Silas slipped into Leah’s house through the side window, careful to keep the sound of glass and floorboards to a minimum. The house was unnervingly quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against his ears and made each heartbeat echo like a drum.

  He moved toward the small cabinet Leah always kept locked, his fingers working nimbly over the latch. With a soft click, it opened, revealing two photographs tucked behind a stack of old papers.

  The first photo was clear: the donor board. Silas’s eyes traced the engraved names, lingering on Lisa Kim—marked with a date that confirmed what he already knew. Other names appeared too, some familiar, others completely unknown. Each name carried an unspoken weight, a sense that they were connected to something far darker than the school’s academic reputation.

  He pulled out the second photo. It was smaller, and far stranger: a close-up of an ornate lock with the number 13 engraved on it. There were no notes, no context—just the lock. A chill ran down his spine. Whoever had taken this photo wanted it found, and they wanted it understood.

  Silas tucked both images into his hoodie and crouched for a moment, taking in the room. Leah was gone. Taken. And now he had a clue—not just about her, but about something hidden beneath the surface of the school itself.

  He studied the donor board photo more closely, squinting at the names. Some letters seemed slightly smudged, as if someone had tampered with them. Could the killer have left marks? Were they messages for him? Each name now felt like a breadcrumb, a trail he had to follow carefully.

  Then his thoughts shifted to Evan. He shouldn’t tell him everything yet—not until he understood more, and certainly not while the masked man was still watching. But Evan needed to know something, or the boy could walk right into danger. Silas’s chest tightened at the thought.

  He rose and crept toward the window. Every creak of the floor sounded like a gunshot in the silence. Outside, the street was empty. Perfect. He slipped back into the shadows and made his way home, careful to erase any trace of his visit.

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  Once safely inside his apartment, he placed the photographs on the small table in his room, staring at them for a long moment. The donor board was a reminder of everything the masked man was capable of. And the lock—the Thirteenth Lock—was something else entirely.

  Silas didn’t know what it opened or why it was important, but he had a sinking feeling it was connected to everything: the VIP names, the killer’s plans, and now, inevitably, to him.

  He clenched his fists. Time was running out.

  The Thirteenth Lock.

  He whispered the words to himself, the sound a small promise. He would figure it out. And when he did, the masked man wouldn’t know what hit him.

  Night had fallen by the time Silas returned home, the streets outside silent and empty. His small apartment felt heavier than usual, as if the walls themselves were aware of the danger closing in. He placed the photographs carefully on the table, studying them again, trying to connect the donor board with the mysterious Thirteenth Lock.

  A soft thump at the door made him freeze. His instincts kicked in instantly. Silas approached slowly, every movement controlled, his eyes scanning the dim hallway.

  At his doorstep lay a small package. No return address, nothing but a folded letter pinned to the top. Silas’s fingers were steady, but his heart rate picked up as he picked it up and unfolded the paper.

  “Your visit to Leah’s house was not authorized. Unless instructed, no one is allowed access. Because of this, Elena will be punished.”

  Inside the package, along with the letter, was a small phone. The screen flickered to life as Silas picked it up, displaying a single message: “Your next task awaits. Instructions on this device. Failure is not an option.”

  His eyes widened as he glanced at the photograph attached to the letter.

  Leah. Tied to a chair, bruises forming across her arms and face. Her eyes wide in terror, pleading for help.

  Silas clenched his fists, jaw tightening. A surge of anger and fear washed over him. The message was clear: every move he made was being tracked, every step anticipated. And now the person he cared about most was being used as leverage.

  He slipped the photo and the phone into his hoodie pocket, staring out the darkened street beyond the window. The Thirteenth Lock, the donor board, the masked man—everything was converging. And he was running out of time.

  Silas straightened, cold determination setting in. There would be no hesitation, no mistakes. Tomorrow, he would make his next move. And anyone who thought they could manipulate him would learn exactly why Silas Thorne was not to be underestimated.

  Outside, the night remained quiet, but the danger had never felt closer.