Foreigner

Chapter 18: Lukas vs Monroe (1)

Wednesday morning.

I sit at my usual table in the cafeteria, peeling the crust off my toast with slow, deliberate fingers. Around me, the morning rush moves as it always does—chairs scraping against the tiled floor, the murmur of tired voices, the occasional burst of laughter from students who still have the energy for it this early. But beneath all that, there's a new undercurrent. A shift.

It's subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who isn't paying attention. But I am.

Across the room, Monroe sits with a few stragglers—boys who laugh when he laughs and stay quiet when he doesn't. They're not his friends, just bodies filling space. I watch as he leans back in his chair, one leg bouncing restlessly under the table. His eyes scan the room, sharp but unfocused, searching for something. Or someone.

I hide my smirk behind my toast. Good. He feels it.

It started last night. The first wave of quiet attacks.

After lights-out, when the dormitory hallways had gone mostly silent, I made my move. The school doesn't lock its halls at night, which makes things easy—no sneaking, no rushing. Just careful, quiet steps on the wooden floor as I walked to Monroe's room. I stopped at his door, crouched, and slipped an envelope underneath it.

Inside was nothing but a printout of his own photo. The one I took in the library, where he sat hunched over his work, brow furrowed, completely focused. There were no words, no threats, no explanation. Just proof. A silent message: You're being watched.

Then, I went further.

I printed three more copies of the same photo, small and folded into squares. One tucked into one of the bathrooms' mirror frame, wedged in just enough that it wouldn't fall out on its own. One shoved between books on a random student's desk in an empty classroom, waiting to be discovered. And the last one? Under a cafeteria tray at the dish return.

I didn't need to pin it to a wall or leave it somewhere obvious. That would've been too direct. Too fast and easy. No, this needed to feel accidental, like the truth was slipping through the cracks on its own.

Now I hear it when I pass students in the hallways—quick, hushed words barely above a whisper. "Did you hear?" "Nah, Monroe's not—" "I saw a picture, swear to God!" Not everyone believes it yet, but that's fine. The goal isn't to make people immediately turn on him. The goal is to plant doubt. To let the idea fester until Monroe himself does the rest of the work.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement near the cafeteria entrance. Christian lingers there, hands tucked into his pockets. He isn't eating. He isn't talking to anyone. He's just watching.

Since that night's teasing—him pretending he doesn't care and me making fun of him for it—I've seen him around a lot. Not intervening, not stopping me, just there, lurking in the shadows, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like he's making sure nothing gets too out of control. As though making sure I'm safe.

I ignore the warmth that spreads in my chest at the thought and focus back on my plan.

The next step is easy—just a small nudge, something to push Monroe a little further down the path of self-destruction. Casually, my gaze drifts to a table a few rows away, where a group of students is looking at something on a phone. I also shared the library photo through Whittiker's Wi-Fi with everyone connected. I don't have to see it to know what it is. Their whispering is a dead giveaway.

Monroe shifts in his seat. I don't have to look directly at him to know he's noticed.

The psycho act doesn't work when people aren't afraid anymore. And fear only lingers as long as the monster stays in the dark. I'm dragging Monroe into the light, forcing him to exist in a space where people are starting to see through the cracks. And that's what's going to break him.