Lia froze. Red freckled Faith’s hands and face. Terror tangled around Lia’s limbs, holding her in place, and Faith let out a disgusted sigh. She pulled a pile of paper towels toward herself. Devon lay still and silent.

The knife was fake. The knife was fake. The knife was fake.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Faith muttered, wiping off her hands and walking to the other side of the bench. She pulled the knife from Devon with a wet squelch. “I hate that.”

The blood was so bright that Lia’s eyes burned.

“Okay, okay.” Faith held out a hand to Lia. “Are you going to come here, or are you going to fight me?”

Lia pulled the scissors from her sleeve. Faith sighed and dove at her. The knife rammed into Lia’s shoulder, pain blooming beneath it. Lia stumbled back, and Faith went with her. She ripped the knife up and stabbed Lia again. It hurt.

But not much.

Lia sliced the open scissors across her arm. Faith shrieked and fell back.

“How?” Faith asked, and she looked at the knife. A muscle in her jaw twitched.

She pressed the blade into her hand, and it sunk into the hilt.

“You—”

Lia kicked her in the stomach and scrambled back. Faith crumbled, clutching her middle. The prop knife clattered to the floor. Blood leaked from the hilt.

“Me.” Lia raised one hand slowly and pointed to Devon’s phone planted high above eye level and staring down at all of them from the shelf. “Could you repeat it for the stream viewers in case someone joined after you confessed?”

Faith froze.

“Stream?” she whispered.

Hopefully a few were watching. They had to be. Everyone checked their phones after being cooped up in school all day.

“You’re bluffing,” Faith said, but whatever else she was going to say was lost beneath the sound of footsteps thundering up the steps to the stage.

Lia scrambled back and held up her scissors. Faith backed away, looking at Devon. He was still and bloody on the floor. Lia touched his face. He cracked open one eye and winked. The door flew open.

Faith wailed. A roar of voices spilled into the room. The door flew open behind them, and Lia didn’t even look. Devon sat up slowly, groaning.

“What?” Lia asked. “How are—”

Devon only raised one bloody finger to Lia’s lips. It tasted like corn syrup, glue, and too much food dye.

Lia gripped his shirt. “I thought you were dead.” Lia wiped her face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Devon hugged her close. “You got her to villain monologue. I couldn’t interrupt that.”

“I thought the knife failed,” Lia said, fingers skimming where it had struck.

“Ow,” he mumbled against her cheek. “Okay, wait, no. I’m not dead but ow. It just nicked me. There was still a squib in the hilt.”