A little past one in the morning, and most of Ashford's buildings are dark. The East Wing of the Old Library should be one of them—past midnight the whole place auto-locks, and most students don't even have clearance to enter.

You're alone on the second floor, near the side of the mezzanine stacks. The stone walls block out everything from outside; not even wind cuts through. The vaulted ceiling disappears into darkness overhead, and only a few reading lamps left on throw small pools of warm yellow light across the tables. The entire building is quiet enough that you can hear your own heartbeat.

—Then, a mess of voices spills in from the ground floor.

“—Flynn, don't you fucking play dumb with me.”

“I'm not! I told you, I know a guy, he showed me this door—”

“A guy. Sure. Always a guy.”

“Yo, holy shit—is this actually marble?”

“Flynn. Take your hand off me. Now.”

Four voices, four different volumes, ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling. Footsteps, laughter, cursing, the dull thud of someone slamming something down on a table—every sound amplifies, bounces, and tangles together against the stone.

Within seconds, they've made their way up to the second floor.

The one in front is tall and built, short black hair, a small mole at the corner of his mouth, blue eyes that rake over you the second he spots you—like he's calculating exactly what kind of problem you are. Zane. Behind him, someone even taller—deep blue hair, grey eyes, a full sleeve down his left arm, grinning wide with alcohol still clinging to him. Flynn. Further back, another one, hair deep brown with a reddish tint, the edge of a tattoo visible where his collar sits; he doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on you. Rowan. And the last one—medium-length dark chestnut hair, a colorful tattoo down his right arm, wearing a coat that screams obscenely expensive—Sebastian—sweeps a glance around the space and sighs like the entire building has personally offended him.

“…Oh.” The one with deep blue hair—Flynn—stops walking, eyebrow lifting, grin spreading wider. “We've got company.”

“Who?” The black-haired one—Zane—follows his line of sight, brow already furrowing. “You know them?”

“Never seen them.” Flynn shrugs, ambling a few steps closer, tilting his head to look at you. “Hey. You. What're you doing here?”

The one with dark chestnut hair—Sebastian—finally drops whatever pretense of composure he still had and lets out a deeply irritated exhale through his teeth. “Flynn. I do not want to meet new people. I want to leave. I want to leave right now.”

“Then why'd you climb through the window?” Zane snaps back without even turning his head.

“Because someone”—Sebastian shoots a look at Flynn—“promised me this place would be 'cool,' and I was not sober enough at the time to refuse.”

“It is cool!” Flynn throws his arms out, gesturing grandly at the stained glass windows around them. “Look at this place! You uncultured—”

“Flynn. Shut up.” The red-brown-haired one—Rowan—speaks for the first time. Low voice, two words, but Flynn actually pauses for half a second.

Rowan's eyes return to you. He doesn't move closer. He just stands at the top of the stairs, watching you quietly for a beat, and then: “You here alone?”

The question doesn't get to land—

From the ground floor comes a muffled click. Like something large and mechanical locking into place. Then another, and another, from different directions around the building, rippling through the walls one after the next. The automatic lockdown has engaged. Every electronic lock seals after midnight—and it's well past midnight now.

All four of them freeze at the same time.

“…Wait.” Flynn's grin stiffens on his face.

Zane is already turning, striding toward the stairs, taking them two at a time on the way down. The others follow. From below, you can hear him yanking hard on the main door—once, twice, and on the third attempt he curses.

“Locked.” His voice carries back up, flat. A little too flat.

“What do you mean locked?” Sebastian's voice follows right after. “What do you mean, locked—”

“I said. Locked.”

A few seconds of silence. Then a dry laugh from Flynn, like he's still hoping to play this off as a joke. “…Okay, so, side door?”

“Doesn't work.” Rowan's voice. He's already tried a different exit on the other side of the ground floor. “All of them are locked.”

Sebastian's cursing rolls up from below in a long, articulate string, every word aimed with the precision of someone who's had practice. Flynn is trying to cut in. Zane is telling Flynn to shut the fuck up. Rowan is moving around somewhere quieter, probably checking the next exit.

Then Flynn's footsteps come back up the stairs. He's walking with his phone out, frowning at the screen, raising it higher, turning toward the windows, dropping it lower, the grin slowly draining out of his face.

“…Fuck.”

He looks up at you. For the first time there's something actually serious in his expression.

“Hey. Your phone—you got any signal?”