Clear Lake Academy holds the worst of the worst delinquents from around the country. Each and every student there holds a notorious background that led them there and almost everyone avoids them.
After setting the tenth building on fire, which just...
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B E N T L E Y P O V
I wasn't thinking when I did what I did but all I knew was that I couldn't leave her in there. I couldn't leave her in there, knowing that she could be dying. Not without her knowing the truth. I couldn't just leave her.
So I ran. Straight past the screaming teachers as they lunged for me. Atraight through the door.
The gas was heavy —suffocating. I could feel it rush into my nose and into every crack of my soul. It burned as I inhaled, sharp and chemical, and I doubled over with a violent cough.
The haze inside had grown worse, swelling and curling through the hallways like something alive. I could barely see a few feet ahead. Behind me, through the muffled roar in my ears, I heard my friends shouting—panicked, helpless. Their voices were cut off by the teachers who held them back.
I forced myself forward.
I pushed open the door and with heavy feet, made my way up the stairs. I yanked the hem of my black shirt over my mouth and nose, pressing the fabric tight against my skin. The air trapped inside it was hot and smelled like sweat and detergent, but it was better—just barely—than the poison in the air.
I pushed through the fog, blinking rapidly as my eyes stung. It felt like tiny needles were jabbing into them with every breath I took. Tears streamed down my face, but they didn't help; they only blurred the faint outlines I could make out through the grey.
I kept going.
When I reached the top floor, I broke into a run again —body begging me to stop. The hallway stretched out before me, swallowed by thick smoke.
I reached her door and threw my weight against it. It didn't budge.
I coughed hard, blinking tears away, and tried again—shoulder slamming into the wood. Once. Twice. On the third attempt, the door gave way and I stumbled forward, barely catching myself before crashing face-first onto the polished floor.
I spun around and shoved the door shut behind me, as if the thin slab of wood could somehow keep the gas out.
I didn't waste a second, barging through the door after a couple tries and I stumbled forward, saving myself from ending in a heap on the polished floor.
But the second I turned back, I realized the room was worse.
The air inside was suffocating—thicker, more concentrated. I could barely see my own hands in front of me. The smell here was stronger too, sharp and metallic, unnatural in a way that made my stomach churn. It wasn't just smoke. It was something else.
