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The morning he arrived, Dominique felt the school’s balance go off-balance, as if his presence alone had tilted the building. Students’ whispers followed him, stopping just outside as he stepped into the homeroom. She didn’t bother to look up from her neatly arranged paper until the door slammed behind him.
She glanced up, sparing just enough time to assess him. The boy—Vanitas—stood like he owned the place—uniform rumpled and expression unreadable, as if his words were law.
An odd feeling crawled up her throat—maybe it was hatred, but Dominique had better things to do than put names to unnecessary things.
Yet, there was something about the boy she admired. He never needed to introduce himself; people recognised the trouble; she could feel it herself, sharp and immediate like cracks spreading through glass.
And Vanitas scanned the room with a bored expression, more annoyed than willing to bring whatever he brought today.
He beelines to his desk, pulling out a blue, tattered notebook from its storage compartment. The small group of students swarm him when he beckons them with a flick of his hand.
Dominique returns to her notes, too engrossed in her work to bother. Sure, exams were over, but that doesn’t mean the next one wasn’t coming. She needed to be sure, without error, answering with ease. The student council vice-president shouldn’t pause or tremble.
100% meant no second-guessing. And Dominique wasn’t taking her chances. Otherwise how’d she be able to guide others if she wasn’t the best?
Yet, her mind refused to focus, rebelling against its master, her thoughts scrambling and landing on the black-haired boy and his small army.
Murmurs of words slipped past the circle and reached her ears.
“History Exam… Marked wrong… Only a section…”
Dominique’s ears completely snapped onto the conversation. The marks had already been released, and she had scored full as expected! Then… does this mean it’d be scored down?
Her chair scraped loudly as she stood up abruptly, locking eyes with Vanitas.
“You. Outside. Now.”
The air chilled, and whispers once again filled the classroom.
Vanitas raised his hands in mock surrender and set his book back in the compartment before following Dominique outside.
“Vice-president… to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“What are you doing?” she bit.
“Fixing.”
“Don’t speak in riddles, Vanitas.”
“I’m simply doing your job, Vice-president.”
Dominique has to swallow her words at his snarky remark. Don’t let him win, she repeated like a mantra. However, his words only pulled her deep in like relentless waves crashing against her shore—slowly chipping at her resistance and wearing it down.
“You are playing a dangerous game,” she warned.
The boy stared at her, waiting for her to question her own words. But, upon seeing her stoic stance, he sighed and continued.
“I’m only against the system. One that you, apparently, support. Why? Is it to save your own grades?”
“Vani—”
“One-third! One-third of our students were screwed over, and nobody has an answer. None of it their fault, and before you ask, yes, I’ve fact-checked this.”
“If you have a complaint, then file it properly instead of causing a ruckus and unrest amongst our classmates.”
“This isn’t some—” he wildly gestured with his hands, “This is systematic, Dominique. And we need to get to the bottom of this—”
She stopped him with her palm.
“You’re a student, Vanitas. Not a superhero.”
The next time Dominique spoke with Vanitas was certainly not appreciated or welcome by either of them.
She had stayed behind to finish up her council work, filing away the last of the requests for some party her grade demanded, when shoes clearly scuffled against the floor of the supposedly empty hallway.
Her hands grasped a baseball bat stashed in the corner, and she opened the door, peeking out to grab a glimpse of someone turning the corner. A familiar tuff of black hair was barely visible under the sun’s descending light.
Of course.
Dominique still held the bat steady and tailed the boy into the school archives in the back of the library.
She should stop him. It was the right thing to do. It was, wasn't it?
Dominique would be lying if Vanitas’ words didn't ring in her skull ever since he spoke them, but she'd never stay that aloud.
“Why are you just standing there?”
His voice cut through the deafening silence of atmosphere and startled her out of her thoughts.
“I should be asking you that.”
She scoffed when her classmate chose not to answer.
Vanitas ignored Dominique, she didn't make that hard, to rummage through the yellow Manila folders piled up on tables—haphardly stacked, and some papers even scatter on the floor having slipping out of their place.
With nowhere to go—unable to decide whether leaving Vanitas to his own was a good or bad idea—Dominique remained. She steady hands held Vanitas’ flasglight, tsking whenever he asked her to move it. She only did it because she had nothing else to do.
“You’re trespassing.”
“I know.”
“This could get you expelled.”
All she got was an indifferent murmur and the boy continued his shuffling.
There was another thing Dominique would never admit out loud. Envy. That's the feeling. Envious… of Vanitas.
“Why do you do this,” she asks, forcing her heavy tongue to move.
He paused. His lips turned, twisted, but not a sound came out.
At last, he settled on “You wouldn't understand.”
Dominique pushed off the post she was leaning against, the hard wood creaking. “Vanitas.” Her eyes locked onto the folder in his hands. “That folder. Give it to me.”
“What? You recognise something?”
“Yeah,” she swallowed thickly, “that name… rings a bell.”
Camille A.
Dominique's eyes narrow as she thinks upon the girl.
A whisper she used to hear quite often in the hallways, until they suddenly stopped. Sudden departure. Just gone without a word. She only paid attention because she was a good student, in studies atleast. Many thought she was transfered to a boarding school, and it made sense why this school would still have her records.
But then, why did it feel so off.
“—minique? Hello? Earth to—”
She slapped off the hand waving right in of her face.
“Where was the file?”
Vanitas rolled his eyes, but pointed to a small cabinet conviently covered by a table—hidden, but not enough to be suspicious, loke dust swept under the rug.
“It must be hidden for a reason. All of them are similar files. Sudden disappearances, that is. Similar reputations in school as well,” Vanitas supplied while tossing the file onto the small clearing he made on the table.
Cold crept under her skin, inching its way around her neck. Maybe there was more to the wrongly marked papers, or maybe Dominique was going to regret falling along with Vanitas ideas.
Their nightly meetings only continued, every extra second spent going through the files, trying to find a slip up in the records or a hint as to where these kids might've ended up in.
Five nights spent at the Archives until they unlikely duo struck gold.
A pamphlet. More importantly: a pamphlet to to boarding school.
The next morning the two had asked around enough people to conclude the school was not real.
A dead end.
Or at least, that’s what Dominique wanted to believe. Dead ends were simple. Clean. Easy to file away and forget. But, the pamphlet sat between them like a living thing, its glossy surface reflecting the dim archive lights, taunting her with the possibility that Vanitas was right—that something was deeply wrong.
Dominique exhaled sharply and pushed her hair behind her ear. “This doesn’t make sense. If the school isn’t real, then where did Camille go?”
Vanitas didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, tapping the edge of the pamphlet with a pen he’d stolen from the librarian’s desk. “That’s the question, isn’t it? And I’m willing to bet the administration knows exactly where she went.”
Dominique’s jaw clenched. “You’re accusing the school of—”
“I’m not accusing,” he cut in. “I’m stating.”
She hated how confidently he said it. As if he had already solved the entire puzzle and she was simply catching up. Dominique de Sade did not play catch‑up. She led.
But, here she was, standing in a dusty archive room at nearly ten at night, holding a flashlight for a boy who didn’t respect her authority and didn’t fear consequences.
Dominique rubbed her temples. “We need more than a pamphlet. This isn’t evidence.”
“It’s a lead,” Vanitas corrected. “And leads matter.”
She shot him a glare. “Don’t lecture me.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Then keep up.”
Dominique inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to smack him with the flashlight.
By the sixth night, Dominique had stopped pretending she wasn’t invested. She still told herself she was only there to prevent Vanitas from doing something catastrophically stupid, but even that excuse was wearing thin. She was there because she needed answers—because the cracks in the school’s perfect façade were widening, and she couldn’t ignore them anymore.
Tonight, Vanitas arrived earlier than usual, slipping into the archives with a stack of papers under his arm. Dominique followed minutes later, her steps quieter now, her presence less confrontational.
He didn’t look up when she entered. “You’re late.”
“I’m not obligated to be here,” she snapped.
“Yet here you are.”
Dominique’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “What did you find?”
Vanitas finally glanced at her, eyes sharp. “Patterns.”
He spread the papers across the table. Dominique stepped closer, scanning the names. Camille A. wasn’t the only one. There were at least ten students listed — all with similar academic profiles, similar disciplinary records, similar sudden disappearances.
Dominique’s stomach twisted. “Why these students?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Vanitas tapped one sheet. “Look at their grades.”
Dominique leaned in. Her breath hitched in her throat.
“They’re all high‑achieving,” she murmured. “Top ten percent. No behavioral issues. No warnings.”
“Exactly.” Vanitas crossed his arms. “So why would the school send them away? And why hide the records?”
Dominique didn’t have an answer. She hated that.
The next day, Dominique couldn’t focus in class. Her pen hovered over her notes, unmoving. The teacher’s voice blurred into background noise. Every time she blinked, she saw Camille’s name. The pamphlet. The hidden cabinet.
By lunch, she’d made up her mind.
She marched straight to the student council office, ignoring the startled looks from her peers. The president, Louis, glanced up from his laptop.
“Dominique? You look… tense.”
“I need access to the administrative transfer logs,” she said.
Louis blinked. “Why?”
“Because I asked.”
He frowned. “Dominique, those files are restricted. Even I can’t—”
“Then who can?”
Louis hesitated. “Headmaster Ruthven.”
Dominique’s pulse quickened. Ruthven. Of course.
She turned on her heel without another word.
The headmaster’s office was immaculate — polished floors, perfectly aligned bookshelves, and a faint scent of lavender. Ruthven sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly.
“Miss de Sade,” he greeted. “To what do I owe the visit?”
Dominique didn’t waste time. “I need access to the transfer records.”
Ruthven’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes sharpened. “Those documents are confidential.”
“I’m the vice‑president,” she insisted. “I have a right to know what’s happening to our students.”
Ruthven tilted his head. “Is this about Camille?”
Dominique froze.
He noticed.
“Her departure was handled appropriately,” Ruthven continued. “There is no need for concern.”
Dominique swallowed. “Then show me the records.”
Ruthven’s smile thinned. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Dominique felt her heartbeat in her throat. “Why not?”
“Because,” Ruthven said softly, “some matters are above your jurisdiction.”
Dominique left his office with her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
That night she stormed into the archives, slamming the door behind her. Vanitas looked up, startled.
“What happened to you?”
Dominique threw her bag onto the table. “Ruthven knows.”
Vanitas’s expression darkened. “What did he say?”
“That it’s above my jurisdiction.” Dominique paced, her breath uneven. “He refused to show me anything.”
Vanitas leaned back, thinking. “Then we’re close.”
Dominique stopped pacing. “Close to what?”
“The truth.”
She hated how calm he sounded. How certain.
Dominique pressed her palms against the table, grounding herself. “We need another angle.”
Vanitas nodded. “We do.”
He reached into his notebook, flipping to a page filled with scribbles, arrows, and names. Dominique leaned over his shoulder, reading.
Her breath caught.
“Vanitas… these students… they all attended the same summer program.”
“Exactly.”
Dominique stared at him. “You think the program is connected?”
“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”
Dominique exhaled slowly. “Then we need to find out who ran it.”
Vanitas smirked. “Already ahead of you.”
He slid a paper toward her — a registration form with a signature at the bottom.
Dominique’s blood ran cold.
Ruthven.
The next morning, Dominique didn’t wait for Vanitas. She marched straight to the council room, grabbed the microphone used for morning announcements, and turned it on.
Her voice echoed through the halls.
“Attention students. This is Dominique de Sade. I need anyone who attended the summer program last year to meet me in the auditorium immediately.”
Gasps filled the corridors.
Louis sprinted toward her. “Dominique! You can’t just—”
“I can,” she said, “and I will.”
By the time she reached the auditorium, dozens of students were already seated, whispering nervously. Vanitas slipped in behind her, eyebrows raised.
“Bold move.”
“Shut up,” she muttered.
Dominique stepped onto the stage, gripping the microphone.
“I need to ask you all something,” she began. “Did anything unusual happen during the program? Anything strange? Anything that didn’t feel right?”
Silence.
Then a hand rose.
A girl with trembling fingers.
Dominique nodded. “Go ahead.”
The girl swallowed. “We… weren’t allowed to contact our families.”
Another student spoke. “They took our phones.”
A third. “They made us sign confidentiality forms.”
Dominique’s heart pounded.
Vanitas stepped forward. “Did anyone disappear?”
The room froze.
Slowly, one student nodded.
“Camille,” he whispered. “She never came back.”
Then another whisper, then another and another and—
Dominique felt the world tilt again, harder this time.
Vanitas looked at her, eyes grim.
“We’re not dealing with bad grading,” he said. “We’re dealing with something much bigger.”
Dominique didn’t argue.
She couldn’t.
Because for the first time, she understood the truth:
They were in danger.
And the school was lying.
The staff barged through the doors.