The basement beneath the university archives was cold and still, like a tomb that had been sealed long before I arrived. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly shadows on the cement floor. I stood in the doorway, clutching a flashlight and my student ID, the only two things I dared bring.
No phones. No Alex. Just me.
The silence pressed against me like a weight. I descended the narrow stairs slowly, the smell of old paper and mildew thick in the air. Whoever sent that email—whoever took that photo of Sophie—wanted me to come here for a reason. And I had to know why.
When I reached the bottom, a faint light flickered at the end of the hallway. It was coming from a half-open door marked Records – Restricted Access.
I pushed it open.
There, hunched over a pile of files at a dusty desk, was the man from the party video. Late thirties. Gaunt face. Greasy hair slicked back. He looked up when he saw me, dark circles under his eyes, and offered a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're braver than I thought," he said. "Or just desperate."
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be.
"Name's Cole," he said. "Used to work here. Until Sophie made sure I didn't."
I blinked. "Sophie? What did she—"
"She framed me. Accused me of stealing student records and leaking grades. Got me fired. And you know the worst part?" He laughed bitterly. "She didn't even need to. She just did it to cover her own tracks."
My pulse quickened. "What tracks?"
Cole slid a yellowed manila folder across the table toward me. I opened it and immediately felt sick.
Letters. Signed documents. A forged recommendation from a professor who'd died the year before. Sophie's name was on everything—cleverly edited transcripts, false references, and emails sent from faculty addresses that, according to the timestamps, were sent while those staff members were away on sabbatical.
"This is how she got into the elite research program," Cole said. "It's not her brilliance. It's her ability to manipulate, to erase anyone in her way."
I stared at the damning evidence. "But why are you telling me this?"
"Because I watched her do the same thing to others. You're just her latest project. She targets people she can use, manipulate, control. And when they outlive their usefulness? She burns them to the ground."
I thought of Daniel. Of how easily Sophie pulled him in. Of the way she had slithered into every part of my life—my classes, my dreams, my heart.
"She's planning something," I whispered. "I exposed her lies, but she didn't flinch. She threatened me instead."
Cole leaned forward. "That's what she does. And trust me, she doesn't bluff. If you're still standing, it's because she hasn't decided how she wants to destroy you yet."
Back in my dorm room, I poured over the folder until dawn. The pieces started fitting together: Sophie had been crafting her perfect life long before I met her. Her lies weren't spontaneous—they were curated, rehearsed, refined. And Daniel? He was just another pawn.
I needed to get to him—warn him. But deep down, I wondered if it was too late. If he'd already gone too far for redemption.
My phone buzzed. Alex.
Alex: You okay? Heard about campus security. You need to talk.
I almost replied. Almost. But something told me I needed to move quietly now. Trust no one. Not even Alex, not fully.
Instead, I packed the folder into my bag and headed for the dean's office. If I could just show them—
The elevator pinged.
And there stood Sophie.
Her hair was sleek, her lips curled into that smile that used to comfort me but now chilled me to the bone.
"Stacey," she said brightly. "We should talk."
I stepped back. "I don't have anything to say to you."
"Oh, but I do," she said, stepping inside, her voice soft. "You think you've uncovered something, don't you? That you've exposed me."
I stayed silent.
"You really don't understand the game you've stepped into. But here's the fun part," she leaned in, her breath like ice against my cheek, "I'm just getting started."
The doors closed, leaving me alone with the echo of her warning.
That night, the university's official email system went offline for five hours. When it returned, my inbox was flooded—with complaints. About me. Dozens of false accusations. Academic misconduct, plagiarism, unprofessional behavior.
My file had been tampered with.
I stared at the screen, heart pounding. She was erasing me. Just like Cole said.
But I wasn't going to vanish.
Not without a fight.