Dead Tired & Full of Riddles

The fifth Monster Energy of the night sat on my desk like a glowing radioactive vitamin supplement. Three a.m. and I was basically a zombie, skull-deep in AP Euro notes that were starting to look like ancient hieroglyphics.

"You're not gonna make it," Maya said from her beanbag, scrolling through TikTok with practiced indifference. "You look literally dead."

"Thanks, bestie."

She wasn't wrong. I'd been surviving on caffeine and ambition all week, prepping for the Halloween Showcase where I had to deliver this monologue about identity or whatever. Coach Reynolds said it would "build character." Meanwhile, my actual character was just exhausted.

Maya sat up suddenly. "Oh my god, did you see what Liam posted?"

Liam. The Sphinx of 11th grade. Beautiful, mysterious, allegedly emo but actually just British and awkward. His stories were always these artsy, cryptic aesthetic shots—graffiti at dusk, his cat mid-blink, half a sentence about feelings.

"What did he post?" I asked, trying to sound chill.

She turned her phone toward me. A photo of our school's abandoned theater wing, captioned: "Some places remember everything."

I stared at it. "What does that even mean?"

"Exactly. He's such an enigma. It's giving main character energy but nobody knows what the actual plot is."

The caption hit different when you knew what happened in that theater last spring. The thing nobody talked about. The reason the drama program was basically on life support.

My phone buzzed. Liam. Actual Liam.

*heard ur doing the showcase. want to run lines?*

Maya practically levitated off the beanbag. "NO WAY."

I stared at my screen, brain short-circuiting. The Sphinx had emerged from his riddle-filled lair. For what? Me?

"Well?" Maya demanded. "Are you gonna respond or just dissociate?"

I typed back: *only if u help me with this zombie makeup im supposed to learn by friday*

His response came instantly: *deal. bring the energy drinks. i know a spot.*

Maya squealed. "This is it. This is the moment. Your origin story begins NOW."

I looked at my reflection in the dark window—exhausted, frizzy-haired, holding a vitamin-enhanced caffeine bomb like it was my only lifeline. Maybe tomorrow I'd be a walking corpse from sleep deprivation. But tonight? Tonight the mystery had a name, a plan, and apparently, a secret spot.

Sometimes the best plots aren't written in advance. Sometimes you just show up undead and see what riddles life throws at you.