Protesting Teenfic.net | Reconstructing

Chapter Two

"Where are you going, Romilly?"

The voice freezes me in place, my hand still gripping the windowsill. The air feels like it's been sucked out of the room. Slowly, I turn around, my heart racing in my chest.

A figure stands in the doorway, their silhouette cutting through the dim light. They're tall, dressed in a sharply tailored suit, which feels completely out of place in this wrecked, grimy house. But what makes my blood run cold is the mask they're wearing—a grotesque, oversized smiley face, the same sickly yellow as the one on wall. The wide, painted grin seems to stretch farther as they step closer.

"Romilly Quester," the figure continues, their voice calm, unsettlingly polite, as if this were a casual meeting between old friends. "I'm glad you received our message. We were starting to worry you might not catch on."

My throat feels tight, and my mind scrambles to make sense of what's happening. The figure moves with eerie grace, their hands tucked casually into their pockets. They step forward, and I instinctively take a step back.

"We know you've been... concerned about your friend, Ptolemy," they say. "We understand. It's only natural. But now, Romilly, you're part of this. It's time for you to step up."

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to work. "What... what do you want from me?"

The figure lets out a soft chuckle. "It's not a matter of what we want. It's about what you can do. You see, we know about your background, Romilly. Marketing student, aren't you? Bright future ahead of you, lots of potential." They pause, their head tilting slightly as if they're smiling behind the mask. "We think it's time you put that potential to use."

A chill runs down my spine. "What are you talking about?"

They take another step closer, standing directly in front of me now. The mask hovers inches from my face, and I can't look away. "It's simple, really. Ptolemy owes us a considerable sum of money—money he doesn't have. That's where you come in."

I blink, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling. "I don't have that kind of money."

"Oh, we know," they reply smoothly, their voice dripping with amusement. "But we're not asking for the money right away. What we're asking for is your talent."

I stare at them, confused. "What do you mean?"

They step back, straightening their posture, the smiley mask catching the faint light from the window. "We know you haven't launched your campaign yet. But we also know that, as a marketing student, you understand influence. You understand how to make people listen, how to craft a message. We need you to use those skills."

I frown, the weight of their words sinking in. "You want me to... start a campaign?"

They nod slowly. "Exactly. Something that gets attention, something that keeps people talking. You're going to create a buzz, Romilly. You're going to turn this into something bigger. Something so public, no one will be able to look away."

My stomach churns. "What kind of campaign?"

The figure's head tilts again, as if they're considering the possibilities. "That's up to you. We've already seen what you can do. You're creative. Clever. Think of it as your first real test—take something small, like that Geocentrism idea you were toying with, and turn it into a movement."

I swallow hard. They've been watching me. They know about my classes, my ideas. A wave of nausea washes over me as I realize just how deep this goes.

"And what if I refuse?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

The figure laughs softly, a sound that makes my skin crawl. "Oh, Romilly, you won't refuse. Not if you care about Ptolemy. And we know you do." Their voice lowers, the smiley mask turning toward me. "You'll start your campaign. You'll get people talking, make them believe in your cause. And all the while, we'll be keeping an eye on you."

They pause, letting the weight of the situation hang in the air. "Thirty days. You'll have thirty days to raise fifty thousand dollars through whatever means necessary. But the campaign? That's just the beginning. We want to see you work, Romilly. We want to see what you're truly capable of."

My pulse quickens, my thoughts spinning out of control. "What if I fail?"

The figure's voice darkens, the grin on the mask somehow more menacing. "If you fail... well, let's just say Ptolemy won't be around to hear about it. And neither will you."

They turn, heading toward the door, but stop before stepping outside. "Remember, we're watching. Don't disappoint us."

The figure disappears into the night, leaving me standing alone in the wreckage of Ptolemy's house, the weight of their demands crushing down on me. I can barely breathe. My marketing skills—something I thought would be my future—have now become my only lifeline.

I sink down onto the floor, pulling the crumpled note from my pocket. It flutters in my trembling hands, the words etched into my mind.

Fifty thousand dollars. Thirty days. And now, a campaign.

The pressure builds in my chest, and I don't know whether to scream or cry. I've been forced into a game I never wanted to play. And if I lose, I lose everything.