The memory of what I'd done the night before played in my mind as I leaned against my chair, the faint sound of rain tapping against the window.
I had scribbled the note with precision, choosing every word carefully to achieve the desired effect. It had read:
"One of the ones you trust will betray you."
The simplicity was intentional. Direct, ambiguous, and just personal enough to dig under Killian's skin—if he let it. I wasn't naive; I knew Killian Maddox. He wasn't the type to crumble over vague warnings. He'd scoff, call it a prank, and maybe even laugh about it with his lackeys. Normally I shouldn't go this far it should be easy to kill them without this much planning on involved, however the only problem of Killian picking on me and him disappearing right after would be too suspicious. People will suspect me.
But seeds of doubt had a way of taking root in even the most confident minds. The idea that someone might be plotting against him, someone close enough to him to strike where he was vulnerable... that idea would linger. It wouldn't consume him—not yet—but it would nudge his thoughts when he least expected it.
I had left the note on his desk in the library when I saw him sitting alone, engrossed in a book. It was quick, methodical. By the time he noticed the slip of paper, I was already gone, blending back into the shadows of the library's aisles.
Then after class, I made my way to the plaza. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as I approached the counter. The clerk, a bored-looking man in his twenties, barely glanced up as I placed the new SIM card package on the counter.
"I'll need some ID," he said flatly, sliding a form toward me.
I pulled out the credentials I'd memorized from my previous observations of Marcus. His name, phone number, and a few other personal details rolled off my tongue effortlessly as I filled out the form. I didn't rush—sloppy mistakes would only invite suspicion.
The clerk skimmed the paperwork before nodding and processing the registration. The entire exchange was clinical, unremarkable. As he handed over the SIM card, I offered a polite, meaningless "Thank you" and slipped the package into my pocket.
Walking out of the store, I allowed myself a moment to reflect. It was a simple piece of misdirection, but its elegance lay in its precision. If anyone ever traced this number, it would lead them straight to Marcus—a crucial step in keeping my own hands clean.
Back in the present, I refocused, mentally reviewing the past two days of stalking Killian and his crew. I'd observed their routines, their interactions, and their habits with meticulous attention.
Ethan, the tall, muscular brute of the group, had stood out almost immediately. He was pure brawn, lacking the sharp wit or strategic mind of Killian. He followed orders without question, played the role of enforcer, and rarely contributed to their conversations beyond crude jokes or idle grunts of aqua agreement.
But it wasn't his simplicity that made him the easiest target—it was his desperation.
Ethan had a weakness, one he didn't bother to hide. He was obsessed with girls, constantly ogling them, making clumsy attempts at flirtation, and being rejected time and again. His lack of success didn't deter him; if anything, it made him even more desperate.
Desperation, I'd learned, was one of the most exploitable human traits.
I set my plan in motion that afternoon, drafting another note. This one was more personal, more tailored to Ethan's specific weakness.
"Hey, I've noticed you around and think you're really strong and cool. I have a bit of a crush on you, but I'm too shy to tell you in person. If you want to meet up, text me at this number tonight."
I made sure to write in neat, bubbly handwriting—something that could plausibly belong to a girl. Then I added the finishing touch: my new phone number from the newly registered sim.
But there was one more piece to the puzzle.
During the break, I waited for Marcus to leave his bag unattended. It didn't take long—he was careless, his attention often flitting from one distraction to another. True to form, he wandered off, leaving his bag slumped lazily on a cafeteria bench. The timing was perfect.
I approached casually, weaving through the noise and movement, careful not to draw attention. My gloved hands, thin and precise, slipped into the bag's largest pocket. The gloves weren't bulky, ensuring dexterity while leaving no trace behind. My fingers brushed against his phone—a sleek, familiar weight.
With a smooth motion, I retrieved the device and replaced it with a decoy: a small notebook of similar size and weight. It was a practiced maneuver, subtle and deliberate, the kind of thing no one would notice until it was too late. Satisfied, I zipped up the bag and walked away, blending seamlessly into the crowd.
The phone felt heavy in my pocket, a silent promise of progress. Leaving the cafeteria, I made my way to a nearby supermarket.
Later that evening, back in my room, I began assembling the final pieces of the plan.
First, I placed Marcus's SIM card in a small, inconspicuous box and slid it into the back of my drawer. Safe, out of sight. Then I inserted the new SIM card into Marcuses phone.
Now, if anyone checked the devices, everything would appear perfectly normal. And I could now be 2 people without Ethan or Killian realizing they are talking to the same person
Satisfied, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the card Killian had given me. His number was scrawled across it in sharp, bold handwriting—a physical reminder of his arrogance.
I dialed the number, pressing the phone to my ear. It rang twice before he picked up. I knew exactly how to get into his head, the flash drive that night, I don't know the contents but it seems really important, I'll try my luck with it.
"Who is this?," Killian's voice was sharp,
"It's Noah"
curious. "Didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Changed your mind?"
"I know about the flash drive and what's on it," I said, keeping my tone neutral.
A pause. I could hear the faint sound of his breathing, the curiosity shifting into something more calculating and perhaps fear.
"Who the fuck is this and what do you know?," he said finally.
I didn't respond. Instead, I ended the call, leaving the condition unsaid.
Killian Maddox wasn't the only one who could play games.