Evelyn’s Corridor of Time

Chapter 6: The Evidence of Betrayal

The storage room was a festering cesspit, a suffocating dump shoved behind the auditorium where the school buried its shattered dreams and sweat-soaked nightmares. The air hit like a slap—rancid gym socks tangled with the sour stench of mold creeping up the peeling cinderblock walls. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, flickering like it was on life support, throwing jagged shadows across stacks of cardboard boxes so warped they looked like they’d been mauled and abandoned. Rusty shelves groaned under a mess of forgotten props—feather boas reeking of mothballs, a cracked plastic sword, a megaphone so trashed it hadn’t worked since bell-bottoms were cool. My sneakers squeaked on the sticky linoleum as I slipped in, heart hammering like a jackhammer on a rampage. My white blouse was a trainwreck—torn wide where that damn button once held court, flashing my black lace bra like a war cry, and my pencil skirt was shredded from the rooftop chaos, clinging to my thighs so tight every step was a middle finger to the world. My hair was a sweaty, knotted disaster plastered to my neck, and I looked like I’d just crawled out of a battlefield. Good. I was here to burn one down.

The pin in my pocket buzzed like a pissed-off wasp, begging me to rewind this garbage fire of a day and smash someone’s face into next week. I’d already used it twice—one rewind to dodge a hall monitor with a Napoleon complex, another to slip past a janitor who smelled like bleach and despair. Every time, it carved chunks out of me—Rusty’s bark, my scruffy little mutt, gone this morning like a ghosted memory. But screw the cost—I wasn’t backing off. Maya and Liam were about to choke on their own dirt, and I was the storm rolling in to shove it down their throats.

The tip came from that creepy unknown number—Storage room. 5 PM. You’ll see.—and I was early, crouched behind a stack of boxes that stank of wet dog and broken promises, phone clutched like a loaded gun. The door creaked open, and I peeked through a gap, breath catching like a fishhook in my chest. Maya strutted in like she was the empress of this trash kingdom, red crop top screaming “kneel,” ripped jeans so tight they might as well have been shrink-wrapped to her smug hips. Her black hair bounced like a villain’s power move in a glossy ad, all sleek and wicked. Liam slunk in behind her, black T-shirt stretched over that stupidly chiseled chest, smirk sharp enough to draw blood. They didn’t clock me—not yet—and I grinned, feral and unhinged, my blouse snagging on a box as I shifted, ripping wider with a shrrk that made my smile sharpen. Let ‘em see it all. I was done playing mouse.

Maya leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, nails tapping a rhythm like she was conducting my execution. “She’s done,” she sneered, voice dripping with so much smug I wanted to ram it back into her skull. “That speech video? Pure gold. The rooftop? Liam, you’re a freaking genius. She’s so desperate for you, it’s sad.”

Liam chuckled, a low, greasy sound that made my skin prickle, and slid up to her, hand staking claim on her waist like she was his damn trophy. “Told you, babe. She’s a lapdog—panting for a bone. That recorder got it all. She’s got some weirdo trick, and I’m gonna rip it out of her like a bad tooth.”

My blood ignited, a furnace roaring in my ears. Weirdo trick. The pin. My pin. Maya had sold me out—handed him my secret like it was spare change so they could twist it into their slimy little game. My fists clenched, nails digging bloody half-moons into my palms, and the pin’s hum turned into a shriek—rewind, rewind, smash their faces! But I held it, teeth grinding so hard I could’ve cracked steel. I wasn’t here to run—I was here to ruin them.

Maya’s smirk widened, and she pressed into him, curves grinding against his in a way that made my stomach lurch. “She thinks she’s hot s**t,” she purred, venom lacing every word. “Thinks she can outsmart us. God, what a joke. Once you’ve got her little magic act pinned, we’ll drag her out like the clown she is.”

“Game over, baby,” Liam murmured, lips brushing her ear, and she let out a shrill, witchy cackle that scraped my nerves raw. His hand slid lower, grabbing her ass, and she arched into him, her nails raking his back as their mouths crashed together—hard, sloppy, all teeth and ego. My gut twisted, but I grinned through it, wild and vicious, every second fueling the inferno inside me. They thought they’d trapped me? They were about to drown in their own arrogance.

Then it escalated—fast. Maya yanked at his shirt, peeling it up to expose that infuriatingly ripped torso, her fingers clawing at his belt with a hungry edge. “Here,” she hissed, voice thick with heat, shoving him against the shelf so hard it rattled. “Now.” Liam growled, a primal sound, and ripped her crop top up, hands groping her like a starving man at a buffet. Her jeans were halfway down her thighs, his pants unzipped, the air thick with their grunts and the clink of his belt hitting the floor. They were seconds from going full animal, a tangle of limbs and sweat and betrayal, right there in this filthy pit—and I’d had enough.

Scene break—sharp cut.

The world snapped like a rubber band stretched too far. I exploded from my hiding spot, a banshee unleashed, my phone blazing with the red dot of vengeance. “SURPRISE, SCUMBAGS!” I roared, voice a sonic boom that shattered the room’s grimy haze. Boxes toppled in a glorious avalanche—feathers flying, swords clattering, the megaphone smashing down with a clang—as I stormed forward, skirt flipping high, black lace panties flashing like a war banner. My blouse tore wider, a shredded cape streaming behind me, and I didn’t give a damn—I was a chaos deity, and this was my reckoning.

Maya shrieked, stumbling back, jeans tangled around her knees, her smug mask cracking into pure panic. “Evelyn, you little—” She lunged, claws out, but I sidestepped, my sneakers skidding with a squeal, and flipped her the bird with a cackle. Liam scrambled to yank his pants up, face twisted in fury, but I charged him, slamming my elbow into his gut. He doubled over, wheezing like a punctured tire, and I spun, grabbing the busted megaphone and hurling it at Maya’s head. She ducked, it smashed against the wall, and I laughed—loud, unhinged, refreshing as hell.

“Caught you with your pants down—literally!” I taunted, phone steady in my grip, recording every glorious second of their humiliation. “How’s it feel to star in my viral hit, huh?” Liam roared, lunging again, but I danced back, my skirt flapping, and kicked a box into his shins. He tripped, crashing into the shelves, props raining down like a slapstick apocalypse, and Maya’s scream was music—high-pitched, desperate, delicious.

I bolted for the door, their curses chasing me like a pack of rabid wolves. My head throbbed, the pin’s hum a dull ache, but I laughed through it—maniacal, triumphant, the sound bouncing off the lockers as I tore down the hall. Another memory slipped—Mom’s spaghetti, maybe?—but who cared? I had the video. I had them. t****k, Snapchat, the principal’s desk—I’d plaster this everywhere, make them choke on their own disgrace.

I skidded into an empty classroom, slamming the door and collapsing against it, chest heaving, grin splitting my face so wide it hurt. My phone buzzed—a t****k alert: “Evelyn just went full ninja! Bet on her, she’s a beast!” I replayed the clip—Liam’s wheeze, Maya’s shriek, their half-naked panic frozen in pixelated glory. I’d won. I’d freaking won.

But then another buzz—a text. Unknown number. “Dance is your stage, Evelyn. They’re reloading the cannons.”

My grin faltered, adrenaline spiking. The dance. Two weeks. They weren’t done—they were regrouping. My secret was leaking, seeping through the cracks, and someone was watching, pulling strings I couldn’t snap. The pin hummed, tempting me to rewind, to dig deeper, but I shoved it down, panting, victorious. Screw them. I’d turned their ambush into my spotlight.

I stood, brushing dust off my shredded skirt, bra flashing like a badge of honor. They wanted a war? I’d bring a goddamn apocalypse. Dance floor, here I come—Evelyn Parker, queen of chaos, ready to torch it all and strut through the ashes. Refreshingly badass.