The Blackwell Brothers

They said my brother overdosed.

That was the story-the one wrapped in sympathy and pitying glances as I stepped onto Blackwell House Academy's cracked stone path for the first time. Kellan Morrow, brilliant, wild, gone without a trace. A final party. An empty bed. A bottle left behind.

But I knew Kellan. He never left things behind.

The air bit into my skin as I crossed the courtyard, October wind slicing through my coat. Leaves danced like dying birds around my boots. Blackwell loomed ahead-centuries-old, ivy-draped, and cold like a secret no one wanted to say out loud.

I gripped my suitcase tighter and ignored the stares. I'd barely been here five minutes and I could already feel the whispers forming like frost behind me.

That's her. The Morrow girl.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

Uncle Marcus made that clear when he dumped me at the school gates with a stiff nod and a warning: "Keep your head down. Don't go digging into the past. Some ghosts like to stay buried."

I didn't even look back when the car drove off.

Screw him. Screw his rules.

This place had taken everything from me-my mother, my brother. I wasn't here to survive. I was here to know.

And the truth? I was willing to bleed for it.

Dorm 3A smelled like lemon cleaner and old paper. A single bed, a desk bolted to the floor, and a wardrobe that creaked like it hated its job. It wasn't much, but it was mine.

There was a folded envelope on the desk with my name in careful ink. No stamp. No address.

I hesitated. Then opened it.

"Your brother isn't dead. But someone will be soon. Welcome to Blackwell."

My heart jackknifed. I read it again.

Then again.

A prank? Some sick initiation?

I looked toward the hallway-empty.

I locked the door.

By lunch, I'd memorized every escape route between the dorms and the chapel.

The dining hall was all polished wood and silver chandeliers. Too grand for the cracked ceilings. Students in uniform clustered in their cliques like animals in cages.

I slid into a seat in the back, tray untouched.

That's when she sat down across from me-purple lipstick, combat boots, and the vibe of someone who talked to ghosts for fun.

"Name's Eloise. You're Lydia Morrow, yeah?" she asked, unwrapping a lollipop with long black nails.

I hesitated. "Yeah."

"Didn't think you'd show. Thought your uncle was keeping you locked up somewhere."

"You know him?"

"Please. Everyone knows Marcus Cain." She rolled her eyes. "He practically runs the Board. Blackwell's dirty little king. You don't get invited to his parties unless you're either rich, dangerous, or deliciously cursed."

I stared.

"You," she added, "are all three."

Later that day, I found Kellan's old room.

It had been emptied, sanitized. But something clung to the walls. His energy. His chaos. I found a single paper crane stuck behind the radiator. He used to make them when he couldn't sleep.

A voice startled me.

"Looking for ghosts?"

I turned.

He leaned against the doorframe like he'd been carved out of shadow-dark hair, sharp cheekbones, icy blue eyes. Too pretty. Too cruel.

Auden Vale.

I recognized him from old photos. One of Kellan's best friends-or worst enemies.

"That was his room," I said.

"I know."

"You knew him?"

"I knew the version of him he let people see." Auden stepped in, gaze burning into mine. "But if you're looking for the truth, you won't find it in folded paper."

My jaw clenched. "What happened that night?"

He tilted his head. "Why don't you ask your uncle?"

"Because I want the truth. Not a story."

That made him smile-sharp and hollow.

He reached into his coat and tossed something onto the bed.

A flash drive.

"Don't say I never gave you anything."

Then he was gone.

That night, I locked the dorm door, slid the flash drive into my laptop, and pressed play.

Static. Then blurred footage.

A party-loud music, red lighting. Kellan laughing, shouting, spinning a girl around in circles. Auden in the background, drink in hand, eyes following my brother.

Then something shifted.

The footage jolted.

Kellan arguing with someone-face flushed, angry. A man stepped into frame. Brief, but enough.

Uncle Marcus.

Then: black screen. End of file.

I sat there, frozen.