Between Bruises and Butterflies

CUT TO: ENGLISH CLASSROOM — MONDAY MORNING

The classroom hums with low chatter as students settle into their seats. The weekend has stripped some of the exhaustion from their faces, though the weight of the festival and the lingering unease from Sienna's incident still hangs in the air.

MS. CLARKE, their English teacher, taps her pen on the desk, trying to regain order. She's in her mid-30s, sharp-eyed, with an energy that fluctuates between stern and playful depending on her mood.

MS. CLARKE: Settle down, people. I know it's Monday, but I'm not getting paid enough to deal with this noise.

JAYJAY (whispering to Sienna): How much do you think she wants to be paid?

SIENNA (deadpan): Enough to leave this job.

Jayjay snickers, kicking his legs up onto the metal bar under his desk. Sienna fidgets with her bandaged hand, the faint sting reminding her of the glass that sliced her skin.

Damien, sitting two rows behind her, watches her movements like a hawk. Zephyr leans back in his chair next to him, balancing a pencil on his upper lip.

ZEPHYR: You think she's okay?

DAMIEN: No.

ZEPHYR: You gonna do something about it?

DAMIEN: No.

ZEPHYR: You're useless.

DAMIEN: And you're annoying.

Ms. Clarke slams a book onto her desk, making the entire class jolt.

MS. CLARKE: Today, we're analyzing a poem. It's about regret, loss, and how life slowly crushes your spirit until you can barely breathe.

CASS: So... relatable?

MS. CLARKE: It's Monday. Let me have this.

She begins writing on the board, the marker squeaking loudly as she scrawls the title:
"The Hollow Men" — T.S. Eliot

Sienna zones out as the lesson drones on. Her mind keeps flickering back to the hallway, to the cold grip on her wrist, to the way her ex's words curled around her like barbed wire.

Her chest tightens. She glances at the door.

CUT TO: SCHOOL ROOFTOP — LUNCH BREAK

The rooftop is quieter than usual. The usual groups that linger here have dispersed to other corners of the school, leaving the space eerily empty.

Sienna rests her back against the wall, picking at the edge of her bandage.

Jayjay shows up with an entire tray of food, balancing it like a waiter.

JAYJAY: I brought you lunch. I figured you wouldn't go to the cafeteria since Damien and Zion almost had a testosterone war over who could carry your bag.

SIENNA: They what?

JAYJAY: You attract chaos like a magnet.

She chuckles, but it fades quickly. Jayjay hands her a sandwich, then plops down next to her, swinging his legs over the edge of the ledge.

JAYJAY: Are you... gonna tell anyone what happened?

Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

SIENNA: Nothing happened.

JAYJAY: You came back bleeding, shaking, and barely able to speak. That's not "nothing," Siea.

She presses her lips together.

SIENNA: If I talk about it, it becomes real.

Jayjay doesn't push. He just sits beside her, munching on his food, letting her exist in silence.

CUT TO: EMPTY CLASSROOM — AFTER SCHOOL

The hacker couple — Ivy and Caleb — are stationed at a table, surrounded by tangled wires, old devices, and random gadgets like some underground tech operation.

Ivy twists her pastel pink hair into a bun, typing rapidly, while Caleb adjusts a small camera in his hand.

ZEPHYR: I thought you guys didn't use school computers.

IVY: We don't. We just like stealing the school's Wi-Fi.

Damien leans against the wall, arms crossed.

DAMIEN: Can you check the hallway cameras or not?

CALEB: You want us to get arrested?

IVY: We can't get into the live feed, but... we might not need to.

She spins her chair around, facing them with a mischievous glint in her eye.

IVY: Do you remember the festival scavenger hunt?

ZEPHYR: Yeah?

IVY: One of the items was a mirror necklace with a camera hidden inside.

CALEB: Some genius lost it near the lockers.

DAMIEN: And it still works?

IVY: We don't know yet. But if it does... it might've caught whatever happened to Sienna.

Damien's jaw clenches.

DAMIEN: Find it.

CUT TO: SIENNA'S BEDROOM — NIGHT

Sienna lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint glow of her desk lamp casts shadows across her room, stretching the drawings on her wall into twisted shapes.

Her phone buzzes.

A text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Sleep well, baby. See you soon.

Her chest caves in, her fingers turning ice-cold. She throws her phone across the room, curling into herself as her heart pounds violently against her ribs.

The screen blinks in the darkness.

The message lingers.

TO BE CONTINUED...