Point of view: Jessica Jones Vilma
Carlos García’s death changed everything—he was yet another victim, another warning.
And the worst part was that the killer was still one step ahead of us.
That afternoon, we gathered in an empty room near the faculty office.
For the first time, our research group had an official name:
The Survivor Daily Crime.
The members were:
Ressell Vargas Monteverde
Luis Vargas Morales
Jessica Jones Vilma
Gabriel Flores
Haruki Tanaka
Isabella Taylor
María López
Ji-eun Park
We all shared a single goal: to discover who was behind the murders.
Photographs from the Carlos García case were laid out on the table; Ressell scrutinized every detail while Haruki analyzed the digital data.
I put on my blue gloves and examined the crime scene images again; the body had been found in classroom B-12.
It was near the teacher’s desk, but something seemed out of place.
“Carlos had an argument with someone before he died,” I said.
Luis looked up.
“How do you know that?”
I pointed to an enlarged photograph.
“Look at this.”
A shoeprint was visible beside a chair, and nearby were traces of shimmering makeup.
“That belongs to a woman,” I concluded.
Jeremia Jones walked out of the room carrying a small evidence bag.
“And I found something else.”
Inside was a micro-camera.
“It was hidden under Carlos’s desk.” Haruki connected the device to a laptop and the recording began to play; we all fell silent.
Emily Benavides.
“What are you doing here?” Carlos asked.
“You don’t understand what’s happening,” Emily replied.
The recording suddenly ended.
“This doesn’t prove she’s the killer,” Ressell said.
“But it proves she’s hiding something,” I replied.
The Interview
The next day, Jeremiah questioned several students from Class 12-B.
Many seemed nervous—extremely nervous.
When it was Emily Benavides’s turn, she avoided looking the investigators in the eye.
“Do you know Carlos?” Jeremiah asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you argue before he died?”
Emily took a few seconds before answering.
“Yes.”
Silence filled the room.
“Why?”
Emily lowered her gaze.
“Because Carlos received an invitation.”
Ressell and I exchanged glances.
“What kind of invitation?”
Emily swallowed hard.
“An invitation to the Secret Masquerade Ball.”
My heart skipped a beat—another masquerade ball, another new clue.
After the interrogation, we searched through Carlos’s belongings again.
Inside a box, we found something unexpected: a silver ring—a promise ring—with an inscription engraved on the inside.
“Forever under the same mask.”
Everything became clear; Carlos had obviously been in a secret relationship with someone.
And perhaps that person was connected to the organization.
That same afternoon, we decided to visit Emily’s house; Luis drove while Gabriel, Isabella, Ressell, and I reviewed the case details. This story is hosted at g.com.
Upon arrival, we noticed something strange: the house was empty—eerily empty.
The curtains were drawn, there were no lights or sounds, yet the front door was wide open.
“I don’t like this,” Luis whispered.
We cautiously entered a room and found elegant gold and silver garments—it looked like a wardrobe for parties—but that wasn’t the worst of it.
Under the bed, there was a metal box; inside, we found several masks and also…
…concealed weapons.
We were all stunned.
That night, when we returned home, Jeremiah was waiting for us; his expression was more serious than ever.
“Listen closely.”
We sat down immediately.
“The masquerade ball is a trap.”
My heart began to pound.
“What do you mean?”
Jeremiah took a deep breath.
“I think someone is planning an attack while the event is taking place.”
Ressell furrowed his brow.
“And what is the target?”
Jeremiah looked straight at me.
“Jessica.”
A heavy silence fell.
“My daughter is in danger.” No one spoke, for we all understood what this meant: the killer was no longer hiding; he had chosen his next victim—and that victim was me.
Meanwhile, at an undisclosed location…
A figure wearing a red mask was looking at several photographs.
Jessica.
Ressell.
Luis.
Sara.
Then, he picked up a golden invitation.
And wrote a single sentence:
«Let’s meet at the party.»