It was a strange kind of normal that settled over Brentford.
Sophia’s shadow still clung to the corners of Helena’s thoughts, and Greg hadn’t stopped searching. But the rest of the school moved on — whispering, watching, pretending nothing was wrong.
Even the teachers.
“Don’t let the madness distract you,” Mrs. Winston had said, laying out a thick pile of test papers the week before. “English Literature is still 40% of your final grade.”
So they took the test.
Helena remembered staring down at the essay prompt: “Monsters wear familiar faces. Discuss.”
She’d written like her life depended on it. Because maybe, in a way, it did.
Now, a week later, the results were out.
Students gathered in the common room where a stack of white envelopes had been sorted by class rep — and unfortunately for Class B, that was Bianca.
With perfect nails and her usual smug expression, Bianca clicked across the room in heels far too high for a Monday morning.
She handed out the results one by one, smiling sweetly — until she reached Helena’s.
Bianca paused.
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the top of Helena’s score sheet.
92/100.
Highest in the class.
Bianca’s jaw tightened. Without another word, she crumpled the paper in her fist and casually slid it into the trash can behind her.
Then she moved on.
Helena waited patiently. One by one, students opened their envelopes, celebrating, groaning, or comparing answers. But her hands were still empty.
She frowned and stood, walking toward Bianca at the front desk.
“Hey,” she said cautiously. “I think you forgot mine. Helena James?”
Bianca didn’t even look up. “I didn’t forget it.”
“Then where—?”
“You can take it up with Mrs. Winston,” Bianca said coolly, already moving toward the hallway. “Maybe she decided you don’t deserve a score.”
Helena blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bianca only smiled. “You’ll figure it out.”
Helena stood there for a beat — something inside her tightening. This wasn’t just about grades. This was warfare, and Bianca was still playing dirty.
She turned and headed toward the English department, heart thudding.
Meanwhile — The Library Archives
Greg leaned over a table buried in old newsletters, digital printouts, and faded student rosters. Theo sat across from him, headphones around his neck, tapping at a laptop.
“You’re sure Sophia’s adoption records are sealed?” Greg asked.
Theo nodded. “Triple-encrypted and buried behind a school firewall I’m still trying to crack.”
Greg rubbed his jaw. “So either someone powerful didn’t want her traced, or she was never supposed to be at Brentford at all.”
Theo looked up. “And Helena scoring that high on Winston’s test? That’s not just smart. That’s identical to Sophia’s test score three years ago. Down to the same quote in the same essay.”
Greg’s brows furrowed. “You think someone’s testing her?”
“I think,” Theo said, “she’s being watched more closely than we thought.”
Back in Mrs. Winston’s Office
Helena stood awkwardly at the doorway, her fingers tapping against the strap of her backpack.
Mrs. Winston glanced up. “Yes?”
“Bianca told me to come. I didn’t get my English test result.”
Mrs. Winston tilted her head. “That’s odd. You had one of the top scores. I handed it to Bianca myself this morning.”
Helena’s stomach dropped.
So she hadn’t imagined it.
Winston leaned into a drawer and handed Helena a fresh printout. Helena took it with trembling hands and stared at the score.
92/100.
Same number. Same essay title.
Same voice inside her whispering: They’re testing you, Helena. Just like they did to her.
As she stepped out into the hall, her phone buzzed.
Greg: Meet me at the archives. Found something. Bring the essay.
Her fingers tightened on the paper.
Whatever this was… it wasn’t over.
Cliffhanger Ending
Later that afternoon, Bianca sat in the girls' washroom, phone in hand. On her screen was a grainy image of Helena’s test paper — the one she’d secretly snapped before tossing it in the trash.
She zoomed in on the handwriting.
Next to her, her second phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Keep watching. She’s not who she says she is.
Bianca typed a single word back:
“Understood.”
Then deleted the message.
Helena folded the paper and tucked it into her notebook, still shaken by the score, by the eerie way everything seemed to repeat itself.
The hallway buzzed with students — some talking about the test, others whispering about her again. She felt the stares, the sideways glances. It was becoming a pattern. No matter how quiet she tried to be, the storm kept finding her.
By the time she reached the library archives, her heartbeat had steadied, but the questions still swirled.
Greg was waiting at the far end of the dusty back room, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looked up the moment she stepped in.
“You came.”
“You said you found something.”
He held up a thin, yellowed folder. “Theo traced Sophia’s essay back through Brentford’s digital system. It was flagged for ‘academic excellence’ three years ago, then... mysteriously removed.”
Helena frowned. “Removed?”
“Wiped. But he found a backup. Printed. In the archives.”
He handed her the paper carefully, as if it might crumble.
Helena’s eyes moved over the title:
"Monsters Wear Familiar Faces."
By Sophia Makinde.
Her breath caught.
The exact same prompt she’d written on.
And the opening line? Word for word — the same as hers.
"Sometimes, monsters don’t come from fairy tales. Sometimes, they wear uniforms and walk the same halls you do."
Helena looked up, shaken. “Greg, I didn’t copy her.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said gently. “That’s the thing. You wrote this. In your own words. But she wrote it too. Three years ago. Exactly the same.”
Her head spun. “What does that mean?”
Greg leaned closer. “It means whoever set that question knew what you’d write. They wanted to see if you'd write it again.”
“Again?”
He nodded slowly. “Helena… what if you and Sophia are connected in more ways than just looks?”
Outside the Library
Bianca stood just beyond the archway, hidden behind a column. She wasn’t alone.
A man in a maintenance uniform stood beside her, arms crossed, face shadowed under his cap.
“You sure you want to keep going?” he asked in a low voice. “This girl’s not like the others.”
Bianca narrowed her eyes. “She’s worse. And I’m not letting her become some second-coming of Sophia. Not after what she did to him.”
“Then what’s the next move?”
Bianca smiled faintly. “We let her win this round. Let her feel safe. Then we remind her who really runs Brentford.”
Back in the Library
Helena sat beside Greg, essay in one hand, her own in the other.
“Do you believe in fate?” she asked suddenly.
Greg looked at her.
“I believe in patterns,” he said. “And I believe people repeat them until someone breaks the cycle.”
Helena folded both papers together. “Then maybe it’s time to break it.”
As they packed up, Helena reached into her bag to return her notebook—and her fingers brushed something unfamiliar.
A slip of paper.
Folded neatly, like it had been placed there carefully.
She opened it slowly, heart already hammering.
In sharp black ink, it read:
“Sophia was warned too.”
Her fingers trembled.
Greg looked over her shoulder.
And for the first time that day—he looked genuinely afraid.
