Page 126 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

This isn't just about current threats or immediate danger.

This is about something that's been building for years.

Something that's claimed countless victims while maintaining perfect deniability.

Something that might already be working its way through our ranks, marking targets with carefully engineered poisons designed specifically for each victim.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a clock starts ticking.

Three to four years between waves of illness.

How long has it been since the last one?

How much time do we have before whatever's being tested now reaches its full potential?

The makeup brush moves across my skin with practiced precision, but all I can think about is how many others havesat in chairs like this over the years. How many other students at Leighton have felt the first symptoms of whatever carefully designed illness was meant for them?

How many survived to tell their stories?

And how many simply disappeared, becoming another statistic in a pattern stretching back further than any of us realized?

"The thing is," Sara continues, her voice carrying that particular weight of someone revealing long-held secrets, "it wasn't just my husband. His father and grandfather both experienced similar illnesses during their time at Leighton. But they stayed."

"Why would anyone stay after something like that?" Jessica whispers, genuine confusion in her tone.

Sara's movements become more deliberate as she adds finishing touches to my makeup. "Back then, leaving wasn't really an option. Your reputation - your family's reputation - it was everything. Dropping out was seen as a sign of weakness, of failure. The social consequences were... severe."

"But that was then," Mark points out quietly. "Things are different now. People have more choices."

"Do they though?" Sara challenges softly. "Sure, there's social media and this illusion of freedom to choose your own path. But look around - especially in places like Leighton. Image is still everything. The pressure to maintain perfect facades, to meet impossible expectations..."

"It's just packaged differently now," Jessica finishes, understanding dawning in her expression.

Their eyes drift to me simultaneously, and I catch their reflection in the mirror. Without missing a beat, I look up and flash them my most carefully crafted smile - the one that's graced magazine covers and billboard campaigns. The one that reveals nothing while suggesting everything.

They return to their tasks immediately, pretending to be absorbed in minor adjustments while I go back to scrolling through my phone. But I can feel the weight of their unspoken observations, their sudden awareness that I might represent exactly what they're discussing - another perfectly polished product of a system that demands flawless performance no matter the personal cost.

"Maybe the school is cursed," Jessica suggests, trying to lighten the mood though her voice still carries an edge of genuine concern.

Sara makes a noncommittal sound as she steps back to examine her work. "Curses might be easier to explain than whatever's really happening there."

Before anyone can respond, the photographer's voice cuts through the tension: "We're ready! First setup in sixty seconds!"

The makeup and hair team makes their final adjustments with professional efficiency, all conversation forgotten in the rush to perfect every detail. But as I stand, adjusting the precisely tailored jacket that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent, I can't shake the weight of everything I've just learned.

Three generations of carefully engineered illness.

Three generations of silence and survival and calculated sacrifice.

Three generations of whatever game The Blind One has been playing with Leighton's students.

How long has this really been going on?I wonder as I move toward the set.How deep do these patterns really go?

And more importantly - what happens when someone finally decides to break the cycle?

The lights flash, catching the black silk mask in ways that make it look almost alive. Like shadows given form. Like secrets trying to escape.

Like everything we're all trying so desperately to hide while knowing it might already be too late.

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