Page 27 of Mine To Hunt

I slide into my usual back-row seat, heart still hammering, and pull out my notebook like a barrier. But the whispers don't stop.

"That's her."

"No way, it's edited, right?"

My cheeks burn, shame wrapping around me like chains, and I hunch lower, pretending to scribble notes while my mind screams. He did it. Circulated it. My body, my bathroom. Now campus fodder.

My phone vibrates in my bag, jolting me upright, and I fish it out, expecting Maddie. But it's the university main line, the caller ID flashing‘Admin Office.’I answer on the third ring, my voice barely steady.

"Hello? This is Iris Whitlock."

"Iris, this is Dean Hargrove's office." The woman on the other end says, her tone clipped and formal, like she's reading from a script. "You're needed in the Dean's office immediately. Bring your student ID."

Her word lands like a stone in my gut, panic spiking anew as I mumble a "Yes, ma'am" and hang up. Prof. Sterling pauses mid-sentence, eyeing me from the front. "Everything alright, Miss Whitlock? You look unwell."

"I'm... fine." I manage, standing on wobbly legs and gathering my things. "Family emergency. Just got called to the office."

It's a lie, and murmurs rippling again as I bolt for the door.

"Sorry," I add to no one, the whispers chasing me out. "Bet it's about the video."

The corridor stretches like a gauntlet, every step heavier under the onslaught of stares that have multiplied since I arrived. Students cluster by lockers, phones out, their eyes tracking me like spotlights.

A guy from the sculpture lab, Al's classmate, leans against the wall, his gaze lingering too long on my chest before flicking away.

"Heard about you." He says as I pass, low enough to pretend it's not directed at me, but his smirk says otherwise.

Shame burns hotter, mixing with fury. How dare they judge, consume, without knowing the terror behind it? I feel like I'm walking toward my own execution, blindfolded and bound, the crime unknown but the sentence already passed.

My breath comes in short gasps, the walls closing in with each whisper. "Did you see her face?" "It's everywhere. Group chat's blowing up."

By the time I reach the admin wing, sweat beads on my forehead, and I knock on the Dean's door with a hand that's numb.

"Come in." A voice calls, and I push inside, the room's formality hitting me like a wall.

Dean Hargrove behind his massive desk, flanked by Ms. Rivera from student affairs, both faces stern and unreadable.

"Miss Whitlock." Dean Hargrove says, gesturing to the chair opposite them without standing.

"Sit. This won't take long, but it's serious." His voice carries that administrative chill, the kind that breaks no emotion, and Ms. Rivera nods, her tablet glowing with what I dread is evidence.

I lower myself into the seat, my bag clutched in my lap like a shield, heart thundering so loud I swear they hear it.

"What's this about?" I ask, though I already know, the air thick with unspoken accusations.

Ms. Rivera taps her screen, turning it toward me. A blurred preview frozen on pause, just enough frames to make my blood run cold. Steam-fogged mirror, my silhouette stepping from the shower. My bathroom. My body.

Recognition slams into me, a punch that drains the color from my face, leaving me lightheaded and reeling. He didn't just threaten. He did it. Released it into the wild, turning my violation into spectacle.

Numbness spreads from my fingertips inward, a cold fog dulling the edges of panic, shame, humiliation, fear, betrayal. All crashing together in a wave that threatens to drown me.

"Do you know about this video circulating on social media and university groups?" Dean Hargrove asks, his tone measured but edged with disapproval, as if I'm the one who chose exposure.

"It's explicit, non-consensual, and tied to your name. We're investigating the source, but as a student here, this reflects on St. Alden's image."

I stare at the screen, the blurred image searing into my brain, voices around me turning distant, muffled like underwater echoes.

"I... that's me." I whisper, my voice flat, detached, because admitting it makes it real, irreversible.