His Dark Reign

8. The second stone 1

By the end of the week, Westfield High had rearranged itself around Adam like a new axis. People whispered more than they used to, phones buzzed with screenshots and stories, and for every kid who smiled at him, another kept a wary distance. The balance had shifted—but Adam wanted a structure, not a rumor. He wanted foundations.

Malick’s patience had been a lesson: start small, make the world listen. Derek had been the first stone. The second had to be heavier, placed somewhere that would make the whole pile tremble.

Ethan Calder was the obvious choice.

Ethan didn’t have Sanchez’s smarm or stage-ready grin; he had a different kind of power—the kind that spreads like a rumor. He ran the school’s unofficial “highlight” feed, the account that posted videos and photos from parties and pranks. When Ethan gave someone attention, it stuck. When he deleted a post and replaced it with a mocking remix, you were finished. He’d posted the video of Adam slipping on mashed potatoes in the cafeteria; he’d tagged it, remixed it, built an entire punchline around Adam’s face.

Adam had watched Ethan from across the cafeteria that day and felt a cold focus settle over him. He’d thanked Derek for his small public defense, and Derek had become a warning. Ethan needed to be unmade in a way that taught everyone that the social machine could be broken.

---

Adam found Ethan where Ethan always was—by the televisions, phone in hand, fingers flicking through clips like a pianist. A cluster of students orbited him, laughing on cue. Adam stepped into the orbit with the same slow confidence he’d worn all week.

Ethan looked up, curiosity first, then the satisfied curl of a kid who knows his power. “Well, if it isn’t the forest miracle,” he said. “You feeling okay? Not dead, huh?”

Adam smiled, precise and slight. “Alive. Better. I wanted to thank you.”

Ethan’s smirk widened. “For what? Letting you back into the spotlight?”

“For the exposure.” Adam’s voice was casual, almost flattered. “You put me on a loop. People watched. They laughed. They noticed me. That was… useful.” He tipped his head. “But you know what would be more interesting? A collaboration.”

Ethan blinked. “Collab? With you? Dude, I don’t… you sure?”

“Yeah.” Adam’s eyes were steady. “You help me with something—small—and I’ll give you material. Exclusive. You’ll be the first to have it. Big engagement. People will eat it up.”

Ethan licked his lip. The gears in his head turned—visibility, hits, clout. The orbiting students leaned in. “What do you need?”

Adam named something almost trivial: a minute of footage of Ethan alone in the old auditorium after hours—footage Ethan could turn into a creepy teaser, something that would get reposted. A dare. An atmosphere piece. Ethan’s eyes shone. “I can do that tonight,” he said before thinking. “I’ll get it. Exclusive.”

Adam’s smile was a stone dropping into dark water. “Perfect.”

---

That night the school smelled of dust and late autumn. The auditorium was a cavern of upholstered seats and stale popcorn ghosts. Ethan moved through the aisles like a prowler, phone in hand, already narrating to himself in the practiced voice of someone used to an audience.

He didn’t notice Adam slip out of the wings until Adam’s shadow fell across the stage light, then across Ethan’s shoulders. The sudden presence snared Ethan’s attention.

“You brought the right gear?” Adam asked.

Ethan, surprised and flattered that Adam had followed, held up his tripod and grinned. “Of course. This is gold—seriously. This will get me followers.”

Adam stepped closer, let the silence gather. In that hush, the dust motes floated like frozen stars. He watched Ethan’s face for any sign of caution. There wasn’t any. Ethan craved content more than safety.

“You ever think about what you do?” Adam asked quietly.

Ethan scoffed. “What, like—I post videos?” He shrugged. “It’s entertainment. People laugh. People move on. It’s not that deep.”

“You make sport of people’s worst moments,” Adam said. “You make them permanent.”

Ethan waved it away. “It’s the internet, man. Nobody cares that long. You should be better at letting go.”

Adam’s smile lost its warmth. “I used to think so too. But some things don’t go away. Some things get built on, brick by brick.”

Ethan laughed, but it came out thin. “What are you on about, Adam? You’re getting poetic now.”

That laugh was the friction point. Malick’s whisper threaded through Adam’s thoughts like a needle.

Now.

Break him where he stands.

Make the platform he lives on unstable.