Weaver Community College's cafeteria hadn't seen this much laughter in months.
It wasn't like the food got any better, or that the flickering overhead lights had magically fixed themselves — they hadn't. The tile still smelled faintly of old mop water and grease, and the vending machine still ate dollars like it had a vendetta.
But that day, it felt like sunshine managed to sneak its way inside.
Not real sunshine — this was Weaver, after all — but the metaphorical kind. That quiet little relief you get after surviving something you weren't sure you'd walk away from. That breath after screaming.
The Deadfast Club sat at their usual corner table.
Kym was arguing with Amir about whether The Thing counted as body horror or creature feature. Liv was painting her nails black while talking about homecoming. Manny had his headphones around his neck and was mock-sulking over having to repeat Algebra II. Deion sat at the edge of the group, pretending to be more focused on his sandwich than the tension in his shoulders.
And Beth?
Beth was silent.
But nobody noticed.
Not really.
They mistook her silence for relief. Maybe even peace. They didn't know she was watching them all with clinical detachment, her fingers idly tracing a pattern in the condensation on her soda can.
Because Jamal was gone.
And someone still had to die for that.
"Okay," Kym declared, slapping her notebook shut. "Final ruling: The Thing is both. Deal with it."
Amir groaned. "You can't be both! That's like saying Get Out is both psychological horror and social thriller."
"It is," said Liv without looking up from her cuticles.
"Okay but—"
Deion laughed. A real one this time. Not one of his forced, shallow chuckles that had gotten more common since Jamal's death.
"You nerds still gonna be arguing about genre while Ghostface crawls through the vents to gut us?"
Everyone went quiet for a second.
The name still hit like a car crash.
Beth's fingers twitched.
Liv broke the silence first, voice light and forced. "Ghostface is dead, remember? That guy in the mask was Jamal. Case closed. End of the franchise."
"I still think that's too easy," Amir mumbled.
Beth stiffened.
Kym rolled her eyes. "You think everything's a conspiracy."
"Because sometimes they are," he snapped.
"And let's not forget — the cops never actually confirmed it was just Jamal. All they said was 'he matched the costume' and 'was at the scene.'"
"Maybe let it go, Mulder," Manny grunted, rubbing his temple.
Beth's voice was syrupy smooth when it finally came out. "You want there to be another killer?"
Everyone turned to look at her. It was the first time she'd spoken all lunch.
Her blue eyes sparkled, winged eyeliner framing them like a hawk's.
Amir shrank under her gaze.
"N-No," he stammered. "I'm just saying—statistically, killers don't work alone. And if Jamal was Ghostface, there could've been someone else."
Beth smiled. Too sharp. Too wide.
"Good thing you're not a statistician."
Amir blinked, then nodded slowly.
Deion looked at her, frowning. "You okay, B?"
Beth shrugged. "Peachy."
Before anyone could push it further, a shadow fell over their table.
Brandon.
He looked effortlessly out of place in the room — all neutral tones and painter's posture, his sketchpad tucked beneath one arm like a secret weapon.
"Mind if I sit?"
Liv lit up. "Of course! C'mon, pull up a seat. The more, the bloodier."
Brandon gave a crooked grin and slid into the seat next to Manny. "Sounds like my kind of lunch table."
Kym raised an eyebrow. "You into horror too?"
He nodded. "It's the only genre honest enough to admit everyone dies eventually."
Manny barked a laugh. "Damn. That's dark. I like you."
Beth didn't say anything.
She studied Brandon from the corner of her eye.
He was too casual. Too at ease. Too clean. Like someone playing a part with all the right moves.
She wondered if he knew how to bleed.
Brandon, for his part, didn't even glance her way. He was laughing at something Liv said about horror movie final girls and how she'd survive purely out of spite.
It all felt normal.
For the first time in months, the Deadfast Club looked like what they were supposed to be — dumb kids at community college, joking about killers like it was a Netflix special instead of their own history.
They didn't notice the way Beth watched Brandon's hands. Calm. Steady. Not the twitch of a trauma survivor. Not the nerves of someone barely recovering.
She'd seen too many liars not to recognize a fellow actor.
But Beth wasn't afraid.
She was curious.
"Where'd you transfer from again?" she asked suddenly.
The table went quiet.
Brandon blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, Millfield. Small place up north. Snowy. Boring."
"People don't transfer from boring places without a reason."
He looked her dead in the eye.
Beth held the stare, smile unfading.
"Family stuff," he said finally.
"Ah," she replied, tilting her head. "Dead parents?"
"Close."
"Abuse?"
His smile didn't move. "Too close."
Beth chuckled. "Well. We've all got our scars."
The table laughed nervously.
Kym muttered, "Jesus, Beth…"
Brandon didn't flinch.
And that was all the proof she needed.
Not enough to kill him yet.
But enough to watch.
The bell rang. Classes called. Backpacks were slung over shoulders and trays abandoned.
The Deadfast Club disbanded, scattering like survivors at the end of a slasher movie. All except Beth and Brandon, who lingered just long enough to say nothing while meaning everything.
As they walked in opposite directions, neither looked back.
But both were counting steps.