The abandoned art storage room was tucked away on the third floor of the East Wing, behind a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” that most students ignored. I’d discovered it during my first week at Ashwick while exploring the building’s maze-like layout, and it had become my go-to hiding spot when the social pressures became overwhelming.
Which was exactly why I was there now, twenty minutes before my mysterious rooftop meeting, trying to calm my nerves and figure out what I was going to say to whoever had been orchestrating the @AshwickSecrets campaign.
The room was filled with forgotten art projects and supplies—canvases stacked against walls, easels draped in paint-splattered cloth, sculptures that looked like abstract interpretations of teenage angst. Dust motes danced in the la
