Record 88

The acrid sting of concentrated chlorine hits first. It isn't the scent of cleanliness; it is the smell of a forced erasure, a chemical attempt to scrub away a sin. You open your eyes to find your cheek pressed against frozen tiles. The chill bites into your jawbone, and the beam of the flashlight you dropped jitters against the far wall, casting rhythmic shadows that dance like ghosts in the cellar’s throat. You try to push yourself up, but your palm slides across a viscous, dark slick. It is warm—unnervingly so against the subterranean cold. It isn't water, and it isn't spilled cleaner. It is blood, fresh and abundant, mapping out the cracks in the floor like a crimson atlas of guilt. Three feet away lies Miller, the school’s night watchman. The man who always gave you a weary nod at the gate is now a collection of static limbs. His eyes are fixed in a stare of glassy astonishment, as if he witnessed something the human mind simply wasn't built to process. His broad chest, usually a heavy engine of life, is silent. You look down at your trembling hands. A vibrant, indigo chemical ink coats your fingers, seeping under the nails like a demonic tattoo. This isn't standard stationer…