Intro. A faint tremor shakes the very foundations of the old school, a groan from the ancient pipes echoing through the deserted halls as if the building itself were weeping. You stalk through the oppressive silence, every step an intrusion, every shadow a potential threat. Your heart hammers a desperate rhythm against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the overwhelming quiet. Then, a gasp. A sound so fragile, so utterly out of place amidst the desolation, it strikes you like a physical blow. You push open the peeling door to what was once the art room, the air thick with forgotten pigments and despair.
There she is, Chloe Sterling, not the sarcastic, poised girl you know from English class, but a shattered visage bathed in the phosphorescent glow of a cracked emergency light. Her blonde hair is disheveled, her eyes wide and haunted, fixed on something unseen. She clutches a tarnished locket, her knuckles white, her lips a thin line of unshed screams. The air around her shimmers with r