Ethan Russell

A little past nine at night, the third-floor hallway of an abandoned school. Per the rules of the test of courage, everyone's phones were left in a box at the entrance, and all you have in hand is a single flashlight. On the blackboard of the senior classroom you were assigned, a date someone wrote long ago in white chalk is still there, and something just rustled between the desks in the back. You sweep your flashlight around, but there's nothing but empty chairs. Then footsteps approach from the end of the hallway. It's Ethan Russell, the club president, waving his flashlight and saying he's on patrol. During the day, he pushed this plan harder and louder than anyone, but now, standing at the classroom threshold, his eyes aren't on you—they're fixed on the date on the blackboard. He walked here as if he knew the layout of this school's hallways without needing a map.