Reset Protocol
722 Words
Rina stumbled backward, her body stiff with fear as the Headmistress advanced.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned, though her voice trembled.
The Headmistress paused, tilting her head ever so slightly, like a curious mother studying a misbehaving child.
“You always say that,” she said softly. “Every time. Like clockwork.”
Lala stepped in front of Rina, blocking the Headmistress’s path. “Touch her and I’ll scream loud enough to wake the whole school.”
“Dear child,” the Headmistress replied gently, “who do you think will come?”
Her smile never wavered—but her eyes darkened.
Suddenly, the stone wall behind them groaned. A pulse ran through it—like something alive waking up. Dust fell from the ceiling. The handprints began to glow one by one.
Rina’s breath hitched.
“Lala,” she whispered, “we have to move.”
But Lala didn’t move.
She was staring at her own hand—glowing faintly. A perfect match to one of the prints on the wall.
“No,” she murmured. “No, I never—”
“You’ve touched the wall before too,” the Headmistress said gently. “Did you really think you were helping her out of kindness?”
Lala’s face contorted. Confused. Hurt. Angry. “That’s not true.”
But doubt had already crept in.
“You were the bait this time,” the Headmistress continued, her voice soft as silk. “A memory implanted. A friend designed to guide her right back here. Like the others. Like all the others.”
Rina stared at Lala, her mind spinning. “She’s lying.”
“Are you sure?” the Headmistress asked. “You’ve known her for what, two days? Can you even remember your first conversation word for word? Can you recall how she smelled when you hugged her? Can you tell me her last name?”
Rina opened her mouth—then shut it.
Lala’s face was now as pale as hers.
“I... I don’t remember,” Rina whispered.
And that was the moment the Headmistress moved.
Quick as a breath, she lunged forward. Her hand reached for Rina’s temple, glowing with soft, unnatural light.
But this time—Rina moved faster.
She ducked, grabbed a shard of broken wood from the crawlspace floor, and stabbed it into the Headmistress’s side.
A horrible c***k echoed through the space—not bone, not flesh. It sounded like glass breaking underwater.
The Headmistress screamed—a sound not quite human.
The wall behind them pulsed again, brighter now. The handprints shimmered violently.
“She’s connected to it,” Lala gasped. “The wall—she’s feeding it.”
Rina grabbed her arm. “Then help me break it.”
They turned toward the wall.
More memories came crashing down. Amelia. Fire. A tower collapsing. A screaming chant from students who weren’t alive anymore.
Rina placed both hands against her glowing print. “You took my name,” she whispered. “My past. But you don’t get to take my will.”
The wall responded—vibrating, humming, cracking.
The Headmistress screamed again. “Stop—Rina! If you break the link, everything you are—everything you were—it will flood back. And it will destroy you.”
Rina looked at her—blood on her face, glassy eyes flickering between ages and faces.
“Good,” she said.
With one final shove, she pushed.
The wall shattered inward—a silent explosion of dust, wind, and soundless light.
Darkness.
Then—
A hospital room.
Blinding light.
Rina shot upright in bed, gasping.
Machines beeped. A nurse rushed in. “She’s awake! She’s awake!”
People stormed the room—doctors, strangers, reporters.
“Rina Thorne,” someone said. “You’ve been in a coma since the fire at St. Celestine’s Academy. Do you remember anything?”
She blinked, mouth dry.
Her fingers trembled. A faint burn mark remained on her palm.
A handprint.
“I remember...” she said softly.
But she stopped.
Because in the reflection of the glass window across from her, someone stood just behind her.
Braided black hair. Pale skin.
Amelia.
And she whispered:
“You didn’t break it.
You only woke up.
It’s still hungry.”
- Writer
