Story code: ST-001244
Part 2: The Doxxing
The screen froze on a blurred frame, but the colors were unmistakable. The faded olive-drab fabric. The dark brown corduroy collar. And there, partially obscured by a spiderweb of shattered safety glass, the crookedly stitched 101st Airborne patch on the left shoulder.
It was Eric’s jacket. His older brother’s jacket. The one Eric had practically lived in since returning from his last deployment.
Kevin’s lungs refused to expand. The heavy silence of the library sub-basement rushed back into his ears, broken only by a high-pitched ringing. His thumb hovered over the paused video, trembling so violently he nearly dropped the device. He frantically swiped out of TikTok and opened his recent calls. He hit his father’s contact, pressing the phone so hard against his ear it physically hurt.
It rang once. Twice.
“Dad,” Kevin gasped the second the line opened. “Dad, is Eric okay? I just saw-”
“He’s in the burn unit at St. Jude’s.” His father’s voice was completely unrecognizable. It wasn’t angry. It was a hollow, scraped-out whisper, devoid of its usual booming warmth. “They had to use the Jaws of Life, Kevin. A drunk driver jumped the median on I-95.”
“Oh my god,” Kevin choked out, tears instantly hot in his eyes. “I’m coming right now. I’ll catch the campus shuttle to the hospital-”
“Don’t,” his father said. The single word cracked like a whip.
“What? Dad, it’s me-”
“I know who it is,” his father interrupted, the ice in his tone freezing the blood in Kevin’s veins. “Jimmy from the receiving dock showed me the video during my lunch break. He asked if it was you. The whole damn fabrication plant watched it. They watched my youngest son stand there and film his brother burning for internet points.”
“No! Dad, you have to listen to me! I wasn’t there!” Kevin dug his fingernails into his scalp, his voice cracking into a desperate pitch. “I’ve been in the library since dinner! I was studying for chemistry! My phone was on silent, I swear to God!”
“I know what you were wearing when you left the house on Sunday, Kevin,” his father said, the exhaustion in his voice heavy enough to collapse a roof. “That grey university hoodie with the frayed drawstrings. I know your face. We saw you adjust your grip to get a better angle while your brother was bleeding out against the glass. You didn’t even try to open the door.”
“Dad, it’s a fake! It has to be! Someone is framing me!”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” his father hissed. “Not while your brother is on a ventilator. Do not come to the hospital. If I see you here, I’ll kill you myself.”
The line went dead.
Kevin lowered the phone slowly. He looked down at his own chest. He was wearing the grey hoodie with the frayed drawstrings. He touched the fabric, feeling a wave of intense, sickening vertigo wash over him.
He hadn’t left the library. He knew he hadn’t. The timestamp on the video said it was posted at two in the morning. He had been sitting in this exact cinderblock carrel at two in the morning, weeping over carbon ring diagrams. He pulled up his camera roll, frantic to find a time-stamped photo, anything to prove his alibi, but his phone suddenly seized up.
Notifications began cascading down his lock screen in a relentless, blinding waterfall.
Instagram. Twitter. iMessage.
*Murderer.*
*Hope you burn like he did.*
*Found him. Kevin Miller, sophomore at State.*
*He lives in Miller Hall. Room 314.*
A text message from his roommate, Tyler, pushed through the deluge: *Bro do not come back to the dorm. There are literally people outside the door with cameras. Campus police are in the hallway. What the hell did you do?*
Kevin’s stomach violently hollowed out. Miller Hall was a ten-minute walk across the quad. He was completely cut off.
He needed to run. He frantically swept his organic chemistry textbook and notebooks into his backpack, leaving the failed midterm lying on the desk. The sound of the heavy zipper felt as loud as a gunshot in the silent stacks. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the study carrel into the narrow, fluorescent-lit aisle.
Thirty feet down the aisle, a girl sitting at a computer terminal was holding her phone up, the camera lens pointed directly at him. Her eyes darted from her monitor-where the TikTok video was looping-to Kevin, wide with a potent mixture of fear and pure disgust.
Kevin froze. The grey hoodie suddenly felt like a straightjacket. He pulled the hood up, but it was too late. The girl tapped her screen, clearly recording him.
He turned and bolted toward the stairwell, taking the concrete steps two at a time. His phone vibrated ceaselessly in his pocket, a phantom buzzing that felt like insects under his skin.
He reached the ground floor lobby. The library, previously a sanctuary of quiet study, felt like a trap. A cluster of students by the circulation desk were murmuring urgently, their heads bent over a shared phone screen. One of them looked up, locked eyes with Kevin, and physically recoiled, grabbing her friend’s arm to pull her away.
Kevin pushed his weight into the heavy glass turnstiles and stumbled out into the cool evening air. The quad was dark, dotted with amber streetlamps. He backed into the deep shadows of the library’s concrete overhang, desperately trying to catch his breath. He was a pariah. Five million people wanted him dead, his own father hated him, and his brother was fighting for his life.
His phone buzzed in his hand. It wasn’t a social media notification. It was a standard text from a restricted number.
*Checking your phone won’t save you,* the message read. *Check the front pouch of your backpack.*
Kevin’s breath hitched in his throat. He swung the heavy backpack off his shoulder, his hands shaking so violently he could barely grip the metal zippers of the front utility pouch. He wrenched it open.
Resting gently on top of his highlighters and mechanical pencils was a twisted, jagged piece of a silver rearview mirror. The edge of the shattered glass was stained with dried blood, and the overwhelming, metallic stench of raw gasoline instantly filled the crisp night air.