THE FRACTURE

THE FRACTURE
JODY POV

The prescription bottle rattles against my palm like bones in a grave. Sertraline 50mg—take as needed for anxiety. The label blurs as I squint at it in the harsh fluorescent light of Sterling Hall's communal bathroom. When did my hands start shaking like this? When did I get so thin that my ribs show through my nightshirt?

I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. The girl staring back has hollow cheeks and eyes that look like broken glass. This isn't who I was three months ago. Three months ago, I was Jody Hopkins from rural Ohio, the girl who got a full ride to Ashford because she could balance chemical equations in her sleep.

Now I don't know who I am.

The bottle slips from my trembling fingers, pills scattering across the grimy tiles like tiny white lies. I drop to my knees, scrambling to collect them before someone sees. Before Alex sees. He's been so worried about my "episodes" lately—the panic attacks in organic chemistry, the way I can't remember entire conversations we've had.

"Just stress," Dr. Powell had said, his voice smooth as silk when he handed me the prescription two weeks ago. "Perfectly normal for someone adjusting to our methods."

Our methods. The phrase makes my stomach clench.

I stuff the pills back into the bottle and return to my room. Skylar's bed sits across from mine, sheets still rumpled from three days ago. Three days since our fight about the research project. Three days since she stormed out, throwing accusations about Alex and The Circle like grenades.

Three days since I've seen my best friend.

The thought hits me like cold water. Skylar hasn't returned. Not for her Tuesday night study group. Not for her favorite pasta night in the dining hall. Not for the computer science presentation worth thirty percent of her grade.

I grab my phone with shaking fingers. Our text thread shows my last message: Sky, please come back. We can talk about this.

Delivered but never read.

My chest tightens. Skylar lives on her phone. She's never gone three hours without checking messages, let alone three days. I scroll through our previous conversations, looking for clues. The last real exchange was her asking about the psychological profiles I've been compiling for Dr. Powell.

"Those aren't research questionnaires, Jody. Those are dossiers. Like the kind predators use to select victims."

"You're being paranoid. Dr. Powell is helping me get into graduate programs."

"Wake up! Alex isn't some prince charming who fell for the poor scholarship girl. This whole thing stinks."

I'd hung up on her. Called her jealous and bitter. Accused her of being unable to handle my success.

Now her words echo in my empty room like a prophecy.

I walk to her desk, still cluttered with computer science textbooks and empty Red Bull cans. Her laptop is gone—she always takes it everywhere—but Skylar is paranoid about backups. She keeps files in places she thinks no one will look.

I feel along the underside of her desk drawer, fingers searching until they find the small flash drive taped to the wood. My hands are steadier now, focused by fear rather than shaken by it.

The drive contains dozens of files. Screenshots of financial documents. Invoices for surveillance equipment. Bank transfers to something called "Behavioral Modification Research LLC."

And a spreadsheet titled "Student Acquisitions 2019-2024."

The names blur together at first: Marcus Chen, Chemistry, Disappeared March 2022. Classified: Behavioral Adjustment Complete. Location: Facility 7.

Elena Rodriguez, Literature, Missing November 2023. Status: Resistant to Programming. Terminated.

James Morrison, Engineering, Gone February 2024. Adjustment Successful. Reassigned to External Operations.

My fingers scroll down the endless list of names. Students I remember from campus. Bright kids who were there one day and gone the next, their disappearances explained away with stories of family emergencies and mental health leaves.

I reach the bottom of the list and my blood freezes.

Skylar Watson, Computer Science, Acquired December 14th, 2024. Initial Resistance High. Currently Undergoing Level 3 Conditioning.

December 14th. Three days ago.

I'm going to be sick. The laptop screen swims as bile rises in my throat. Skylar didn't storm out after our fight. She was taken.

My phone buzzes. A text from Alex: Missing you. Circle meeting tomorrow at midnight. Important announcement about your future.

The words that should make my heart flutter now feel like ice in my veins. I scroll to the very bottom of Skylar's file and find one more document: "Priority Targets - Final Phase."

My name sits at the top of the list.

Jody Hopkins, Chemistry, Termination Scheduled: December 21st, 2024.

One week from today.

The laptop crashes to the floor as I stumble backward. The room spins around me, Skylar's empty bed blurring into the gray walls. Everything Dr. Powell said about my potential, every gentle smile, every "helpful" prescription—it was all leading to this moment.

I wasn't being recruited into The Circle. I was being prepared for elimination.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Alex: You've been so distant lately. Can't wait to see you tomorrow night. Wear the blue dress I bought you. You look beautiful in blue.

The dress hangs in my closet like a noose. Silk the color of midnight, expensive enough to feed my family for a month. Alex insisted on buying it after I joined The Circle, said I needed to look the part at their events. I'd felt like Cinderella putting it on.

Now I realize I'm not Cinderella. I'm the mouse the cat plays with before going in for the kill.

I need to run. Pack everything and disappear tonight, catch the first bus back to Ohio. But Skylar's face flashes in my mind—her stubborn smile when she'd figured out a particularly difficult coding problem, the way she'd stayed up all night helping me study for organic chemistry exams.

She tried to save me, and I hung up on her. Now she's trapped in some facility, undergoing "Level 3 Conditioning" because of my stupidity.

The bathroom door creaks open down the hall. Heavy footsteps echo against the linoleum—too heavy to be any of the girls on this floor. My breath catches as I recognize the measured gait.

Alex's voice carries through the thin walls, warm and familiar as he talks to someone on his phone: "She's becoming suspicious. No, I can handle it. Powell wants her compliant by tomorrow night? Consider it done."

A pause. Then a laugh that doesn't sound like the Alex I thought I knew.

"Trust me, she'll take the pills. She always does what she's told when I ask nicely."

The footsteps stop outside my door.