The point of view: Jessica Jones Vilma
Rumors spread faster than fear within the school; ever since Sophia Wilson died, no one trusted anyone.
The hallways were filled with suspicious glances.
The lights stayed on even after classes ended.
And every night, anonymous messages would appear on the school’s social media:
—The next victim has been chosen.
By morning, everyone was talking about one person:
Isabella Taylor.
—She’s crazy,— a student whispered.
—They say she talks to herself in the garden.
—They also say she saw the killer.
I didn’t speak; I just listened, wearing my headphones.
There was no music, just the ambient noise—and then I saw her: Isabella Taylor.
Messy hair, red-rimmed eyes; she hadn’t slept in days.
David Moore tried to approach her.
—Isabella, you need to rest.
—DON’T TOUCH ME!— she screamed.
The whole hallway fell silent.
And then I saw it—her hands were cut, trembling as if she were fighting something… or fighting herself.
Later, out back, I found her sitting alone under the trees, the wind gently rustling the leaves.
—Everyone thinks I’m crazy,— she whispered.
I sat down beside her.
—I don’t think so.—
A sad laugh.
—Of course.
Everyone does.—
Then I saw it.
Behind her.
A small knife.
—Why are you holding that?— I asked.
Tears began to fall.
“Because I can’t take it anymore…” My body went rigid.
Isabella looked straight at me and said,
“I’m going to kill myself… and everyone will say it’s my fault.”
“Don’t do that.”
Her breathing became ragged.
“They’re following me… voices… messages… footsteps…” She suddenly looked up.
Towards the main building.
“HE’S HERE!”
Amidst the chaos, I looked up and saw a figure watching from a second-floor window—dark, motionless.
Isabella panicked.
“Don’t let him touch me! Don’t let him kill me!”
And she ran toward the outdoor staircase.
“ISABELLA!” I shouted.
The rain began to pour.
The roof.
Isabella climbed without stopping.
I followed her.
The metal staircase shook in the storm.
Then I heard voices behind me.
Ressell.
“What’s happening?”
“Isabella’s up there!”
We climbed.
Fast.
The school roof.
The wind howled.
The rain fell like knives.
Isabella was at the edge.
Trembling.
Holding a knife.
“Just living isn’t enough…” I took a step toward her.
“Then help me understand.” The silence was heavy.
And then, I spoke without really thinking.
—I’m thinking of a night in Lisbon…
Where everything seemed perfect until a gunshot changed everything—a masquerade ball, secrets, betrayal.— My tears betrayed me.
—Who really killed Loki?— Isabella looked at me.
For the first time… she stopped looking merely mad and began to look truly broken; then, the rooftop doors burst open.
Luis
Professors, chaos trailing behind them, and then… she appeared—a blonde woman, dark sunglasses, a cold stare.
My body froze.
I recognized her.
Susana Fernández Medina.
Now…
Sara Medina.
The sole survivor of Lisbon.
She slowly approached.
—You shouldn’t be alone,— she said.
—You… you were in Lisbon…— Sara lowered her gaze.
It was as if the memory was still burning her.
Flashback – Lisbon Hospital
Machines, beeping, white light; Susana opened her eyes—bandaged, trembling.
She remembered:
Masks, a gunshot, Loki falling.
—Where am I…?—
—You survived,— a nurse said.
But she didn’t smile, because she knew the truth:
She hadn’t truly survived.
They had simply let her live.
Back in the present, Sara stared at me.
—Listen to me,— she whispered.
—They know who you are.—
My body went rigid; Ressell stepped forward.
—Who?— Sara looked up at the building.
At the dark window.
—The Masquerade Ball didn’t end.—
Silence.
And for the first time…
I feel like the game hasn’t even started yet.
Point of view: Jessica Jones Vilma
It’s Jeremiah Jones’s birthday this week.
The house is busier than usual: bright lights, soft music.
And there are so many smiles that don’t look real.
From the terrace, I watch the garden.
I hold a cold drink, pretending everything is normal.
But nothing is.
Jeremiah is a criminal investigator and an old friend of Christian Reyes.
That’s why this gathering isn’t just a celebration.
It’s a surveillance operation disguised as a family get-together.
Among the guests are Linda Villanova, Josefina Chávez (known as María Del Vera), and Luisana with her children.
Everyone gathered under the same roof, hiding things; I lean against the railing, exhausted by all the conversation and forced smiles.
Until I see him.
Ressell Vargas Monteverde.
He soon appears near the main table, watching everyone as always: analyzing, calculating; he never rests.
I sigh.
“Of course… he had to come,” I whisper.
Inside the house…
Photographs, a file… the usual topic:
Sophia Wilson.
I know what they refuse to say out loud:
This isn’t over yet.
Ressell approaches the table where the documents are; his expression changes when he sees the file.
“He’s still investigating the same case…” I say from a distance.
He isn’t surprised.
“And you’re still involved in it.”
Silence.
I walk over slowly.
“I’m not involved.” “Everyone close to the case is involved,” he replied.
Memories flooded my mind; for a split second, the world went silent, and I thought of Lisbon, of Loki, and the sound of a gunshot.
Wearing a red mask.
Ressell opened the files.
“Sophia Wilson disappeared before she was officially declared dead,” he said.
“It wasn’t a direct attack.”
“Then what was it?”
He looked up.
“A warning.” I felt a shiver run through me, right there in the garden.
Music was still playing inside.
But out here, everything was different: colder, more real.
Ressell set the file down on the table.
“William Miller was the last person to see her alive.”
“Her boyfriend,” I said.
He nodded.
“And he was also the prime suspect: emotionally unstable.”
I didn’t answer because I knew what was coming next—the connections Ressell was about to lay out.
“Sophia was the student council secretary.”
“She had access to information.”
“And she knew a lot.”
My mind began to piece it all together.
William.
Sophia.
The council, the threats, and the symbol.
“It didn’t start with her,” I said quietly.
Ressell looked at me.
“No.”
“It started long before that.”
Silence.
The noise of the party seemed distant, as if it no longer belonged to this moment.
“Jeremiah trusts you,” I said.
“But you don’t,” he replied.
I smiled faintly.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
His look shifted at that.
A revelation.
“I found something in Sophia’s file.”
I stepped closer.
“The week before she died… someone threatened her.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“It wasn’t clear. But the last person she spoke to…”
Silence.
“Was William Miller.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
Through the window, I saw Jeremiah laughing with Linda and Josefina—as if everything were normal, as if nothing were wrong—but nothing was normal.
Ressell was watching me.
“You aren’t here by accident, Jessica.”
“No one is here by accident,” I replied.
And for the first time… it didn’t sound like a statement; it sounded like a warning.