Chapter 5: Of Fights, Farewells, And Fools

I saw this tweet and was like 'yep, that's atsushi'

Chapter 9: Totally a Normal Day

warnings: None, just humor and a normal day.

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Three days have passed since that day, yet I don’t feel any better. In those three days, Liviya never missed a chance to shoot me dirty looks, her face barely concealing the rage simmering beneath the surface. But to her credit, she kept it at bay—perhaps the only thing about her I could actually appreciate.

Today, Prince returned to collect our consent forms for the offer he made. I watched as he moved through the room, gathering the papers one by one. When he reached me, I handed mine over without hesitation.

Leaving this place has been on my mind for a long time—an idea I’ve weighed, dissected, and planned for. I may not be in the best shape to explore the world beyond, but something deep inside tells me that if I take this chance, something will shift. A moment of risk, a chance at change. It’s not that I hate this place—not entirely. Maybe it’s just preference. I don’t want to be caged here while everyone else gets to be free.

But this is the reality of my power. Isolation is the safest choice until I can truly stand on my own. So I endure. I find ways to appreciate this place—though appreciate is hardly the right word for a place that feels more like a prison than a home.

The clock ticked away until it was finally break time. Clara approached me, inviting me to eat lunch with her. As we sat down, our conversation drifted to my plans for joining the journalism team.

“I want to use this as a way to get involved in activities outside the campus,” I said, opening my lunch box. “I suppose it’s a good way to clear my mind, too.”

Clara nodded, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “I guess that makes sense for you. But… I think you might end up like one of those exhausted, overworked students.” Her words came out slightly muffled by the food in her mouth.

“Why?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Well, journalism can be both fun and tiring. Instead of resting, you’ll have a ton of things to balance,” she replied.

“I expected as much—maybe even worse.” I shrugged.

Clara let out a sigh. “Just don’t do too well, or they might send you off on some big assignment. Who knows? You might never come back.” She tried to sound playful, but there was a hint of something else beneath her words. “I suppose it fits your goals, but… I’d miss you, Hagarin.”

I chuckled. “I get it. But won’t we all go our separate ways eventually? Everyone has their own dreams to chase.”

“You don’t have to rush yours, though,” Clara murmured. “Enjoy things with us while you still can.”

I scoffed. “You make it sound like I’m good enough to just leave everything behind without a second thought.”

“Because you are,” Clara said simply.

I shook my head. “No. I’m not perfect. I have my fair share of mistakes.” I set my lunch box on my lap, my gaze drifting toward the track and field. From here, I could see the open space stretching beyond the school buildings, a distant world that felt both inviting and unreachable.

“Still,” Clara insisted, “you’re more than qualified for it.”

I let out a sigh, irritation creeping in. “You put me on too much of a pedestal.” Such a glazer.

Clara didn’t respond, and I quietly finished my food, the weight of her words lingering in the air between us.

“Sup, guys? Why so quiet?” Ezra strolled over, eyeing my food like a starving stray. I sighed and handed it to him without a word.

“Just fussing over the fact that Hagarin is gonna leave us,” Clara exaggerated with a dramatic sigh.

“Leave? You mean the journalism thing? I signed up too,” Ezra said between bites.

Clara’s eyes widened. “No way you’re gonna be a reporter! You look more like a criminal!”

Ezra gasped, clutching his chest as if she had just stabbed him. “That’s so mean, Clara!” The laughter slowly faded as we settled into a comfortable silence, eating in peace—until Ezra, as usual, broke it.

“I heard we’ve got a returning student,” he said, casually between bites.

That caught my attention. I glanced up, listening closely.

“Oh? Sebastian? Yeah, he actually went on an adventure,” Clara said with a chuckle. “For real this time.”

“What did he do?” I asked, curious.

“He was chosen for the Rite of Astralis,” Clara explained. “It’s kind of a tradition here. You get to go through these... I don’t know, adventurous arcs? Trials? Either way, it’s a big deal. A dream, honestly. You could be chosen next year!”

I nodded slowly. “How was he chosen?”

Clara tilted her head, thinking. “Mmm… maybe it’s ‘cause he’s always so composed? Honestly, no clue. But he’s good. Performs really well. Probably a little like Ezra—just, you know, less chaotic.”

Ezra tugged her hair in retaliation, and the two immediately broke into their usual squabble, bickering like cats and dogs. I just watched them, quietly amused. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

During the grace period our professor gave us, some students were cramming last-minute tasks, while others just chatted idly. Nothing unusual—there weren’t many of us to begin with, so the room always felt quiet, almost predictable.

That is, until someone new walked in.

He had fair skin that seemed to catch the light in just the right way—almost glowing, though that sounds dramatic. Still, there was something undeniably striking about him. Maybe it was how healthy he looked, or how all his features came together so effortlessly, giving him this… natural charm.

That must be Sebastian.

His chestnut hair fell just right, giving him a charismatic air that somehow lit up the room. Almost instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Students cheered and greeted him like an old friend.

It was...nice.

When the professor finally returned, he paused at the door, his expression softening the moment he saw Sebastian.

“Ah, welcome back,” he said with a nod, then gestured toward the back of the room. “You’ll be seated with Clarence.”

So that’s why that seat was always empty.

As Sebastian made his way to the back, Clarence looked up—and for the first time in a while, his usually unreadable face broke into a genuine smile.

The two exchanged a brief look, one that spoke volumes. No words were needed. It was the kind of silent understanding only close friends shared—like they hadn’t seen each other in months but had picked up right where they left off.

Sebastian slid into the seat beside him, and just like that, the energy in the room shifted again—familiar, but different.

During our free time—while the professor was still present—we were allowed to work on tasks from other subjects. The only condition? No noise, no distractions, no chaos.

But... yeah.

I watched as Ezra strutted around like he owned the place, talking loudly with Clarence and Sebastian at the back of the room. Honestly, Sebastian wasn’t much quieter either.

“Boys at the back! Silence!” the professor snapped.

Clarence immediately facepalmed, clearly regretting his life choices.

“And you,” the professor turned his glare toward Ezra, who froze mid-sentence.

Ezra gulped and quickly dropped into his seat.

“Three days ago was your fifth visit to the counselor. Are you planning to make it a sixth?”

All three of them winced at the same time as the professor launched into a scolding loud enough for the whole class to hear. Wow, what a normal day today. 

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In the final hour before dismissal, I found myself zoning out. The discussion had become unbearably dull—like a lullaby disguised as a lecture. It was as if whispers of mischief snuck into my head, gently urging me to just give in and sleep.

I closed my eyes for a second… and that second stretched into what felt like eternity.

And just like that—I was out.

Faint whispers stirred around me, then slowly faded into an eerie silence. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the room, its cold breath brushing against my skin. For a moment, the stillness was oddly peaceful.

Until—

“Okay! Class dismissed!”

The professor’s voice exploded through the quiet like a bomb. I jolted awake with a flinch—only to be met with the blinding flash of a phone camera aimed right at me.

Ezra.

“Hey!” I shouted, glaring as he grinned behind his phone.

Laughter erupted around the room, and I could only groan, hiding my face in my hands.

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1,415 words

next chapter

You wanna know what I hate? People who don't tag properly, whether it be on AO3, Tumblr, ECT. Tags exist for a fucking reason.

A great example of not tagging properly is a fic I found that was marked "Dazai/reader" so it must be an x reader, right? WRONG! It was a Dazai x AN OC. AN OC WITH A WHOLE ASS NAME.

It pisses me tf off

*Puts them in my pocket*

i love themso mcuh i love themmmm // this took. 3 and a half hours :(

also version w js black outline,, and have their eyss bcuz hearts

<3

Prologue - Blood Stains Don't Wash Off

Tw: mentions of abuse, and violence. Dead dove, do not eat.

There are countless ways to avoid violence. But avoidance doesn't mean survival.

Violence is stitched into the seams of existence — a pulse running beneath every century, every age. It thrives, adapts, becomes more creative, more cruel. We like to pretend we are better than our past, but reality doesn't flinch under the weight of our illusions. Even in a world infused with magic, people are still monsters. And monsters don't need fangs or claws. Sometimes, they wear the faces of your neighbors. Or your own family.

Hagarin was not the victim that day.

She was the witness.

A child, too young to spell her own name properly, stood paralyzed in the doorway as her mother's body became a canvas for violence. A fist to the ribs, a boot to the spine. Blood, spit, sobs. The kind of sounds that become permanent residents in your skull. Hagarin clamped her small hands over her eyes, praying that darkness would protect her, but the sharp metallic click of a pistol tore through the air.

"Watch."

A command. Not a plea. A curse.

She was forced to see it all — her mother's skin bruised into unrecognizable shades, her breath turned into shallow gasps until there was no breath left to take.

Hagarin's mother died that night, leaving behind three little girls and a silence too loud to bear.

In a world glutted with magic, you'd think there would be a spell for justice. But magic didn't save her. Magic was a luxury — one used more often to destroy than to heal. Power and violence walk hand in hand like childhood friends, both feeding off each other's hunger. Hagarin understood this at an age when most children only understand fairy tales.

Those who crave chaos? They are not misguided souls. They are predators, drunk on their own sense of invincibility, poisoning everything they touch. They rip the seams of peace just to see what spills out.

And Hagarin? She learned young that survival is not a right — it's a skill.

At seven years old, she became a mother, a protector, a builder of shelters, a scavenger of scraps. She wasn't good at any of it. But no one else was left to try.

She used magic to knock down trees because her hands were too weak. She built a shack with trembling fingers and whispered prayers that the walls would hold for at least one night. Her sisters clung to each other for warmth, while Hagarin stood guard at the entrance, eyes fixed on the sky. The moon was too bright — like it was exposing their helplessness for all the world to see.

That night, her lips moved in silent prayer — not to gods, but to whatever force was out there listening.

"Please. Let me be strong enough. Just for them. Even if it breaks me."

Tears traced down her dirt-streaked face, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what had been taken from her. But grief is a luxury you can't afford when you're responsible for someone else's survival.

They walked for days — blistered feet on broken ground — until the steel skyline of Aloy City appeared like a mirage in the distance. Aloy, the City of Metals. A place where survival was possible, but only if you were useful.

"Are we almost there?" the youngest sister asked, her voice soft from exhaustion.

Hagarin squeezed her hand. "Just five more hours." She wasn't sure if that was true. But hope tastes better when you lie with confidence.

"You're just guessing," Hanari, her twin, muttered.

"Obviously." Hagarin shrugged.

Hanari, loud and bright despite the darkness they carried, was everything Hagarin was not. They bickered like breathing — every argument a strange lifeline that reminded them both they were still alive. Still sisters.

Aloy was both salvation and sentence. A city where children like them became projects — charity cases processed and filed into the system. At the help center, they sat across from a woman who asked too many questions with too soft a voice. What happened to your parents? What did you see? How do you feel?

Hagarin wanted to scream. Instead, she said nothing. Hanari did all the talking — filling the silence with half-truths and protective lies, all while Hagarin's hands dug crescent moons into her palms beneath the table.

When they were placed onto a bus, bound for an orphanage disguised as a "facility," Hagarin didn't cry. She just stared out the window, watching her reflection blur against the world passing by.

Life at the facility was not kind, but it was stable — which was almost the same thing. They were clothed, taught to read, trained to summon spells from nothing but breath and willpower. Time passed, and they grew taller, sharper, harder. But Hanari never lost her brightness. The little sister never lost her innocence.

And Hagarin never lost the weight in her chest — the cold iron reminder that peace is temporary, and safety is always conditional.

She watched from the window as Hanari and their sister chased each other through the grass, laughing like the world hadn't tried to crush them under its boot.

For a moment, Hagarin let herself believe it was possible — that they could outrun the ghosts, the memories, the trauma woven into their bones.

But only for a moment.

Because Hagarin knew better than anyone: The past never stays buried.

And the worst monsters aren't the ones hiding in shadows. They're the ones smiling in the light.

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 2,731 words.

Doo-joon raised my standards AAAAA

Doo-joon Kang from Positively Yours

Kim Taejoon from "I Can't Get Enough Of You

Cha Gyeol from The Reason I Decided To Die

jo cheong from what kind of rice cake is this

Kwon Beomjin from Just Twilight

Tae Iseop iseop's romance

hyeondo from selfish romance

seunghyun kang from daytime star

chi yan from Flirting by mistake

Chapter 4: I see you

Content Warnings for Chapter 4:

Child Abuse (Physical and Emotional)

Neglect and Abandonment

Drug Abuse Mention

Domestic Violence

Mentions of Poverty and Financial S

trugglesTrauma and PTSD

 ThemesMental Health Struggles (Insanity/Breakdowns)

Graphic Descriptions of Injury/AbuseDissociation and Psychological Distress

viewer discretion is advised ⚠️

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My footsteps echoed softly through the unfamiliar halls, each step carrying me closer to a classroom I had never entered before. There was no sense of certainty about what awaited me beyond its door, only a quiet apprehension that lingered in my chest. After signing a consent form handed to me at the entrance, something unexpected happened—the paper itself shimmered faintly, folding and twisting until it transformed into a mask resting delicately in my hands.

I recognized its shape almost instantly, though only from the books I had devoured back at the facility. It was a kitsune mask, a relic often associated with spirits and tricksters from old tales. Traditionally, these masks covered the entire face, which struck me as suffocating and isolating—perhaps a personal bias formed from my own sensory sensitivities. To my relief, however, this mask was only a half-mask, designed to shield my eyes rather than my whole face. A practical adjustment, I assumed, meant to make it less overwhelming to wear.

Ms. Tess, who had been silently observing my reaction, stepped forward and explained the mask's true purpose. It was not simply an ornament or a ceremonial object—it was a tool. A containment device meant to dampen the constant flood of visions and fractured moments that relentlessly played across my mind like a broken film reel. With the mask in place, the overwhelming torrent of future flashes would ease, granting me at least a fleeting sense of normalcy.

She also gently suggested that I visit her every Friday—a standing invitation to what she called 'sensory moments.' These were designed to ground me, a time dedicated to unraveling the tension knotted inside my mind. Apparently, my powers were not only fueled by external triggers but also amplified by my own relentless overthinking, the constant hum of unease I carried with me. It was this internal chaos, she explained, that kept my abilities flaring wildly out of control, leaving me drained and vulnerable.

Those fleeting thoughts, fragile as fallen leaves beneath my feet, crumbled the moment I stood before the door. Room 206—a name so ordinary for a place that felt anything but.

My knuckles rapped softly against the wood, and with a breath caught between hesitation and resolve, I pushed the door open.

"As predicted, here she is."

The voice belonged to the professor, whose gaze flickered toward me with the faintest trace of expectation. I lifted my eyes to meet theirs, offering a plain, almost weightless, "Good morning," before stepping fully into the room—a presence without fanfare, yet not without gravity.

My gaze drifted over the room, tracing each unfamiliar face. Eleven students. Only eleven.

So, they weren't exaggerating after all. Those who walk the uncertain paths tied to time itself—our kind—are rare as cracks in the sky.  From what I see, they all have unique different objects they wear to help them control their powers, which is quite amazing to think that there's this one girl who have her eyes blindfolded.

"Please introduce yourself." The professor said as I nodded. "Good morning. I am Tachibana Hagarin..."

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Curious gazes devoured my presence the moment I settled into my seat. I suppose I couldn't blame them—a new face in a room so small was bound to attract attention. The silence that followed pressed against my skin like a second atmosphere, thick and unrelenting.

"For the continuation of our lesson," the professor's voice cut through the hush like a knife against glass, "we begin at Chapter 5."

A pause—deliberate, heavy.

"Dark Triad."

The words slithered into the air, curling like smoke around the edges of my mind.

"The Dark Triad refers to Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy—three personality traits bound together by manipulation, absence of empathy, and an insatiable hunger for control."

The professor's voice echoed within the hollow of my thoughts, and for once, the clarity of it felt almost indulgent. My mind had been left unclouded for days, all thanks to the mask resting against my face — a fragile shield between my sanity and the endless unraveling of time.

Even so, I couldn't help but wonder why we were treading the waters of psychology in the first place.

This was supposed to be a class for those who twist time itself — so why did this feel like an autopsy for the mind? 

When the class ended after 2 hours, I finally reached the schedule of vacant time. I was quietly thinking of what to do with the given 2 hours of vacant but suddenly...

A pen rolled near my shoe, its faint clatter against the cold floor somehow louder than it should have been. I leaned forward, fingers poised to grasp it—

"No!"

The word cracked like a whip through the air, sharp enough to slice through my hesitation. I looked up to see a girl, panic carved into every step she took as she nearly stumbled toward me, her shoe sending the pen skittering across the room.

"You shouldn't touch it," she whispered, her voice low and urgent, as if the walls themselves had ears.

I followed the flicker of her gaze to a boy slouched near the back, his grin stitched too wide across his face, a glint in his eye that spoke of cruelty reserved for those who knew no limits.

"Why?" My voice was calm, but curiosity curled beneath it like smoke.

"That pen," Clara murmured, fingers trembling as they curled into her sleeves, "has been laced with someone's twisted magic. If you touched it, you would've been swallowed whole — into a room stitched from riddles and silence. A place where you could scream until your voice breaks, and still no one would hear you."

Her words tasted like truth, bitter and lingering.

"But you kicked it," I pointed out, my voice softer now. "Wouldn't that count as contact?"

She shook her head, strands of hair sticking to the sweat gathering at her temple. "No... It needs skin. It craves warmth. Bone, flesh, the pulse beneath your fingertips. Shoes are just leather and rubber. They hold no soul."

Her eyes drifted back to the boy — the architect of this sick game — who merely offered a laugh that sounded more like something choking on itself.

"Just be careful," Clara said, voice dipping lower. "You're new. You don't want to end up... you know... a plaything."

I offered a nod, the weight of her words settling across my shoulders like a damp cloak. "Thank you for the warning."

There was silence, then her hand stretched toward me, trembling just slightly. "I'm Clara."

I took her hand — cold skin against mine — and held it for a breath longer than I meant to. "Hagarin."

A pause, then: "Can I ask... more about this place? This department?"

Clara sighed, her expression caught somewhere between pity and exhaustion, before she sank into the seat beside me.

"I'll tell you everything I can," she said, her voice no louder than a prayer, "in hopes it makes you feel a little less like prey."

When Clara settled beside me, I let my gaze linger on her — a habit born from survival rather than curiosity. Her hair, a shade too soft for this place, was braided into a bun plait, too delicate for a room that reeked of fear. The strands twisted like a noose, and at its center, her monocle gleamed like an artificial eye — an elegant restraint to a power I knew she could barely hold back.

"Where would you like to start?" Her voice cut through my observation like a scalpel, precise and clinical.

I averted my gaze, as though looking too long would unravel me. "I suppose... we could start with the culture here. What do people do in a place like this?"

Clara's smile was thin, barely there, like a ghost caught between walls. "Culture," she repeated, as though the word was foreign, a relic long buried beneath dust and rot.

She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles pale. "This building breathes silence. Not by design, but by consequence. We are few — a species on the verge of extinction, clinging to corridors stained with the mistakes of those who came before us. But we all share the same disease."

Her voice dropped into something brittle. "The disease of seeing too much."

I felt my stomach twist. "And the subjects you study?"

"Psychology, History, Philosophy, Sociology, Politics," she listed them like names on gravestones.

"Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer would taste bitter.

"Because if you lose your mind, your power will devour you." Her words carried the weight of a funeral prayer. "This place is a coffin for those who couldn't hold their own sanity together — their powers grew wild, untethered, until they swallowed them whole. If you can't control your mind, you can't control the time."

Clara scratched at her temple, the skin red and irritated, as though her own thoughts were a splinter beneath the flesh.

"These subjects aren't about learning — they're about survival. You study history so you don't repeat your own mistakes. You study psychology so you understand the voices crawling inside your head. Philosophy teaches you to question your reality before it eats you alive. Sociology reminds you that you aren't the only monster walking these halls. And politics..."

She trailed off, but another voice filled the void.

"Politics teaches you the rules of power. Knowing when to kneel — and when to slit a throat."

The footsteps were soft, measured, each one deliberate like the ticking of a clock. A boy stood before us, the air around him heavy with calculation. His uniform was too neat, his posture too perfect, like he belonged in a portrait rather than this crumbling room.

His smile was polite, but his eyes were scalpel-sharp, stripping me bare in a single glance. "Sanity is currency here," he said. "If you lose it, your power consumes you from the inside out. So, we sharpen our minds until they're blades — because the only way to survive this place is to cut first."

The room felt colder.

The boy offered no introduction but just a polite smile. "Right, no need to sound like a walking thesis just to make us feel stupid, Clarence," Clara shot back, her voice light, but her eyes rolling with enough force to tilt the earth off its axis.

Clarence chuckled — a low, deliberate sound that somehow felt like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how and when you would die. "Just doing my civic duty. Our new little time anomaly deserves the full orientation package, doesn't she?" His gaze flickered to me, sharp but amused.

I rested my chin in my palm, already exhausted. "If we're supposed to be trained into functional, sane people, why's that guy..." —my finger lazily pointed at the slumped figure drooling onto his desk, the one who rolled the pen towards me— "acting like he's escaped from a psychological horror film?"

Clara snorted. "Oh, him? That's Ezra. He's new, like you. Except he skipped the 'gradual breakdown' part and just speed ran straight into 'hopelessly unhinged.'"

Clarence leaned against the desk, his expression darkening into something more serious — the kind of look you'd wear at a eulogy. "He's a walking cautionary tale. His sanity wasn't just fractured — it was pried apart, piece by piece, until the light itself showed him everything he couldn't bear to see."

He paused, his fingers tracing patterns on the desk absentmindedly. "You see, for some of us, the power doesn't break us. It shows us how broken we already were. And once the mind is exposed to too much truth, it shatters like glass."

I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say when someone described a fate you could practically feel breathing down your neck.

Clara, mercifully, broke the silence. "Anyway!" she clapped her hands together, trying to inject some life back into the room. "Moral of the story — don't touch random objects, don't stare too long at the void, and for god's sake, never trust the vending machine on the third floor."

"Why the vending machine?" I blinked, confused by the sudden shift.

Clarence just smiled. "It eats more than your money."

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Several days have passed, and I suppose I've begun to adapt to the peculiar rhythm of this place. The atmosphere here is unlike the main building, which was constantly alive with noise and bustling students. In stark contrast, this department feels almost isolated, its silence only interrupted by the occasional conversation or the faint hum of distant footsteps.

Throughout these days, I've found myself gravitating toward Clara and Clarence. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to ensure I don't entirely lose my mind in this strange environment. When they're occupied, however, Ezra tends to appear — often without warning. His presence alone is unnerving, considering our first encounter involved him casually rolling a cursed pen in my direction. A pen, mind you, capable of trapping me within a labyrinth of riddles until I somehow managed to solve my way out. To put it lightly, Ezra's existence leaves me with an enduring sense of wariness.

At the moment, our class is gathered in the gymnasium. Today's exercise focuses on building connections — not through casual conversation, but through direct access to each other's memories. The process is simple in theory: remove any object that dampens our abilities, select a partner, and lock eyes until the walls around their past begin to collapse, allowing us a glimpse into their personal history. It is, apparently, a foundational technique for understanding time travel. For some reason, the moment I removed my mask, nothing happened. No sudden flood of memories, no overwhelming rush of visions — just the ordinary sight of the gymnasium and my classmates. It was almost unsettling how quiet my mind remained, like a static screen where chaos should have been.

Perhaps it's this building itself — designed to keep us on edge, to suppress what we rely on most. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of subtle tricks they embedded into these walls. A spell? A mechanism? Or maybe something much simpler, like the weight of constant observation. Whatever it was, the absence of noise in my head felt louder than any commotion ever could.

"I'll be assigning partners," our proctor announced, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands. A collective groan rippled through the room, though none of us were particularly surprised. Of course, we couldn't choose for ourselves — not here.

"Hagarin and Ezra."

Ah, yes. The radiant beacon of my existence. How fortunate I am.

From behind me, I heard the unmistakable twin reactions of Clara and Clarence — a synchronized oh that carried both sympathy and amusement. I turned to them, silently pleading for some form of rescue, but all they offered in return were sheepish smiles and helpless shrugs.

Before I could plot my escape, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Aren't you the luckiest? Partnered with me!" Ezra's grin stretched ear to ear, radiating the kind of chaotic energy that could set off a fire alarm just by existing.

"More like a curse," I replied, shaking my head. "You cling like a wasp that refuses to die."

"And you," he said, utterly unfazed, "are the honey — all sweet and easy to mess with."

"Dear god..." I muttered with a cringed reaction etched on my face, turning to walk away, only for him to seize my wrist and pull me back into his orbit, cackling like a villain in a low-budget play.

He's going to be the death of me someday — that much I'm certain of.

The proctor continued announcing the other pairs, though his voice felt distant, like a soft hum beneath the weight of my own thoughts. Soon enough, it was time to begin.

We were instructed to sit across from our assigned partners, knees barely apart, eyes locked. No masks, no objects to soften the edges of our abilities. Just direct eye contact, until the world around us dissolved into memory.

The rules were clear, spoken with the sternness of someone who had undoubtedly witnessed the consequences of disobedience: Do not touch anything. Do not move anything. Do not allow yourself to be seen. Do not speak to anyone. Observe, nothing more. A quiet ghost in the river of time.

I met his gaze, and for a brief moment, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes — mismatched and striking — were a story in themselves. One a rich amber, warm like sunlight spilling through ancient windows; the other a deep, stormy blue, like the sky moments before thunder shatters the silence. They pulled me in, gently at first, then all at once, like falling into a trance where the edges between past and present began to blur.

Somehow, without meaning to, I found myself wondering — if eyes could hold someone's entire history, what kind of story would his tell me?

A blur crawled into my mind, cold and relentless — like fingers dragging me under the surface of a frozen lake.

The flood of memories didn't arrive gently, nor did it feel like a tender unveiling of his past. It was violence wrapped in silence, the kind of silence that pulses against your ears when screams are too hoarse to escape. Whispers slithered through the cracks in my consciousness, fragmented mutterings, desperate pleas, the sound of skin hitting skin, the begging — oh god, the begging to live.

And that is the story of Ezra.

A boy born into the middle ground — not poor enough to be pitied, not wealthy enough to be spared. His life was average in the cruelest sense, hovering just above ruin, surrounded by people too broken to love him properly. Those smiles and bursts of manic energy were a carefully crafted mask, because the truth was too ugly to show.

Deliberately ignored by the very hands meant to protect him, Ezra learned survival the hard way. His mother — the woman meant to fill his stomach and soothe his fears — turned to drugs instead, letting substances take the place of responsibility. The house became a prison, the walls soaked with the stench of neglect. And when she wasn't a ghost, she was a monster.

She made sure his body bore the weight of her frustrations. Bruises blooming like rotting flowers, bones learning to break before they could fully grow. There were nights he couldn't walk, mornings he woke up wondering if his legs would ever carry him again.

And yet, here he sits — bright-eyed, loud-mouthed, and relentlessly alive.

But now I know the truth.

Every smile is a desperate defiance. Every laugh is a scream buried under his tongue. Every careless act of chaos is a child daring the world to break him again.

And in this flood of someone else's pain, I realized: some people aren't born survivors — they're made into them.

I wanted to help him.

It wasn't a fleeting thought, nor some heroic impulse — it was instinct, primal and unforgiving. My bones screamed at me to reach out, to shatter the rules, to tear through the veil that separated my reality from his.

But I couldn't.

Because the rules are absolute.

Do not touch. Remain unseen. Just watch.

So I watched. I watched as he collapsed onto the cold, filthy ground, limbs trembling from the weight of bruises layered over bones too fragile for this kind of life. His breathing was shallow, the kind of breath that doesn't expect to last.

And when I thought that was the end — that this was where his story would end in a puddle of blood and neglect — she came.

An old woman with shaking hands and kindness carved into every line on her face. She scooped him up like he was something fragile and precious, like broken things were meant to be cared for, not discarded.

She gave him warmth, food, and clothes that didn't hang off him like skin he was waiting to shed. She gave him a home, not just a house. And for the first time, he tasted love. Real love — the kind without conditions, without fists hiding behind smiles.

"What's a wife?" young Ezra asked one day, small fingers tugging at her sleeve as they sat by a hearth that crackled softly — the only sound that didn't hurt his ears.

The old woman smiled, gentle and sad. "A wife is someone you'll love — someone you'll never turn your back on. She's like a seed you plant, one that grows into something beautiful if you care for it properly. Promise me, Ezra. When you find someone, treat her right. Be the kind of man your father never was."

And for a while, it seemed like fate would be kinder to him.

But trauma doesn't disappear — it festers. It finds ways to seep into every crack, even when you think you've sealed them shut.

So Ezra grew up with kindness in his heart, but madness wrapped around his mind like a second skin.

He became a man who laughed too loudly and too often, because silence was where the ghosts lived. He turned himself into a living spectacle — an insane clown wearing tragedy like face paint. But beneath the chaos, beneath the theatrics, he was still that little boy asking what love was, praying someone would show him how not to break it.

Ezra is a good man.

Just one who was built from broken things. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3,743 words

Next Chapter

lil description for my story

Hagarin never expected her life to become a story worth telling. Born into an ordinary existence, her reality twists when she discovers her fate as a time traveler-one with no map, no prophecy, and no warning for what comes next As her twin sister Hanari once said: "You've got a hell of a story to tell." With each jump through time, Hagarin sees the world through fractured glimpses: memories that aren't hers, tragedies she can't stop, and horrors she must survive.

From battles against monsters and violent self-defense to heart-wrenching losses and fleeting moments of love, every fragment shapes the tale she's destined to live-and the one she's meant to tell. This is a story of fractured futures, untold horrors, fleeting romances, and the weight of knowing too much.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

proceed to Prologue

it took me 5 years of fixating everything.

“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

Chapter 8: Blades and Rivalries

Tw: Mild language

Days had begun to settle into a quiet rhythm once I got the hang of everything—by trying everything. But that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

Now, I find myself walking through the library, where the soft patter of rain against the windows casts a monochrome hue over the space. The dull light filtering in makes everything feel muted, as if the world outside had drained all its color and left only shades of gray behind.

The library is vast, its towering shelves stretching endlessly, yet it holds only a handful of students scattered between aisles. Their presence is barely noticeable beneath the heavy silence.

I wander deeper, trailing my fingers along the spines of old books, savoring the rare tranquility—until it's broken.

A voice rises from the other side of the shelf.

"I still can't believe Hagarin has returned," Liviya mutters, her words laced with something sharp, something bitter.

"Why? Does she bother you?" Another voice responds. Sashenka.

I freeze in place, my ears tuning in despite myself.

"Yeah, she does. I suppose you could say she’s stealing my spotlight." Liviya scoffs, the sound grating against the hush of the library.

My brow arches as I process her words. Stealing her spotlight? I comb through my memories, trying to recall a moment where I had even tried to get involved with her. But I had barely interacted with Liviya—let alone threatened her place in anything.

"What do you even mean by spotlight?" Sashenka asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

"She’s taking the valedictorian spot," Liviya replied, and I nearly choked on my own saliva. Woah. Valedictorian? That was the last thing I expected of myself.

"How are you even so sure?" Sashenka asked, skepticism thick in her voice.

"Because I’ve seen her perform in all aspects, and I must admit—she’s no ordinary student," Liviya said, irritation creeping into her words.

Sashenka sighed. "She’s ordinary. What are you even talking about?"

I heard the faint rustle of pages as she reached for a book, and my stomach twisted in panic. If she pulled that book from the shelf, she’d see me standing right here. Too close. Too risky.

Instinct kicked in—I grabbed the book before she could.

For a second, Sashenka tugged at it, confused, as if sensing an unseen resistance. Then, after a brief pause, she let go with a quiet, puzzled huh.

"You don't get me, Sashenka," Liviya said, irritation creeping into her tone. She was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice Sashenka’s growing confusion as she stared at the book.

"I really don’t," Sashenka scoffed. "You make it sound like she’s some all-powerful, high-and-mighty Hagarin, when really, she’s just doing what any student would do."

"You don’t get me," Liviya repeated, her voice firm.

"Oh, I get you," Sashenka shot back, a grin breaking through. "You’re just as crazy as the rest of them." She let out a hearty laugh, and I stood there, utterly lost.

Crazy? Competing? Me?

I hadn't done anything to rival anyone—I could barely keep up with my own inner turmoil. And yet, somehow, I had ended up in the middle of something I never even signed up for.

Without thinking, I turned and walked away.

I didn’t stop until I was back in the main building. Unlike the quiet halls I had left behind, this place buzzed with life—students moving in all directions, their voices blending into an endless hum.

"You’re here?"

I turned at the sound of Hanari’s voice as she appeared behind me, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"I was bored," I admitted.

Hanari beamed before looping her arm through mine. "Perfect. Come on!"

Before I could protest, she was already dragging me toward the cafeteria.

She pulled me toward the cafeteria, where the hum of conversation and clatter of trays filled the air. The place was alive—brimming with energy in a way that felt almost foreign after spending so much time in the other department.

I glanced around, taking in the familiar scene. It was nice. Comfortable, even. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this until now. Maybe that other place had drained more life out of me than I thought.

Hanari and I grabbed our food before settling at an empty table just outside the cafeteria.

"I kinda doubt that the only reason you're here is because you’re bored," Hanari said, poking at her food before taking a bite.

I sighed. "It’s the truth. Don’t overthink it." I focused on my own meal, hoping she'd drop it.

"Ironic, coming from someone who overthinks everything," she shot back, giving me a knowing look. "Just tell me. I feel like ‘boredom’ is just the tip of the iceberg."

I hesitated but eventually let out another sigh. Fine.

"Someone doesn’t like me," I admitted.

Hanari paused—then burst into laughter. Loudly.

"I can't believe people over there have the time and energy to hate someone when there aren’t even that many of you!" she cackled. "Like, seriously? They had to go out of their way to despise you?"

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

"So? Are you not gonna share the context?" She eagerly waited for me as I sighed. "She said that I have the potential to take the

"The valedictorian spot? I’m clearly just an average student," I said, rubbing my chin before letting out a sigh. "If I were going to compete, it’d only be if I actually had confidence. And honestly? I just hope she won’t be mean to me."

Hanari scoffed. "You can handle yourself in any situation. I doubt you wouldn’t find a way to shut her up the moment she starts spouting nonsense." She nodded, as if already picturing the scene.

"Yeah, but making a big deal out of everything is just a waste of time. For what?" I muttered, shaking my head.

"That’s their problem, not yours," Hanari said simply. "Unless you actually want to take responsibility for something you never even signed up for."

She had a point. I leaned back, mulling over her words before nodding. "I’d only fight back if I have to."

Lunch passed, and I made my way back to the building where I studied, Hanari heading off in her own direction.

While waiting in the elevator, the doors slid open, and as I stepped out, my gaze landed on someone in the hall. He was refilling his water bottle, dressed in an outfit that could only be described as… adventurer-like.

A sun hat—the kind classic explorers wore—sat atop his head, and a camera hung around his neck. His entire attire practically screamed "traveler," though a subtle detail caught my eye. Somewhere on his clothing, a logo of the school was embroidered, almost like a mark of recognition. My eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before walking back to my classroom. 

I settled into my seat just as our professor entered the room, their presence immediately commanding attention.

"We have a visitor today," they announced. "Someone will be offering an opportunity to join the media analyst team."

The door opened, and in walked the same guy I had passed by earlier—the one dressed like an adventurer.

"Good afternoon, everyone." His voice was steady, confident.

"I’m Prince, a member of the media analyst team. I’m both a journalist and an adventurer," he introduced himself, adjusting the camera slung around his neck. "Today, I’m here to recruit students to join our team. In this field, we take on activities ranging from real-world adventures—documenting stories from the outside world—to tackling controversies within the city itself. Everything we uncover, we write and publish in the media."

With a flick of his wrist, a stack of brochures scattered through the air, gliding toward us like leaves caught in the wind. One landed on my desk, and I picked it up, scanning the details.

Almost without thinking, I muttered, "What are the pros and cons of this?"

Silence followed. Did I just say that out loud?

I cleared my throat. "Sorry," I mumbled before quickly lowering my head to read the brochure properly.

A scoff echoed from behind me, sharp and unmistakable. Liviya.

Of course. As if my mere existence offended her. I’ll have to find a way to keep her on her toes.

Prince, however, remained unfazed. "To answer your question," he began, adjusting his glasses with a practiced motion, "the biggest pro is experience—real-world exposure in every aspect. You’ll develop literacy in global issues, gain firsthand knowledge, and sharpen your analytical skills."

He paused before continuing, "However, the cons depending on your personal weaknesses. Some might struggle with the risks, the unpredictability. Others might find the weight of knowledge overwhelming."

I let his words settle in my mind. Exploring the world… that does sound nice.

But leaving home? Maybe that’s where the real downside comes in.

"I’ll return in three days to collect the list of those interested in joining. Please stay tuned for further announcements," Prince said before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Almost immediately, Sashenka turned to Liviya, who sat behind us. "Are you gonna join?"

Liviya scoffed. "I wouldn’t join if she was in the same room as me. Oh, but let’s be real—I’m too smart to even be there to begin with." She flipped her hair, her tone dripping with self-importance. "Joining a team of journalists to refine political stances and views does sound like a decent choice, but I’m going to be a lawyer. Studying law will sharpen my thinking just fine."

I mentally rolled my eyes so hard I might as well have yanked her hair while I was at it.

"I see…" Sashenka simply nodded, though she stole a glance in my direction. "What about you, Hagarin?"

"I’m considering it," I said casually.

"Ain’t no way!" Clara’s voice shot across the room from the other side. "You’re leaving again?"

I blinked, tilting my head. "I get to leave?"

As if I’d just found a loophole—a perfect escape from this place.

"Oh, but of course," Liviya said, her voice dripping with amusement. "I actually suggest you leave, Hagarin. Maybe people there would find you interesting." She chuckled, her words laced with something just short of mockery.

Sashenka glanced at her but said nothing. No backup this time, huh?

I exhaled slowly, finally turning to face Liviya. "Oh? Was that necessary to say?"

For a split second, her composure faltered—just the slightest crack.

The classroom fell silent. Even Clara, who had been outspoken moments ago, had gone quiet, reduced to a spectator along with the rest. The tension in the room thickened, all eyes flickering between us.

Liviya recovered quickly, offering a play-it-safe response. "Of course, I’m just saying you’d meet more people there."

"As if I’m looking for people to surround me," I shot back, my voice daring her to say what she really meant. "What’s your point, Liviya?"

Before she could answer, the professor’s voice cut through the air.

"That’s enough."

Liviya clicked her tongue. "Tch. Sensitive."

I smirked. "Egotistical.

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The next day, we were gathered in the gym for yet another exhausting activity. Physical combat. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Liviya had somehow decided to turn this into a rivalry—one I couldn’t care less about, yet she still managed to irritate me to no end.

"For the next activity," the instructor announced, "we will be exploring weapons. This exercise is meant to sharpen your skills and help you find a weapon you may prefer. Please take your time testing them before we begin sparring."

I glanced at the collection laid out before us. They were all crafted from wood and other harmless materials—blunt enough to prevent injury but still effective for training.

Reaching into a bag, my fingers brushed against the hilt of a katana. I pulled it out, weighing it in my hands. Not bad. Feels comfortable.

A hushed whisper reached my ears.

"Look at her, using a katana. Isn’t that weird?" Liviya murmured to Sashenka.

Sashenka barely reacted, giving me a quick glance before shrugging it off.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my eyes before casually picking up a small rock and tossing it in Liviya’s direction. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, just enough to startle her.

Without waiting for her reaction, I swiftly left my spot, making my way over to Clara and Clarence, who were deep in discussion about their weapon choices.

"I saw what you did, Hagarin," Clara chuckled, shaking her head.

Clarence adjusted his glasses. "Liviya’s just looking for any excuse to talk bad about you. A katana is just as useful as any other weapon."

I sighed. "Is she really like that? I almost feel bad for her—arguing with a wall must be exhausting."

Clara raised a brow. "Well, this is a first. I honestly don’t know why she has it out for you either." She picked up a magic book, flipping through the pages. It was the kind designed for combat, filled with spells that could be cast in an instant.

"I overheard her in the library the other day," I admitted. Both of them turned their full attention to me.

"She said I was stealing her spotlight. That I might take her throne as valedictorian." I rubbed my chin, still baffled. "Which is ridiculous. I took months off just to pull myself together. I’m not even caught up yet."

"She’s just afraid of being outsmarted. That’s it."

Ezra strolled toward us, seamlessly joining the conversation.

"Really?" I asked, eyeing him.

Clarence sighed. "You’re back from detention. What did you do this time?"

Ezra let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Well… I was supposed to prank that egotistical guy in our class by scaring him—but I scared our professor instead. Dang, almost got him. So… yeah." He sighed dramatically.

Clara stifled a laugh. "You’re impossible.""And yeah, about Liviya—she hates being outsmarted," Ezra continued, shaking his head. "She’s been getting on my nerves, too. As if that pretty face of hers makes up for her problematic ass."

"What’d she do to you?" I asked, curious.

Ezra scoffed. "Laughed at me for being mentally unwell. Man, I should’ve kicked her in the face." He groaned, clearly still bitter about it.

Before I could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air. The professor called us to gather.

"Now that your five minutes of weapon selection is over, we will proceed to picking opponents."

I straightened, gripping the hilt of my katana. Let it be Liviya. I wanted to see her squirm—just a little, just enough to get under her skin.

"Hagarin and Sashenka."

Oh.

Everyone stepped aside, clearing space for the spar.

"The rules remain the same as last time," the professor announced. "If you stay down for five seconds, it will count as a defeat. However, today, supernatural abilities are strictly forbidden. This will be purely physical combat."

I adjusted my grip on the katana, rolling my shoulders as I settled into my stance. Across from me, Sashenka did the same, raising her sword and small shield. A shield? Nice choice.

"Be ready," the professor warned.

The moment the signal rang out, we lunged at each other.

Steel met steel in a sharp clash. Sparks of friction. A test of strength. I dodged a strike, twisting my body to avoid the blade, only for Sashenka to counter just as quickly. We moved like pieces on a chessboard—attack, dodge, counter, repeat.

Each step, each motion, was calculated.

And neither of us was willing to be the first to fall.

Our blades clashed in a sharp burst of motion. Sashenka struck first, aiming for my side, but I parried with the katana’s blunt edge before twisting away from her shield bash. She was fast. I had to admit that. Each swing came with precision, her balance unwavering.

She wasn't just swinging wildly—she was testing me.

I stepped back, dodging another strike before retaliating, slashing toward her shoulder. She blocked it with her shield, the impact vibrating through the air, and shoved me back with a quick push. I skidded a step before regaining my footing.

Sashenka smirked. She's good.

I exhaled. Fine. Let’s speed this up.

I darted in again, feinting to the right before pivoting left, slashing low. She barely raised her shield in time, but the movement left her sword arm vulnerable. Taking my chance, I twisted my grip and struck toward her wrist.

A clean hit.

She hissed, losing her grip for a split second—long enough. I swung again, forcing her to step back, her defense breaking apart. I pressed forward, relentless, pushing her into a corner.

She raised her sword for one final attempt at striking me down.

But I was already a step ahead.

Ducking under her blade, I swept my leg out, hooking behind her ankle. Her balance wavered. A moment of hesitation—just a moment.

Then she fell.

Her back hit the ground hard, sword slipping from her grasp as I stepped forward, pressing the dull side of my katana against her chest.

"One… two… three…" The professor began counting.

Sashenka groaned, glaring up at me before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

"Four… five! Match over!"

Silence filled the gym for a beat before a few murmurs broke out. I exhaled, stepping back and offering Sashenka my hand. She took it, shaking her head as she got up.

"Damn," she muttered. "Guess you aren't as rusty as people think."

I smirked. Damn right.

I glanced at my friends who were silently cheering then to Liviya with a prose of envy. 

That's her problem now. 

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2,949 words