The fluorescent lights above buzzed and flickered, throwing a hard white glare over the library table. Gabe pressed his forearms against the cool metal, fingers finding the faint tacky ring where someone’s cola had dried.

The air carried printer toner and old paper. He turned his red pen between his fingers until the ridges caught on the callus at his thumb. Beside him, the coffee had gone cold, a flat sour smell where steam used to be.

The stack of essays might as well have been written in code. Lines of ink swam when he tried to focus. The same question crowded everything else out. What makes a person cling to a belief after the evidence falls away? He set the pen down and let the essays blur.

His students’ pages offered packaged answers, Plato summaries, and social media metaphors, but none of it eased the tightness behind his ribs. In class, he told them truth wasn’t just about getting the facts right; it was about who you chose to believe when you were scared. Tonight, repeating that didn’t help.

Right now, everyone at Almont seemed very willing to believe almost anything. On campus, midterm panic had given way to one subject. Ethan’s name turned up in cafeteria lines and hallway whispers.

Gabe’s thumb hovered over his phone for the third time in as many minutes, checking a lock screen that refused to change. No missed calls. No new texts. The last message in their thread was his:

Are you off work yet? I’m saving you from Dillon’s mediocre pizza.

It was still marked as delivered, not read.

He took a sip of his coffee, winced at the temperature, and set it aside. If he graded three more essays, he told himself, he would let his mind wander. Except it was already wandering back to Dillon’s, back to last Friday night, back to the moment he had decided not to call again because he didn’t want to sound clingy.

He kept returning to that decision, replaying it in his head, when someone’s shadow fell across the table.

“Are you Gabe Lyons?”

The voice was direct and confident. Not a student. Gabe looked up to find a man about his age, maybe a year older, standing a few feet away. Dark hair, a messenger bag, and an expression already set in a kind of intent curiosity, as if he had arrived with a verdict and were just collecting proof.

“Yes,” Gabe said slowly. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The stranger pulled out the chair opposite without waiting for permission and sat. “My name’s Alex Chen. I write for the campus paper and a couple of local outlets. I’ve been trying to talk to you for three days.”

The words slid into place before the explanation did. Three days.

Gabe’s stomach tightened. “About what?”

“Ethan Carr.”

For a second, the hum of the overhead lights and the rustle of pages at the next table were all he heard. His hand tightened around the pen until the cap bit into his fingers.

“What about him?” Gabe asked. His voice came out softer than he meant it to.

Alex leaned forward, forearms resting on the wood. He didn’t lower his voice much. That, more than the words, told Gabe he already understood the stakes.

“He’s missing,” Alex said. “Officially. Nearly a week. People are starting to connect dots. Your name keeps coming up.”

Gabe swallowed. He had told himself that silence protected everyone involved. The administration. His position. Ethan. Now it sounded more like an excuse he wouldn’t accept from a student.

“I’ve spoken with Clearfield police,” Gabe said carefully. “I don’t have anything new to share.”

“That’s not quite true, is it?” Alex’s gaze didn’t waver. “You were supposed to see him Friday night. You called him eight times on Sunday. That’s not just concern. That’s panic.”

Gabe felt heat rise to his face. “You’ve read the report.”

“And talked to half of Dillon’s staff,” Alex said. “They like him. They’re scared. They also mentioned your name before I did.”

He let that sit for a beat, then added, almost gently, “Look, I’m not here to out you to a hostile dean. I’m trying to figure out what happened to Ethan. And whether what’s happening around him is… random.”

Gabe’s eyes narrowed.

“Random?” he repeated.

Alex reached into his bag and slid a thin folder across the table. Inside were a few grainy photos: a brick wall behind the student center, a service door near the old chapel, and the underside of a bridge just off campus. Each surface bore the same symbol—spiral, sharp-lined, oddly precise, no two quite identical, and yet clearly intentional.

“These started appearing in the last month,” Alex said. “People thought it was some art student’s project. Then, about two weeks ago, flyers started floating around certain group chats. Anonymous account. New group calling themselves The Vision.”

Gabe glanced at the photos. The symbols were unsettling, but it was the language that made the back of his neck prickle.

“And you think they’re connected to Ethan how?” he asked.

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Because The Vision doesn’t just talk about morality and purity in the way basic campus groups do. They talk about ‘correcting perception.’ About ‘exposing parasites in the community.’ They list examples.”

He hesitated just long enough for Gabe to fill in the blank.

“Queer people,” Gabe said quietly. “Anyone they think is corrupting the ‘moral sight’ of the town,” Alex replied. “And that list looks a lot like the people who’ve been harassed anonymously this semester. Including Ethan. Including you.”

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