Chapter 2

The hallway at four in the morning was bone-chillingly cold.

I huddled in the chair, watching Detective Rivera pace back and forth in the VIP room. Every movement felt like a judgment, every pause made my heart race faster.

"Why is he taking so long to examine everything?" I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, my nails digging deep into my palms. "Do they think I..."

No, that's impossible. I get scared just seeing blood in horror movies, how could I possibly kill someone?

Rivera suddenly stopped at the doorframe, using his flashlight to carefully examine the lock. He frowned, crouched down to inspect the gap under the door, his fingers searching for traces on the door frame.

"The lock is intact, no signs of forced entry." He muttered to himself, then walked to the small window. The window was barely a foot square and tightly locked, covered in thick dust—clearly hadn't been opened in ages.

He returned to the door, carefully examining the furniture that had been pushed aside. "This leather sofa weighs at least 200 pounds, and these solid wood chairs..." He tried pushing the sofa—it didn't budge. "It would take considerable strength to move these things."

The medical examiner emerged from the room, removing his gloves. His expression was grave as he walked to Rivera and whispered something. I couldn't make out the details, but I saw Rivera's frown deepen.

"Time of death was around 2:15 AM." The medical examiner's voice carried over. "Based on rigor mortis, they've been dead at least two hours."

My stomach clenched. Two hours?

Rivera slowly turned toward me, those deep brown eyes flickering with something I didn't want to understand. He closed his notebook, each step deliberate and heavy, as if pronouncing judgment.

"Miss Morgan." He stopped in front of me, looking down from his imposing height. "This room has no other exits."

My hands began to shake: "I... I don't know what happened..."

"The window's too small, third floor height—impossible for anyone to enter or exit through there." His voice was terrifyingly calm. "The door was barricaded from the inside. Heavy furniture that requires significant strength to move."

"I couldn't push the door open!" I nearly screamed. "That sofa was pressed tight against the door. I used every ounce of strength and couldn't move it an inch! I heard chair legs scraping against the floor, but they were like they'd been welded in place!"

Rivera sat across from me, pulling out a recorder and pressing the button. That little red light stared at me like a demon's eye.

"Now I need you to describe last night's events in detail." He opened his notebook, pen tapping against paper. "Starting from when you entered the room."

I closed my eyes, struggling to remember. Those images were like shattered mirror fragments, each one carrying pain.

"Madison... they called me over to celebrate." My voice trembled. "Said it was for the initiation, for me to join the sorority."

"Specific time?"

"Around ten at night? We had drinks in the main bar first, then Madison said we should go to the VIP room for a private chat."

Rivera's pen scratched across paper, each sound like nails on a chalkboard. "Then what?"

My head began to throb. Those memory fragments jumped around in my mind but never connected.

"They... they started humiliating me." Tears blurred my vision. "Said I wasn't worthy of joining the sorority, that my artwork was garbage. Madison even tore up my sketchbook..."

"What did they do to you?" Rivera's gaze became sharper.

"Forced me to drink. One glass after another. I said I didn't want to, but Brittany said it was part of the ritual." I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. "The drinks were strong, with a strange taste..."

"What kind of taste?"

"Bitter, metallic. I thought it was cheap alcohol." I shook my head. "Then... then I don't remember anything."

Rivera stopped writing and looked up at me. That look made me want to run.

"When do you remember last seeing them alive?"

I desperately searched my memory, but found only blankness. "I... Chelsea was pouring me a drink, Madison was mocking my art... but after that, I really don't remember anything."

"From roughly what time do you not remember?"

"Maybe... maybe 11:30? Midnight?" My voice grew weaker. "I remember the clock pointing to 11:30, then..."

"So from 11:30 until you woke up, that's four to five hours." Rivera's pen tapping grew louder. "Can you explain what happened during that time?"

"I don't know!" I was almost sobbing. "I thought I'd passed out drunk, but when I woke up they were all..."

"Daphne." Rivera suddenly put down his pen and leaned forward. "How did you get these injuries?"

I looked down at the bruises and scratches on my arms. In the dim light, those marks looked even more shocking.

"I don't know... I found them when I woke up." My voice was barely audible. "Maybe they did it? They used to bully me..."

"These injuries are fresh, inflicted tonight." Rivera pointed to the red marks on my wrist. "They look like they were left during a struggle."

My heart nearly stopped. A struggle? Who did I struggle with?

"And these marks on your neck." He pointed with his pen at my throat. "Like someone clawed you."

I instinctively touched my neck—there was indeed a burning sensation. But I completely couldn't remember what had happened.

"Detective Rivera." An officer emerged from the room, holding an evidence bag. "We found this at the scene."

Rivera took the evidence bag and carefully examined the label. His expression grew even more serious.

"Flunitrazepam." He looked at me. "Commonly known as the date rape drug."

My blood instantly froze. "What?" Confusion and anger surged simultaneously. "You mean... they wanted to do something to me?"

A surge of fury suddenly ignited: "So they really were trying to hurt me!" My voice trembled with anger. "Then why am I the one who's become a suspect?"

But the anger was quickly replaced by deeper fear. Rivera watched me silently, as if analyzing my every reaction.

He didn't answer my question, instead continuing: "Found in Chelsea's purse. The bottle is empty." Rivera's gaze was sharp as a knife. "Do you know what this means?"

I shook my head, but a terrible voice whispered in the depths of my heart.

"This drug causes temporary amnesia." Rivera continued. "The person who takes it loses memory during the drug's effect, but the body can still function."

The air in the room suddenly became thin. I felt like I was suffocating.

"You're saying... someone drugged me?"

"Or..." Rivera paused, each word hitting my heart like a hammer, "you drugged them."

"No!" I shot up from my chair, the sound of scraping harsh in the silence. "I would never do such a thing!"

"Then can you explain why only you survived?" Rivera also stood, his voice turning cold and hard. "Why three people died while you're completely unharmed?"

My legs began to weaken, and I had to lean against the wall to stay upright. "I... I don't know either... maybe they wanted to hurt me, but something went wrong?"

"What kind of accident would turn the victim into the sole survivor?"

I couldn't answer. Because I wanted to know the answer myself.

Rivera put away the recorder and closed his notebook. "Miss Morgan, you are currently the only witness to this case. But at the same time..." He paused, "you're also the only suspect."

My world completely collapsed in that moment.

"I didn't kill them!" I cried out. "I swear I didn't!"

"We'll check your phone, your dorm room, everything." Rivera's voice carried no emotion. "If you're lying, we'll find out."

"I'm not lying! Please believe me..." My voice was completely broken. "I really don't remember anything..."

But Rivera had already turned and left, leaving me alone in the cold hallway.

I slowly slid down the wall to the floor, holding my head in my hands. Those questions stabbed at my mind like knives:

Why was I the only one alive? Why don't I remember anything? What really happened during those four hours?

I curled up in the corner, feeling suspicious glances from all directions. Every passing officer looked at me as if I were some dangerous monster.

"No!" I screamed at the empty hallway. "I'm not a murderer! I could never kill anyone!"

But only cold echoes answered me.

I closed my eyes, desperately realizing a terrible fact:

In this perfect locked room, I was the only living person.

And the only suspect.

Just then, a blurry fragment flashed through the depths of my mind—blood, screaming, and... my own hands?

I snapped my eyes open, my heart pounding wildly.

Was that a memory, or a hallucination born of fear?