leaning closer. "Just something I realized tonight, life doesn't return to normal. It just finds new colors."
A long pause. The space between them hums quietly. Alisson's fingers tighten around the coffee cup. She leans her head against his shoulder, the warmth between them easing the chill that's lingered for weeks.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me."
He exhales softly, resting his chin lightly against her hair. "Never crossed my mind."
They both hugged warmly.
Later that morning, Kaitlyn meets them outside the dean's office. Her arm is in a sling, her expression tired but sincere.
"They're saying Patrick confessed to everything," she says quietly. "Even admitted to triggering the fire alarm during your showcase, Alisson. He thought if the school canceled the event, you'd stay behind and he could 'comfort' you."
Alisson's face hardens. "He nearly killed people."
"He's gone for good," Kaitlyn says. "Expelled. Facing charges."
There's a silence between them a little hostile. Finally, Alisson reaches out and squeezes Kaitlyn's hand. "We'll be okay."
Kaitlyn nods, relieved. "You always say that when you're about to prove it."
She smiles faintly before walking away, leaving Stiles and Alisson alone again in the quiet hallway.
"So," Stiles says, "what happens now?"
Alisson glances at the morning light through the tall windows. For the first time in weeks, her voice carries something bright, a hint of hope.
"Now," she says, "I paint something new. Something that doesn't come from fear."
"And me?"
She turns to him, smiling softly. "You write about it."
He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Deal."
He pulled her close and kissed her.
That evening, back in the studio, Alisson stands to paint as the old one , Weight of Shadows was damaged.
She dips her brush into a pot of blue paint, the color of a clear sky after a storm. Stiles watches from the doorway, notebook in hand, jotting something down.
"What are you writing?" she asks, without turning.
"A title," he says. "For what comes next."
She tilts her head. "And what's that?"
He smiles. "The New Dawn."
She pauses, brush mid air in her hands and then slowly begins to paint.
Outside, sunlight breaks through the clouds, spilling across the room in quiet gold.
For the first time in a long while, Alisson feels something she almost forgot existed.
Peace.