Elara left the shack with the journal clutched tight against her chest.
The cold no longer bit at her skin—what chilled her now was knowledge. Seven roles. Seven people. Seven letters. None of it random.
The circle wasn't just a symbol. It was a game. A ritual.
And she was inside it.
She hurried back to her dorm room before nightfall. The music box still echoed in her memory, the silent spinning of its metal teeth like a clock counting down something inevitable.
Once behind her locked door, she laid out everything she had: the photo from the chapel, the black envelope, Juliet's diary, and the first letter Liora had sent her before disappearing.
The pattern was there.
It always had been.
She reread the roles Juliet listed:
1. The girl who tells the truth.
2. The boy who hides the knife.
3. The witness.
4. The liar.
5. The sacrifice.
6. The mistake.
7. The survivor.
Each of them—like characters in a sick play.
She remembered Liora's words from months ago: "They're writing our lives like stories. But only one gets a real ending."
Elara's hands trembled.
Had Juliet figured out who the roles belonged to? If so, she hadn't written them down—or maybe someone had destroyed those pages. But the phrasing suggested something more: these roles weren't fixed. They could shift. People could be moved.
Like Liora.
Like Juliet.
And maybe… like Elara.
Her eyes scanned the photo again.
Seven people. All of them in uniform, standing in front of the chapel steps.
Juliet stood on the far left.
Next to her, a boy with sharp eyes and a twisted smile. Elara had seen him before, once during orientation—Corvin Hale. He had disappeared from school weeks after Liora went missing.
Some said he transferred.
Others whispered he was dead.
Elara picked up Juliet's diary again and reread the line that haunted her:
> "The boy who hides the knife."
Could that have been Corvin?
And what about Liora?
The girl who tells the truth.
A truth-teller in a web of liars.
Elara pulled out her notebook and began writing names beside the roles, based on what she knew:
1. Truth-Teller — Liora?
2. Knife-Bearer — Corvin Hale?
3. The Witness —
4. The Liar —
5. The Sacrifice — Juliet?
6. The Mistake —
7. The Survivor — …Me?
That last one sent a ripple through her chest.
She was never supposed to be involved.
She hadn't been part of their circle.
But Liora had reached out to her. Trusted her.
And now, she was the one still alive. Still digging. Still breathing.
Does that make me the seventh?
A knock at her door made her jump.
She shoved the diary and photos under her bed and called out, "Yes?"
"Mail," said the voice outside. "Slid it under."
Footsteps walked away.
She waited.
Then slowly approached the door.
An envelope lay on the floor. No return address. Black again.
Her pulse quickened as she picked it up and opened it.
This time, no photo.
Only a page torn from a school yearbook.
On it, someone had circled four faces.
Juliet.
Liora.
Corvin.
And… Elara.
A red X had been slashed over Juliet and Liora's pictures.
And beneath the page, written in ink so dark it looked like blood, were the words:
> "Three down. Four to go."
Elara sank to the floor.
There were still four players left.
And the killer—whoever was orchestrating this—wanted her to know she was one of them.
Why?
Was this a warning? Or an invitation?
---
That night, sleep didn't come. Every creak of the pipes, every shift in the wind outside made her flinch.
She dreamed of the music box again.
But this time, when it stopped spinning, she heard her own voice whisper:
> "You are the seventh."
---
The next morning, Elara did what she always did when the world started falling apart—she went to the library.
Not for books.
For records.
She dug into the archives—anything about the music department, the fire at St. Alden's Chapel, or students listed as missing in the past five years.
The deeper she looked, the more she found.
Seven students.
All from different years.
All disappeared or died under suspicious circumstances.
And in every single case… a note left behind.
A black envelope.
Some were dismissed as suicides.
Others—"accidents."
But Elara knew better now.
Each of them had a role.
Each had been played.
And the circle?
It never ended.
Not when someone new could always take your place.
She found one final file tucked into the restricted section—half-burned, but intact enough to read.
> "Codename: Black Choir Project"
"Seven behavioral profiles. Seven emotional triggers. Seven weaknesses to test. The final phase begins once the observer becomes the participant."
Her hand froze.
The observer becomes the participant.
Her.
She was never meant to play.
But someone had pushed her in.
And now, she had no way out.
Elara stood, slowly.
And in that moment, she understood one thing clearly:
If she didn't finish this—
She would be the next to disappear.
She gathered the scattered files and slid them into her bag, heart pounding like a warning bell in her chest. As she stepped out of the archive room, the hallway felt darker than before—quieter, too. The kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like a noose.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
> Do not trust him. He already knows your role.
Elara's blood ran cold.
Him?
There were too many possibilities.
She scanned the halls, expecting someone to be watching from the shadows, but saw no one. Still, the message confirmed what she feared most—she wasn't the only one reading the files. Someone was watching her. Tracking her every step. Maybe even predicting her next move.
She rushed back to her dorm and locked the door behind her, breath shallow.
From her window, she saw a figure on the far edge of the quad.
Black coat.
Still.
Watching.
She blinked.
Gone.
But she knew now—this wasn't just about discovering the truth.
It was about surviving it.