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𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗗𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗟! chapter nine
The school doors slam shut with a force that reverberates through the hallway, rattling on their hinges. Scott and Stiles cling to the handlebars, their faces taut, each boy straining against the rush of panic rising inside them. Scott's voice is quick and urgent. "Lock it, lock it!" he hisses, looking around as if the solution might appear. Stiles shakes his head. "Do I look like I have a key?" he retorts, eyes wide. "Grab something," Scott snaps, though desperation bleeds through his command. "What?" Stiles demands, his gaze darting wildly. "Anything!" Scott insists.
Stiles's frantic gaze lands on the bolt cutters just outside, leaning against the wall. A crazy idea sparks, and he locks eyes with Scott, who immediately shakes his head. "No." Scott's voice is low, alarmed. But Stiles grits his teeth. "Yes." Scott's eyes widen in fear. "No, Stiles, don't—" But Stiles is already moving, pushing past him and stepping into the cold night air. For a second, he stands there, frozen, listening to his own shallow breaths puffing out into the dark. Then he bolts, feet pounding against the concrete as he snatches up the bolt cutters. He glances back, catching sight of Scott on the other side of the glass doors, frantically mouthing, Run.
With a twist of his head, Stiles catches a glimpse of something dark, something fast, barreling out of the shadows. His heart slams against his ribs as he sprints back inside, bolt cutters clutched in his hands. Scott grabs the other handle, both of them fumbling to fit the cutters down over the door handles like some makeshift lock. They force it into place, trembling hands finally securing it. The boys glance up, breathless, as the empty walkway stretches before them, devoid of any immediate threat. A few stray leaves tumble across the pavement, the only sign of movement. Exchanging a look, they start to back away from the doors, the pace of their steps increasing until they're nearly running, slipping into the shadows of a nearby classroom.
Inside, they slam the door and throw themselves toward the teacher's desk. "The desk—the desk!" Stiles gasps, and they scramble around it, straining to push it toward the door. A loud, grating squeal echoes as the metal legs scrape against the tile. "Stop, stop!" Stiles whispers sharply, and they freeze, holding their breath as they listen. The silence presses in, thick and charged. "The door's not going to keep it out," Stiles finally murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. Scott nods, his eyes dark and fearful. "I know," he replies softly.
