The gates of Crescent Grove International Academy didn't just look expensive — they looked final. Like a line drawn across the earth, daring you to cross and never return the same. Sharon Okezie stood in front of them, her transfer letter in one hand, her fingers clenched so tightly around the strap of her duffel that the leather creaked.
It looked just like the photos her sister used to send. Clean-cut buildings lined with ivy, windows so polished they reflected the sky. And the crest — that damn gold lion emblem — perched above the arched main entrance like a crown on a coffin.
She adjusted her blazer, identical to every other student's, but hers carried a different kind of weight.
She was wearing Sade's uniform.
And if anyone noticed, they didn't say a word.
"New girl," someone muttered as she walked past the senior dorms. Another voice snickered. Sharon didn't flinch. Her stride was confident, almost rehearsed. The kind of walk that said: Don't bother me. I won't bother you. Unless I want to.
But she did want to. She wanted every bit of it — the attention, the whispers, the fear. Especially the fear.
She found her room on the second floor of Marlowe Hall, the girls' residence. Room 217. It was too neat, like no one had lived there before, which couldn't be true. Crescent Grove didn't waste space. Someone had cleared it out — probably just last week — and Sharon knew exactly who used to sleep in the bed by the window.
She dropped her bag without ceremony and walked over to the desk. Her fingers skimmed the underside of the drawer. A breath caught in her throat. She felt it — a loose panel. With one firm tug, it came off.
And there it was.
Sade's student ID.
Worn. Scratched. The corner still bent the way it used to be when Sade used it to pry open juice bottles. Sharon swallowed down something sharp. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. She didn't get the luxury of knowing the difference anymore.
A knock on the door snapped her out of it.
"Hey! Roomie!" came a cheery voice. The door creaked open before Sharon could answer.
The girl was all sunshine: honey-colored braids, a bright smile, and eyes too wide to be trustworthy. She smelled like expensive perfume and looked like someone who'd never been told no.
"I'm Nora Kingsley. I guess we're sharing a room?"
Sharon offered a tight nod. "Sharon."
"Just Sharon?"
"For now."
Nora blinked, then laughed lightly, like Sharon had told a joke. "Well, welcome to Crescent Grove! Senior year's going to be insane. You came at just the right time — elections, debates, homecoming, the ball. You'll love it here once you get used to the madness."
Sharon smiled faintly. "I already love it."
Even if she meant the exact opposite.
---
Later that evening, the school held a welcome assembly in the main hall. Sharon sat in the second row, flanked by Nora and a group of students with identical glossy hair and perfectly bored expressions. Names were read. Rules were announced. Parents clapped. Teachers smiled.
And then he walked in.
Damian Falade.
You didn't need to be told he was important. It radiated off him like smoke from a fire. Tall, dark-skinned, with a lean, almost lazy grace — like he owned the room and didn't have to prove it. When he slid into a seat three rows ahead of her, everyone else adjusted themselves like planets shifting around gravity.
Sharon's eyes narrowed.
That was the boy her sister had texted about three days before she died. "There's something off about him," Sade wrote. "Don't trust the charm. He sees everything."
Sharon made a mental note: Watch Damian.
The principal — Vice Principal Olatunji, actually, since the headmistress was on sabbatical — stepped up to the podium. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"We are a family here at Crescent Grove," he said, in the voice of a man who practiced the line in a mirror. "We hold ourselves to a higher standard. Loyalty. Integrity. Discipline. These uniforms are not just clothing — they are armor. They unite us. Equalize us. Protect us."
Sharon tilted her head slightly. Protect us?
Then why was her sister dead?
She clapped when she was supposed to. Smiled when Nora made a joke. But every second she spent in that grand hall, surrounded by polished brass and watchful eyes, her mind was working.
Tomorrow, she'd start digging.
Tonight, she'd unpack Sade's secrets.
---
Back in her room, Nora was already asleep. Sharon sat cross-legged on her bed with the ID card in one hand and a small envelope in the other. Hidden inside her bag lining.
The handwriting on the envelope was Sade's.
She hadn't dared open it until now.
Sharon,
If you're reading this, I'm probably already gone. I wish I could say I'm safe, but I'm not. Not here. Not anymore. I know things. About people. About "The Circle." Don't trust anyone — not even the ones who seem good. They're worse. If I don't make it out, I need you to finish this.
Please don't let them win.
Sade
Sharon closed her eyes, pressing the paper to her lips. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried in months. But a fire lit in her chest — the kind that doesn't burn out.
She opened her notebook and started writing.
"To destroy a system, you don't shout. You infiltrate."
Then she underlined it.
Twice.