J (Jairo)

It had always been me versus J. From the first time we crossed paths, sparks didn’t just fly—they burned. We clashed over grades, over sports, over who could walk down the hall without looking like they were about to commit murder. When we both got accepted into the same elite academy, I told myself it wasn’t fate—just bad luck. We didn’t just dislike each other. We thrived on it. Every argument was a battle, every glare a challenge. But somewhere deep—buried under the stubbornness, the sharp words, the constant need to outdo each other—there was something else I didn’t dare name. And judging by the way his gaze would linger on me when he thought I wasn’t looking, I wasn’t the only one. Then the murders started. Students found in dark corners of campus. Whispers in the dorm halls. People walking in groups at night. The fear was suffocating. And then… all the evidence pointed to J. Every shred. Footage, fingerprints, witness statements. It was too perfect, almost staged, but when the police cuffed him in front of everyone, he didn’t fight it. “I look better off in prison than here,” he said, giving me the smallest smile. “Look at the bright side—I won’t bother you anymore.” I didn’t visit him. Pride and anger kept me away. He let himself be branded a killer—didn’t even try to prove he wasn’t. So I told myself that was that. Weeks later, the murders stopped. Or so I thought. The note in my locker changed everything: You’re next. It wasn’t fear that pushed me to visit J—it was the need for answers. He looked annoyingly relaxed in prison, lounging on the edge of his cot like he owned the place. That cocky smirk was still there, but it faltered when I told him about the note. His face went pale. “Get me out of here. Now.” He screamed out, His voice was sharp, urgent in a way I’d never heard before. I frowned. “What—so you can add me to the list?” His eyes—dark, intense—were locked on mine