Page 53 of Bend & Break
One post is a graphic that looks like a promo for something, but says:JONAH’S PLACE — FRIDAY — COSTUMES OPTIONAL BUT ENCOURAGED.
Of course, he’s throwing a party, which is exactly the kind of thing I was banking on. And the fact that I get to wear a mask has my cock screaming against my sweats regardless of our reason for going.
A scrape of the chair leg against the floor pulls me back to the present, and my spine goes rigid. The murmur of the lecture, the click of keyboards around me—it all filters in at once, reminding me I’m not hunched over my laptop in my flat, but smack in the middle of a lecture hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright. The air smells faintly of burnt coffee from someone’s travel mug a few seats over. I adjust in my seat, suddenly aware of everymovement, every glance that might catch what I’m doing on my screen.
Or what’s going on in my pants.
Somewhere between scrolling past Jonah’s third tagged photo of him likely giving himself alcohol poisoning and wondering how many selfies one person could reasonably post in a week, it hits me.
Miles.
I’ve been so wrapped up in this, worrying about getting Blake out of the woods, that I haven’t bothered to check the victim’s own social media—something I should’ve done from the jump.
My internal detective deserves a disciplinary hearing for this level of incompetence.
I search his name and pull up his profile. The feed’s average man bro: an aggressive mix of gym thirst traps, candid shots of him “thinking” over coffee, and way too many story highlights of him posing shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror. He postedconstantly.
The thing that really catches my eye is a photo tagged at Jonah’s loft. Miles is slouched on the couch, red Solo cup in hand, a projector screen glowing behind him. His expression is half-bored, half-amused, like he’s trying to act chill but isn’t quite pulling it off.
I frown.
This is the right direction. I can feel it in my bones.
I tap the post, scanning for tags. Jonah’s there, obviously. A couple of other Briarwood players, too.
I click.
His profile’s a jumble of party shots and moody attempts at artsy film grain, but buried between them is one that makes me pause.
It’s a short clip from Jonah’s loft—Miles filming a Briarwood guy clowning around in one of those same masks from thevideo. The lighting’s terrible, but the shape of it is too distinct to mistake.
My stomach tightens.
I scroll a little further, watching another of Miles’ clips from the loft. Different night, same crowd. He pans across a table stacked with props—masks, a cape tossed carelessly over a chair, empty bottles scattered between them. It looks like a good time, until the caption drags it under:It’s all fun until it isn’t.
The precision in his wording nags at me. It doesn’t read like a throwaway party line. It’s pointed, like he was trying to say something without actually saying it.
I tell myself that maybe I’m reading too much into it. Seeing ghosts in every shadow, turning every cryptic caption into some kind of hidden warning. It could be nothing, but my gut’s already filing it under worth checking out, and I’ve learned not to ignore that.
I snap my laptop shut, already pulling out my phone. If I’m sitting through the rest of this class trying not to spiral, I’m going to need something else to occupy my brain.
Mads
Found your boy.
Blake
Whoever he is, he’s not “my” boy.
Mads
Ok well your potentially murder-adjacent boy then.
He’s having a party this weekend.
Blake
How do you even KNOW that.
