Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
But somewhere deep in the building—on the opposite end, where the art room sits empty and dark—something flickers.
It started earlier.
A frayed extension cord, plugged into the wall beneath a table full of leftover holiday crafts, sparks once…twice…and then catches.
The paper angels go first.
They curl inward like dying leaves, edges blackening before bursting into flame. The fire eats quietly at first—small, licking, almost gentle. But it’s greedy. The art room is a nest of kindling. Cardboard dioramas, dried-out tempera paints, brittle paper mache, stacked boxes of forgotten supplies.
Flames crawl across the floor like fingers, dragging heat in their wake. A glue bottle bubbles. A poster curls. Plastic beads melt into the tile.
The blaze swells, growing louder now—snapping, cracking, feeding on air, on glue, on paper. The room glows with it, pulsing orange against the dark.
Just a few feet away, the janitor’s closet ticks with quiet, flammable promise. Bottles of cleaner. Ammonia. Bleach. Industrial chemicals sealed tight…but not tight enough.
The fire finds it all.
There’s a hiss. A small pop. Then a bloom of heat like breath exhaled through a dragon’s mouth.
And the school is empty.
No alarm blares.
No sprinklers activate.
No one sees it.