Latest Posts by chen-nn - Page 2

Chapter 7: Defending the Future

Days passed like trains speeding down endless tracks—too fast to process, too loud to ignore. I could still feel the grip of my past struggles clawing at my throat, as if it all happened just yesterday. But it's not yesterday anymore. It's been five months.

And now, here I am, standing at the edge of a train platform, watching the rails stretch into the unknown. The air smells like rust and rain. My hands clutch the strap of my bag a little tighter, my nerves refusing to settle down.

I'm heading to Ms. Renée's house, a visit I asked for myself. I need her guidance, not just as a teacher, but as someone who's seen what this power can do—to me, to my mind, to my reality. I need to know how to stand my ground without collapsing into it.

I miss Clara. I miss Clarence, and, surprisingly, even Ezra. I've been left behind in ways that aren't just academic. Time doesn't wait for people like me. Time drags us along, whether we're ready or not. I know they're worried about me, and honestly, I'm worried about me too.

The train arrives, and with it, the next step I'm both terrified and desperate to take.

As I stepped inside the train, a quiet sense of surprise flickered through me. The train car was nearly empty, a rare sight in a world that never seems to stop moving. Then it hit me—the holidays. Most people were off work, gathered with their families, or finding comfort in the warmth of their homes.

I found an empty seat by the window and settled in, resting my forehead against the cool glass. The world outside blurred as the train moved forward, passing familiar buildings, slumbering houses, and empty roads. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the whole city was asleep—like I was the only one awake, drifting alone in a sea of quiet.

My gaze flickered upward, landing on a massive billboard that stood out between concrete and sky. It was a hair product ad, featuring a model with flowing, silky hair that danced in the nonexistent wind.

Without thinking, I reached up and ran my fingers through my own hair. My scalp stung faintly at the tug, and when my hand came down, a few loose strands were tangled between my fingers. Stress already leaving its mark.

I sighed softly, brushing the strands onto the floor, watching them fall like broken threads of myself. The train kept moving, but my mind stayed behind—somewhere in those last five months, somewhere in the place where my control slipped, and time itself almost swallowed me whole. 

The speaker crackled to life, its metallic voice slicing through the quiet hum of the train. It announced the next station—my stop.

I exhaled, shoulders heavy with a weight I couldn't quite name. Gripping the cold metal pole beside my seat, I pulled myself up, my legs moving before my mind fully caught up. This is it.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the world outside awaited—a familiar station, an unfamiliar version of me stepping out. It's my stop.

It didn't take long before I slipped through the sea of strangers, each step pulling me closer to something familiar. And finally, standing before me—Ms. Renée's house.

I raised my hand, ready to knock, but before my knuckles could meet the wood, the door swung open. Ms. Renée stood there, a trash bag in hand, her expression flickering between surprise and quiet amusement.

"Oh! You're here," she said, brushing stray hair from her face with the back of her wrist.

"Yeah, uh..." I shifted on my feet. "I just wanted to go somewhere—anywhere, honestly. I've been stuck at home and bored out of my mind, but...I'm not ready to go back to school either."

"Feel free to sit in the living room. We have a lot to talk about." Ms. Renée walked past me, the trash bag dragging softly against the ground as she disappeared outside.

When I stepped inside, a soft meow greeted me. A small furball of a cat was sitting by the doorway, its curious eyes staring up at me.

"That's Mimi—my companion through everything," Ms. Renée said as she returned, brushing her hands clean and gesturing toward the couch. I followed her lead and sank into the cushions beside her.

A sigh slipped out of me before I could stop it. "Life's... tough. If I had to sum up how I'm doing right now, that's the word I'd use."

Ms. Renée leaned back into the couch, wearing a relaxed expression that felt too practiced to be real. "You'll be fine. I know it's hard to find the motivation to fight back against everything that's weighing on you—but you're still here, and you have every logical reason to stay."

My gaze wandered to the clock on the wall, the ticking sound strangely louder than before. "But am I really still alive? Or just... mentally dead? I've been wondering if I'm actually going insane."

Ms. Renée didn't flinch at the question. Instead, she simply shrugged. "Maybe you are," she said. "But the real question is—what's bothering you right now?"

"To start with... what I saw in that psychological test—it's still there, lodged into my mind like barbed wire tangled in my veins. No amount of sleep can shake it off. It feels like I'd need to be high just to silence it." I sighed, my fingers tracing patterns into my palm. "But I can't exactly start doing weeds now, can I?"

Ms. Renée didn't laugh, but I could tell she wanted to. Instead, she stayed quiet, letting me spill what was stuck inside.

"And that's why I can't move forward," I continued. "It's the root of all this procrastination—the reason why the thought of going back to that school makes my stomach twist. The trauma clings to me like a second skin."

"You're strong, Hagarin," Ms. Renée said, her voice steady but soft. "I know once you've walked through this, you won't even recognize yourself."

"How can you be so sure?" I asked, my tone sharp with doubt.

"Time will tell."

I frowned. "Or did time already tell you?"

"No," she replied, exhaling like someone who'd had this conversation more times than she could count. "The future shifts with every breath you take. What happens next depends on what you do now. That's why I'm telling you—get a grip, Hagarin. Not because I'm scolding you, but because I know you can. And someday, you'll thank yourself for trying."

"I suppose that makes sense... if I really think about it," I muttered, my fingers curling into the fabric of my sleeve. "Maybe rationality is the only thing keeping me from snapping completely. But still... what else can I do? How do I stop my own powers from eating me alive?"

Ms. Renée's expression softened, but her words carried weight. "Stay calm—no matter what. When the storm rises, you don't fight it head-on. You learn to sail through it. You listen to what it's trying to tell you, and you pull apart every tangled thread at your own pace. One by one."

She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Only then will you understand the blessing hidden within your power. It's not a curse, Hagarin. It's a privilege—a rare one. To see time itself, to glimpse futures others can't, even if it breaks you a little along the way. One day, you'll realize that seeing everything isn't meant to destroy you. It's meant to teach you how to live."

"To help you feel a little better, let's shift gears and think about the future for a moment," Ms. Renée suggested, her voice softer now. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I blinked at her, caught off guard by the question. "I... I never really thought about that," I admitted, scratching my hair absentmindedly. A few more strands came loose, and I flicked them away. "Honestly, I should probably stop just drifting wherever life pushes me and actually think of something big — something that gives me purpose."

I glanced at her, half-expecting her to have some magical career roadmap just waiting for me. "Any suggestions? Something that might actually fit me?"

Ms. Renée smiled, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Alright. On a scale of one to ten, how curious are you about how this world works — not just the ordinary world, but the parts hidden beneath it? The gears and wires and ancient laws holding up this cruel, magical mess we live in."

I tilted my head, considering it. That itch in my brain, the one that always wanted to know — to pull back curtains and poke at things until they made sense — it flared up again. "Ten," I answered without hesitation. "Or maybe eleven."

"Then maybe, just maybe," she said, "you should consider becoming the kind of person who studies both history and future at once. A timekeeper, a chronicler, or even a seer who isn't just at the mercy of their powers — but someone who understands the story behind them."

I stared at her, heart pounding slightly at the thought. For the first time in months, the future didn't feel like a monster hiding under my bed.

It felt like a question I actually wanted to answer.

"I want my name to be etched into history," I said, my voice steady despite the slight hesitation curling at the edges. "I want to fight for change, to ride the thrill of chaos without letting it consume me. And one day—when it's all over—I want to come home, sit in my own house, and have a story worth telling my little sister."

The words settled in the air between us, heavier than I expected. A part of me wondered if I was just saying what sounded right. But deep in my gut, I knew—this was real. This was what I needed to do.

Ms. Renée studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled—small, knowing, as if she had been waiting for me to realize this myself. "That," she said, "is a future worth chasing."

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After that day, I became history.

And I had never felt better.

Every day, I trained—refining my control, steadying the power that once threatened to consume me. Until, finally, I was stable enough to return. The halls of my school no longer felt like a battlefield but a place where I could reclaim what I had lost.

The day eventually came when I no longer needed my mask. But even then, I kept it—an emblem of who I once was, a symbol of the anonymity that once shielded me.

Months passed, and stress hit me like an unforgiving tide. Catching up was brutal, but it was a price I had to pay for being left behind. My nights were a constant battle—sleepiness on one side, and me drowning in school paperwork on the other. Then came the days, where I was left physically drained from relentless training sessions with Ms. Renee.

At night, I’d stumble through the door with bruises blooming across my skin like twisted flowers, every step heavy, every breath shallow. My body ached in places I didn’t even know could hurt, and my throat felt like it had forgotten how to form words. There were nights when I just stood there in the dark, hands trembling, unable to cry, unable to scream—just... silent.

Within every training session, my mind would spiral into chaos. Thoughts clashed and screamed over each other, like a storm trapped in my skull. The pressure built until it became unbearable, and by the time it ended, I was often left with migraines so severe that only a healer’s touch could ease the pain. Would that even be excluded from the toll I was paying? Sigh. I wasn’t just being worn down physically—it was like my soul itself was fraying at the edges.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Sometimes, it didn’t come at all. I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, muscles twitching from the day’s strain, mind still echoing with the noise it couldn’t shut off. Every second felt like a war between rest and responsibility, and I was always losing to both.

Then the sun would rise. Too early. Too bright. And with it came the cruel reminder that it was time to do it all over again. Wake up. Push through. Train until my body couldn’t take it anymore. Study until my brain went numb. Smile when I had nothing left to give.

And still, I endured. I don’t know if it was strength or just stubbornness. But each day bled into the next, and the cycle kept turning—cold, relentless, unforgiving.

And today, standing before my classmates, I faced another challenge—an academic report.

I wasn’t sure why it was necessary, why it mattered in the grand scheme of things, but I supposed it was all part of the process. Just another task in this department.

The room was silent. All eyes were on me.

I took a deep breath.

Time to begin.

I exhaled slowly, standing before the class, gripping the edge of the podium. The projector behind me flashed the title of my research:

"The Ripple Effect of Inflation: A Meta-Analysis on Economic Strains and Societal Adaptations."

I cleared my throat. “Good day, everyone. Today, I will be presenting a meta-analysis that examines various research studies on inflation and its cascading effects on different socioeconomic groups.”

A few students shifted in their seats, already looking half-bored. I continued anyway.

“Inflation is not just about rising prices—it’s a systemic issue that affects wages, cost of living, and economic stability. By analyzing multiple studies from economists and financial institutions, this research aims to uncover recurring patterns, disparities in impact, and potential mitigation strategies.”

I clicked the remote, shifting to the next slide. A graph appeared, showing inflation trends over the last decade.

"First, let’s discuss its causes." I pointed to the data. “Several factors contribute to inflation: supply chain disruptions, excessive money supply, and demand-pull effects. In recent years, the COVID-19 pandemic and geopolitical tensions have significantly worsened global inflation rates.”

I glanced at my classmates, noting some furrowed brows. Good. They were listening.

“Now, let’s talk about who suffers the most.”

A new slide showed a comparison of income groups. “Low-income households bear the brunt of inflation. Unlike wealthier groups, who can adjust their investments or savings, working-class families struggle with rising costs of essentials. Studies indicate a direct correlation between inflation spikes and increased poverty rates.”

Ezra, sitting at the back, raised a hand. “So, are you saying we’re all doomed?”

I sighed. “Not necessarily. Let’s move on to solutions.”

The final slide appeared: a set of policy recommendations drawn from economic literature.

“To combat inflation, governments and financial institutions implement various strategies—interest rate adjustments, fiscal policies, and market interventions. However, historical data suggests that while these measures provide short-term relief, they do not always prevent future inflations. Instead, a sustainable solution must involve a balance of monetary control, wage adjustments, and investment in local production to reduce dependency on volatile global markets.”

I paused. “In other words, while inflation is inevitable, its impact can be controlled with the right policies.”

The professor nodded in approval. “An insightful analysis, Hagarin. Any questions?”

A hand shot up. I braced myself. Time to defend my research.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I exhaled slowly, standing before the class, gripping the edge of the podium. The projector behind me flashed the title of my research:

"The Ripple Effect of Inflation: A Meta-Analysis on Economic Strains and Societal Adaptations."

I cleared my throat. “Good day, everyone. Today, I will be presenting a meta-analysis that examines various research studies on inflation and its cascading effects on different socioeconomic groups.”

A few students shifted in their seats, already looking half-bored. I continued anyway.

“Inflation is not just about rising prices—it’s a systemic issue that affects wages, cost of living, and economic stability. By analyzing multiple studies from economists and financial institutions, this research aims to uncover recurring patterns, disparities in impact, and potential mitigation strategies.”

I clicked the remote, shifting to the next slide. A graph appeared, showing inflation trends over the last decade.

"First, let’s discuss its causes." I pointed to the data. “Several factors contribute to inflation: supply chain disruptions, excessive money supply, and demand-pull effects. In recent years, the COVID-19 pandemic and geopolitical tensions have significantly worsened global inflation rates.”

I glanced at my classmates, noting some furrowed brows. Good. They were listening.

“Now, let’s talk about who suffers the most.”

A new slide showed a comparison of income groups. “Low-income households bear the brunt of inflation. Unlike wealthier groups, who can adjust their investments or savings, working-class families struggle with rising costs of essentials. Studies indicate a direct correlation between inflation spikes and increased poverty rates.”

Ezra, sitting at the back, raised a hand. “So, are you saying we’re all doomed?”

I sighed. “Not necessarily. Let’s move on to solutions.”

The final slide appeared: a set of policy recommendations drawn from economic literature.

“To combat inflation, governments and financial institutions implement various strategies—interest rate adjustments, fiscal policies, and market interventions. However, historical data suggests that while these measures provide short-term relief, they do not always prevent future inflations. Instead, a sustainable solution must involve a balance of monetary control, wage adjustments, and investment in local production to reduce dependency on volatile global markets.”

I paused. “In other words, while inflation is inevitable, its impact can be controlled with the right policies.”

The professor nodded in approval. “An insightful analysis, Hagarin. Any questions?”

A hand shot up. I braced myself. Time to defend my research.

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3,044 words

Next Chapter

Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher

Content Warning for Chapter 6 This chapter contains depictions of psychological distress, hallucinations, paranoia, mentions of therapy, and unsettling imagery (including gore-like descriptions, though not physical). Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to topics related to mental health struggles and dissociation. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

there's fluff despite everything, dw, you're not just a reader! there's aftercare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another day. Another twisted activity waiting for us.

We were all gathered in a cramped, windowless room today — air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of stress-sweat. Proctors paced back and forth, handing out assignments, their shoes tapping like countdown clocks against the tile.

Every student had their own task: someone bent metal into intricate symbols; another whispered to a bowl of water until their reflection screamed back; one kid calculated endless numbers, their fingers twitching like flesh calculators.

And me? I got the box.

It sat at the center of the room, black and heart beating, almost alive. When the proctor called my name, my gut twisted painfully — the same way it did when I first learned my mother died. A slow-blooming nausea that whispered, This will change you.

I obeyed anyway. Because what else could I do?

The moment my fingertips brushed the box, everything around me ruptured.

The walls melted, my classmates vanished, and suddenly I was standing on a bridge suspended over nothing. The sky churned with black oil clouds, and the only sound was my own pulse, loud and thunderous, rattling my skull from the inside out.

The first puzzle piece was easy — a small section of the box slid away under my touch, clicking into place like a child's toy. Too easy.

The second piece? It bit into my skin. Razor-sharp edges slid under my nails, prying them up like peeling fruit skin. Blood welled fast and slick, dripping down my wrists — but I couldn't stop. My fingers moved like puppets under some crueler hand, and the more I solved, the more reality warped around me.

I saw my mother's coffin. Even though in reality, I never had the chance to give my mother a proper burial.

It was standing upright beside me — nailed shut, but not enough to stop her hand from slipping through the crack. Bone-thin fingers, nails ripped clean off, reaching for me.

Behind me, Clara stood with her throat slit wide open — petals growing from the wound like some macabre garden, blooming faster every time I blinked.

Worst of all, in the mirrored shards scattered on the ground, I saw myself. Or versions of me. 

One had no eyes, just empty sockets filled with writhing, ink-black worms. 

One had my lips stitched shut with golden wire, my hands folded politely like a corpse. 

One stood with her back bent at a grotesque angle, head hanging loose by a thread of skin.

I should have screamed. I should have stopped. I didn't.

Because the box wouldn't let me.

--------------------------------------------------------------

With every new piece, the puzzle took more from me.

My left eye burst — or at least, it felt like it. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull, and something thicker than blood leaked down my cheek. I wiped at it, trembling, and my hand came away soaked in black ink, dripping like melted shadow.

My fingers began to crack and splinter, bone peeking through skin. Every time a piece slid into place, my own flesh unraveled — as if solving the puzzle meant dismantling myself.

But I couldn't stop.

Time twisted in knots around me. The bridge collapsed and rebuilt itself beneath my feet, forcing me to step forward, backward, sideways — every wrong step dropped me into another memory.

I fell into my childhood bedroom, staring at my mother's empty bed.

I fell into the schoolyard, watching Clara wave before a flower pierced her hand.

I fell into my own grave, dirt filling my mouth until I couldn't scream.

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Somewhere, some tiny rational part of my mind knew the truth.

This wasn't real. None of it. This was the test — a psychic simulation planted directly into my skull by the proctors. My body was still standing in that tiny room, trembling, hands clutching the real box.

But the rest of me? I was dying. Over and over and over.

This was how they forced my powers to awaken. Not through training — through terror. Through stress so violent my time magic would activate by instinct.

They were ripping me open, not to teach me, but to see if I could survive it.

When the final piece slid into place, I hit the ground hard. My knees split open against jagged stone, and for a moment I could taste my own blood, bright and sharp like a warning bell.

The bridge shattered beneath me, sending me into a free-fall through my own memories, my own past mistakes. I relived my mother's death in reverse, watching her rise from the grave, heal from her sickness, smile at me once more—

And then I woke up.

Back in the room. Hands trembling over the very normal, very wooden puzzle box. The proctor nodded once. "Good work." My gaze fell to the woman by his side. It was Ms. Renée

She didn't ask questions. Didn't tell me it was all fake, because she knew it didn't matter. My mind couldn't tell the difference. My body still remembered the agony, the trauma. The phantom pain lingered, too deep to scrub out.

She knelt beside me, hands warm on my frozen skin. "Hagarin, You're okay."

I couldn't even answer. My throat felt stitched shut.

She wiped my face gently — her sleeve coming away soaked with cold sweat and tears. No blood. No ink. Just a terrified kid they pushed too far.

The walk home is as though paranoia grips through my skin, it causes me to shiver to no end, no relief, no warmth.

Ms. Renée walked me home, her arm never leaving my shoulders. Every step felt like it existed in three different timelines — one where I fell, one where I ran, one where I stood still until time ate me alive.

When we reached my door, I froze.

It wasn't my house. It was my mother's funeral home, twisted into the shape of my front door. Her coffin was waiting inside — not real, but my brain didn't care.

I collapsed to my knees, trembling so violently I thought my bones would rattle apart.

Ms. Renee held me, whispering, "You're here. You're real." I didn't believe her.

I still don't.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my hands.

The injuries were gone. My fingers were whole. My eye was intact. My skin was clean.

But when I clenched my fists, the air shimmered, rippling faintly like time didn't fully trust me anymore.

Every time I blinked, I saw the stitched-mouth version of me sitting at the foot of my bed, watching, waiting for me to break again.

Time didn't just test me today. It claimed me.

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Morning light gently seeped through the veil of my curtains, painting fragile gold across the room and...

Sleep didn't come.

When I closed my eyes, I fell into the bridge again. Into the coffin. Into my own corpse.

I woke up gasping, fingers clawing at my throat, convinced it was still sewn shut. I vomited once — black sludge that vanished the moment I blinked, leaving me doubting if it ever happened.

Time magic is supposed to be beautiful. But mine feels like a curse — a parasite gnawing at my spine, whispering, You don't deserve control. We do.

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The next morning—another morning. I saw my reflection.

My face was fine. But my shadow moved slower than me, lagging by just a fraction of a second — like time itself didn't fully trust me anymore.

At breakfast, my cup cracked when I picked it up — age speeding up around my fingertips until the glass simply couldn't hold itself together.

I was unraveling. And no one could see it but me. 

They wanted me to learn control. 

What I learned instead is that time has teeth — and every second you touch will bite back.

I'm stronger now. But I'm also haunted.

Because every time I close my eyes, I still see that stitched-mouth girl — still sitting at the foot of my bed, still waiting for me to break her free.

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The past five days unraveled like a slow, cruel unraveling of thread — paranoia soaked into every corner of my mind until it left me disheveled, barely standing today. My fingers now brush against the fragile edges of reality, where I could finally distinguish what was real and what was only a phantom born from my fear.

Guilt curled itself around my throat like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. I never gave Hanari the explanation she deserved — I simply pushed her towards Ms. Renée, too ashamed, too fractured to speak for myself.

The school excused me for a month, a mercy disguised as punishment. They said I needed time to recover, as if time alone could soothe wounds carved into my mind. Even now, I'm not sure if healing is something I can reach.

A therapist was assigned to untangle my chaos, but how do you calm nerves that still vibrate with phantom pain? How do you silence a storm that's made a home inside your head?

The day I finally told Hanari the truth, the weight of my own words crushed me. I cried. I broke. I admitted I was not okay — and somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel so much heavier.

When the tears finally fell, Hanari pulled me into her arms — no words, no questions, just the quiet strength of her embrace. It was her way of reminding me that I was still here, that I was alive, even if my mind had long wandered into the graveyard of my fears. Her warmth bled into my skin, thawing the frost left by endless nights of paranoia. And in her arms, I could finally...

Breathe.

And for the first time in days, I drifted — not into nightmares, not into fractured time loops or restless visions, but into something tender and whole.

I slept in peace.

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Days slip through my fingers, and still, my feet refuse to touch the school grounds. I've let procrastination drape over me like a second skin, curling into my blankets as if they could protect me from everything I'm not ready to face. I feel better now, at least my body does — but my spirit won't rise.

Not yet.

There's a whisper in my mind, one that tells me to step forward, to walk into the unknown, because life rarely waits for those who hesitate. But I'm too tired, and for once, I want to be selfish enough to stay still — to let my bones sink into rest without guilt gnawing at me.

So my world shrinks to something soft and familiar: cooking for my sisters, sweeping the floors, folding laundry, turning ordinary moments into quiet lanterns that light my way back to myself. I even let myself imagine a life of simple domesticity.

But no — a housewife I could never be. Not in this life, not in this body.

I was tracing meaningless lines into my sketchbook when the silence broke. A knock — sharp, loud, persistent — rattled the door. A knock so familiar, I already knew whose hand it belonged to.

I wasn’t wearing my mask, so for a brief moment, I caught a small glimpse of the future. It was them — Ezra, Clarence, and Clara. Oddly enough, my mind felt calm, as if the usual storm had finally settled. Maybe it was because I was relaxed, and for once, my powers weren’t overwhelming me.

Perhaps the only real weapon against my own abilities was something as simple as staying calm. Maybe that was the key all along.

I walked toward the front door, and just as my vision predicted, there stood Ezra.

"Oh, my dove! I missed you!" Before I could even process the moment, Ezra swept me off my feet — quite literally — pulling me into a hug so sudden it forced a yelp out of me. Strangely enough, my little glimpse into the future never warned me about that.

The second he set me down, Clara stepped forward, pulling me into her own embrace. There was a warmth in it that made my heart ache in the best way. In that moment, surrounded by people who cared, I felt alive.

"I’m so glad you’re okay," Clara said softly, her voice trembling as unshed tears gathered in her eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m here — I’m okay now. Sane as ever," I reassured her, though my smile was just a little wobbly.

"Ooh, nice house." Ezra’s eyes darted around, already scanning every corner like a curious child in a new playground.

I let out a quiet groan, fully expecting him to start touching everything he could get his hands on.

"I’m really glad you’re okay now, Hagarin," Clarence said, his voice softer than usual. "When we saw you leaving school with Ms. Renée, you looked... not great."

I nodded, the memory making my shoulders tense involuntarily. "It was hell," I admitted. No sugarcoating, just the raw truth.

I led them into the living room, only to find Ezra already making himself at home, flipping through the movie collection like he owned the place.

"Have a seat, guys. I own the place anyway," Ezra joked, sprawling dramatically across the couch like a king claiming his throne.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a cushion and threw it straight at his face. Clara and Clarence burst into soft laughter as they settled into the room, filling the space with a comforting sense of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a while.

And it was nice — really nice.

I didn’t feel alone.

I had them, too.

They might each carry their own ghosts, their own cracks and sharp edges, but knowing we all had our struggles somehow made it easier to breathe. I wasn’t drifting aimlessly in isolation anymore. I had my people—chaotic, flawed, and human—right beside me.

Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher

Content Warning for Chapter 6 This chapter contains depictions of psychological distress, hallucinations, paranoia, mentions of therapy, and unsettling imagery (including gore-like descriptions, though not physical). Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to topics related to mental health struggles and dissociation. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

there's fluff despite everything, dw, you're not just a reader! there's aftercare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another day. Another twisted activity waiting for us.

We were all gathered in a cramped, windowless room today — air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of stress-sweat. Proctors paced back and forth, handing out assignments, their shoes tapping like countdown clocks against the tile.

Every student had their own task: someone bent metal into intricate symbols; another whispered to a bowl of water until their reflection screamed back; one kid calculated endless numbers, their fingers twitching like flesh calculators.

And me? I got the box.

It sat at the center of the room, black and heart beating, almost alive. When the proctor called my name, my gut twisted painfully — the same way it did when I first learned my mother died. A slow-blooming nausea that whispered, This will change you.

I obeyed anyway. Because what else could I do?

The moment my fingertips brushed the box, everything around me ruptured.

The walls melted, my classmates vanished, and suddenly I was standing on a bridge suspended over nothing. The sky churned with black oil clouds, and the only sound was my own pulse, loud and thunderous, rattling my skull from the inside out.

The first puzzle piece was easy — a small section of the box slid away under my touch, clicking into place like a child's toy. Too easy.

The second piece? It bit into my skin. Razor-sharp edges slid under my nails, prying them up like peeling fruit skin. Blood welled fast and slick, dripping down my wrists — but I couldn't stop. My fingers moved like puppets under some crueler hand, and the more I solved, the more reality warped around me.

I saw my mother's coffin. Even though in reality, I never had the chance to give my mother a proper burial.

It was standing upright beside me — nailed shut, but not enough to stop her hand from slipping through the crack. Bone-thin fingers, nails ripped clean off, reaching for me.

Behind me, Clara stood with her throat slit wide open — petals growing from the wound like some macabre garden, blooming faster every time I blinked.

Worst of all, in the mirrored shards scattered on the ground, I saw myself. Or versions of me. 

One had no eyes, just empty sockets filled with writhing, ink-black worms. 

One had my lips stitched shut with golden wire, my hands folded politely like a corpse. 

One stood with her back bent at a grotesque angle, head hanging loose by a thread of skin.

I should have screamed. I should have stopped. I didn't.

Because the box wouldn't let me.

--------------------------------------------------------------

With every new piece, the puzzle took more from me.

My left eye burst — or at least, it felt like it. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull, and something thicker than blood leaked down my cheek. I wiped at it, trembling, and my hand came away soaked in black ink, dripping like melted shadow.

My fingers began to crack and splinter, bone peeking through skin. Every time a piece slid into place, my own flesh unraveled — as if solving the puzzle meant dismantling myself.

But I couldn't stop.

Time twisted in knots around me. The bridge collapsed and rebuilt itself beneath my feet, forcing me to step forward, backward, sideways — every wrong step dropped me into another memory.

I fell into my childhood bedroom, staring at my mother's empty bed.

I fell into the schoolyard, watching Clara wave before a flower pierced her hand.

I fell into my own grave, dirt filling my mouth until I couldn't scream.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere, some tiny rational part of my mind knew the truth.

This wasn't real. None of it. This was the test — a psychic simulation planted directly into my skull by the proctors. My body was still standing in that tiny room, trembling, hands clutching the real box.

But the rest of me? I was dying. Over and over and over.

This was how they forced my powers to awaken. Not through training — through terror. Through stress so violent my time magic would activate by instinct.

They were ripping me open, not to teach me, but to see if I could survive it.

When the final piece slid into place, I hit the ground hard. My knees split open against jagged stone, and for a moment I could taste my own blood, bright and sharp like a warning bell.

The bridge shattered beneath me, sending me into a free-fall through my own memories, my own past mistakes. I relived my mother's death in reverse, watching her rise from the grave, heal from her sickness, smile at me once more—

And then I woke up.

Back in the room. Hands trembling over the very normal, very wooden puzzle box. The proctor nodded once. "Good work." My gaze fell to the woman by his side. It was Ms. Renée

She didn't ask questions. Didn't tell me it was all fake, because she knew it didn't matter. My mind couldn't tell the difference. My body still remembered the agony, the trauma. The phantom pain lingered, too deep to scrub out.

She knelt beside me, hands warm on my frozen skin. "Hagarin, You're okay."

I couldn't even answer. My throat felt stitched shut.

She wiped my face gently — her sleeve coming away soaked with cold sweat and tears. No blood. No ink. Just a terrified kid they pushed too far.

The walk home is as though paranoia grips through my skin, it causes me to shiver to no end, no relief, no warmth.

Ms. Renée walked me home, her arm never leaving my shoulders. Every step felt like it existed in three different timelines — one where I fell, one where I ran, one where I stood still until time ate me alive.

When we reached my door, I froze.

It wasn't my house. It was my mother's funeral home, twisted into the shape of my front door. Her coffin was waiting inside — not real, but my brain didn't care.

I collapsed to my knees, trembling so violently I thought my bones would rattle apart.

Ms. Renee held me, whispering, "You're here. You're real." I didn't believe her.

I still don't.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my hands.

The injuries were gone. My fingers were whole. My eye was intact. My skin was clean.

But when I clenched my fists, the air shimmered, rippling faintly like time didn't fully trust me anymore.

Every time I blinked, I saw the stitched-mouth version of me sitting at the foot of my bed, watching, waiting for me to break again.

Time didn't just test me today. It claimed me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning light gently seeped through the veil of my curtains, painting fragile gold across the room and...

Sleep didn't come.

When I closed my eyes, I fell into the bridge again. Into the coffin. Into my own corpse.

I woke up gasping, fingers clawing at my throat, convinced it was still sewn shut. I vomited once — black sludge that vanished the moment I blinked, leaving me doubting if it ever happened.

Time magic is supposed to be beautiful. But mine feels like a curse — a parasite gnawing at my spine, whispering, You don't deserve control. We do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning—another morning. I saw my reflection.

My face was fine. But my shadow moved slower than me, lagging by just a fraction of a second — like time itself didn't fully trust me anymore.

At breakfast, my cup cracked when I picked it up — age speeding up around my fingertips until the glass simply couldn't hold itself together.

I was unraveling. And no one could see it but me. 

They wanted me to learn control. 

What I learned instead is that time has teeth — and every second you touch will bite back.

I'm stronger now. But I'm also haunted.

Because every time I close my eyes, I still see that stitched-mouth girl — still sitting at the foot of my bed, still waiting for me to break her free.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The past five days unraveled like a slow, cruel unraveling of thread — paranoia soaked into every corner of my mind until it left me disheveled, barely standing today. My fingers now brush against the fragile edges of reality, where I could finally distinguish what was real and what was only a phantom born from my fear.

Guilt curled itself around my throat like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. I never gave Hanari the explanation she deserved — I simply pushed her towards Ms. Renée, too ashamed, too fractured to speak for myself.

The school excused me for a month, a mercy disguised as punishment. They said I needed time to recover, as if time alone could soothe wounds carved into my mind. Even now, I'm not sure if healing is something I can reach.

A therapist was assigned to untangle my chaos, but how do you calm nerves that still vibrate with phantom pain? How do you silence a storm that's made a home inside your head?

The day I finally told Hanari the truth, the weight of my own words crushed me. I cried. I broke. I admitted I was not okay — and somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel so much heavier.

When the tears finally fell, Hanari pulled me into her arms — no words, no questions, just the quiet strength of her embrace. It was her way of reminding me that I was still here, that I was alive, even if my mind had long wandered into the graveyard of my fears. Her warmth bled into my skin, thawing the frost left by endless nights of paranoia. And in her arms, I could finally...

Breathe.

And for the first time in days, I drifted — not into nightmares, not into fractured time loops or restless visions, but into something tender and whole.

I slept in peace.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Days slip through my fingers, and still, my feet refuse to touch the school grounds. I've let procrastination drape over me like a second skin, curling into my blankets as if they could protect me from everything I'm not ready to face. I feel better now, at least my body does — but my spirit won't rise.

Not yet.

There's a whisper in my mind, one that tells me to step forward, to walk into the unknown, because life rarely waits for those who hesitate. But I'm too tired, and for once, I want to be selfish enough to stay still — to let my bones sink into rest without guilt gnawing at me.

So my world shrinks to something soft and familiar: cooking for my sisters, sweeping the floors, folding laundry, turning ordinary moments into quiet lanterns that light my way back to myself. I even let myself imagine a life of simple domesticity.

But no — a housewife I could never be. Not in this life, not in this body.

I was tracing meaningless lines into my sketchbook when the silence broke. A knock — sharp, loud, persistent — rattled the door. A knock so familiar, I already knew whose hand it belonged to.

I wasn’t wearing my mask, so for a brief moment, I caught a small glimpse of the future. It was them — Ezra, Clarence, and Clara. Oddly enough, my mind felt calm, as if the usual storm had finally settled. Maybe it was because I was relaxed, and for once, my powers weren’t overwhelming me.

Perhaps the only real weapon against my own abilities was something as simple as staying calm. Maybe that was the key all along.

I walked toward the front door, and just as my vision predicted, there stood Ezra.

"Oh, my dove! I missed you!" Before I could even process the moment, Ezra swept me off my feet — quite literally — pulling me into a hug so sudden it forced a yelp out of me. Strangely enough, my little glimpse into the future never warned me about that.

The second he set me down, Clara stepped forward, pulling me into her own embrace. There was a warmth in it that made my heart ache in the best way. In that moment, surrounded by people who cared, I felt alive.

"I’m so glad you’re okay," Clara said softly, her voice trembling as unshed tears gathered in her eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m here — I’m okay now. Sane as ever," I reassured her, though my smile was just a little wobbly.

"Ooh, nice house." Ezra’s eyes darted around, already scanning every corner like a curious child in a new playground.

I let out a quiet groan, fully expecting him to start touching everything he could get his hands on.

"I’m really glad you’re okay now, Hagarin," Clarence said, his voice softer than usual. "When we saw you leaving school with Ms. Renée, you looked... not great."

I nodded, the memory making my shoulders tense involuntarily. "It was hell," I admitted. No sugarcoating, just the raw truth.

I led them into the living room, only to find Ezra already making himself at home, flipping through the movie collection like he owned the place.

"Have a seat, guys. I own the place anyway," Ezra joked, sprawling dramatically across the couch like a king claiming his throne.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a cushion and threw it straight at his face. Clara and Clarence burst into soft laughter as they settled into the room, filling the space with a comforting sense of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a while.

And it was nice — really nice.

I didn’t feel alone.

I had them, too.

They might each carry their own ghosts, their own cracks and sharp edges, but knowing we all had our struggles somehow made it easier to breathe. I wasn’t drifting aimlessly in isolation anymore. I had my people—chaotic, flawed, and human—right beside me.

Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher

Content Warning for Chapter 6 This chapter contains depictions of psychological distress, hallucinations, paranoia, mentions of therapy, and unsettling imagery (including gore-like descriptions, though not physical). Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to topics related to mental health struggles and dissociation. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

there's fluff despite everything, dw, you're not just a reader! there's aftercare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another day. Another twisted activity waiting for us.

We were all gathered in a cramped, windowless room today — air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of stress-sweat. Proctors paced back and forth, handing out assignments, their shoes tapping like countdown clocks against the tile.

Every student had their own task: someone bent metal into intricate symbols; another whispered to a bowl of water until their reflection screamed back; one kid calculated endless numbers, their fingers twitching like flesh calculators.

And me? I got the box.

It sat at the center of the room, black and heart beating, almost alive. When the proctor called my name, my gut twisted painfully — the same way it did when I first learned my mother died. A slow-blooming nausea that whispered, This will change you.

I obeyed anyway. Because what else could I do?

The moment my fingertips brushed the box, everything around me ruptured.

The walls melted, my classmates vanished, and suddenly I was standing on a bridge suspended over nothing. The sky churned with black oil clouds, and the only sound was my own pulse, loud and thunderous, rattling my skull from the inside out.

The first puzzle piece was easy — a small section of the box slid away under my touch, clicking into place like a child's toy. Too easy.

The second piece? It bit into my skin. Razor-sharp edges slid under my nails, prying them up like peeling fruit skin. Blood welled fast and slick, dripping down my wrists — but I couldn't stop. My fingers moved like puppets under some crueler hand, and the more I solved, the more reality warped around me.

I saw my mother's coffin. Even though in reality, I never had the chance to give my mother a proper burial.

It was standing upright beside me — nailed shut, but not enough to stop her hand from slipping through the crack. Bone-thin fingers, nails ripped clean off, reaching for me.

Behind me, Clara stood with her throat slit wide open — petals growing from the wound like some macabre garden, blooming faster every time I blinked.

Worst of all, in the mirrored shards scattered on the ground, I saw myself. Or versions of me. 

One had no eyes, just empty sockets filled with writhing, ink-black worms. 

One had my lips stitched shut with golden wire, my hands folded politely like a corpse. 

One stood with her back bent at a grotesque angle, head hanging loose by a thread of skin.

I should have screamed. I should have stopped. I didn't.

Because the box wouldn't let me.

--------------------------------------------------------------

With every new piece, the puzzle took more from me.

My left eye burst — or at least, it felt like it. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull, and something thicker than blood leaked down my cheek. I wiped at it, trembling, and my hand came away soaked in black ink, dripping like melted shadow.

My fingers began to crack and splinter, bone peeking through skin. Every time a piece slid into place, my own flesh unraveled — as if solving the puzzle meant dismantling myself.

But I couldn't stop.

Time twisted in knots around me. The bridge collapsed and rebuilt itself beneath my feet, forcing me to step forward, backward, sideways — every wrong step dropped me into another memory.

I fell into my childhood bedroom, staring at my mother's empty bed.

I fell into the schoolyard, watching Clara wave before a flower pierced her hand.

I fell into my own grave, dirt filling my mouth until I couldn't scream.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere, some tiny rational part of my mind knew the truth.

This wasn't real. None of it. This was the test — a psychic simulation planted directly into my skull by the proctors. My body was still standing in that tiny room, trembling, hands clutching the real box.

But the rest of me? I was dying. Over and over and over.

This was how they forced my powers to awaken. Not through training — through terror. Through stress so violent my time magic would activate by instinct.

They were ripping me open, not to teach me, but to see if I could survive it.

When the final piece slid into place, I hit the ground hard. My knees split open against jagged stone, and for a moment I could taste my own blood, bright and sharp like a warning bell.

The bridge shattered beneath me, sending me into a free-fall through my own memories, my own past mistakes. I relived my mother's death in reverse, watching her rise from the grave, heal from her sickness, smile at me once more—

And then I woke up.

Back in the room. Hands trembling over the very normal, very wooden puzzle box. The proctor nodded once. "Good work." My gaze fell to the woman by his side. It was Ms. Renée

She didn't ask questions. Didn't tell me it was all fake, because she knew it didn't matter. My mind couldn't tell the difference. My body still remembered the agony, the trauma. The phantom pain lingered, too deep to scrub out.

She knelt beside me, hands warm on my frozen skin. "Hagarin, You're okay."

I couldn't even answer. My throat felt stitched shut.

She wiped my face gently — her sleeve coming away soaked with cold sweat and tears. No blood. No ink. Just a terrified kid they pushed too far.

The walk home is as though paranoia grips through my skin, it causes me to shiver to no end, no relief, no warmth.

Ms. Renée walked me home, her arm never leaving my shoulders. Every step felt like it existed in three different timelines — one where I fell, one where I ran, one where I stood still until time ate me alive.

When we reached my door, I froze.

It wasn't my house. It was my mother's funeral home, twisted into the shape of my front door. Her coffin was waiting inside — not real, but my brain didn't care.

I collapsed to my knees, trembling so violently I thought my bones would rattle apart.

Ms. Renee held me, whispering, "You're here. You're real." I didn't believe her.

I still don't.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my hands.

The injuries were gone. My fingers were whole. My eye was intact. My skin was clean.

But when I clenched my fists, the air shimmered, rippling faintly like time didn't fully trust me anymore.

Every time I blinked, I saw the stitched-mouth version of me sitting at the foot of my bed, watching, waiting for me to break again.

Time didn't just test me today. It claimed me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning light gently seeped through the veil of my curtains, painting fragile gold across the room and...

Sleep didn't come.

When I closed my eyes, I fell into the bridge again. Into the coffin. Into my own corpse.

I woke up gasping, fingers clawing at my throat, convinced it was still sewn shut. I vomited once — black sludge that vanished the moment I blinked, leaving me doubting if it ever happened.

Time magic is supposed to be beautiful. But mine feels like a curse — a parasite gnawing at my spine, whispering, You don't deserve control. We do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning—another morning. I saw my reflection.

My face was fine. But my shadow moved slower than me, lagging by just a fraction of a second — like time itself didn't fully trust me anymore.

At breakfast, my cup cracked when I picked it up — age speeding up around my fingertips until the glass simply couldn't hold itself together.

I was unraveling. And no one could see it but me. 

They wanted me to learn control. 

What I learned instead is that time has teeth — and every second you touch will bite back.

I'm stronger now. But I'm also haunted.

Because every time I close my eyes, I still see that stitched-mouth girl — still sitting at the foot of my bed, still waiting for me to break her free.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The past five days unraveled like a slow, cruel unraveling of thread — paranoia soaked into every corner of my mind until it left me disheveled, barely standing today. My fingers now brush against the fragile edges of reality, where I could finally distinguish what was real and what was only a phantom born from my fear.

Guilt curled itself around my throat like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. I never gave Hanari the explanation she deserved — I simply pushed her towards Ms. Renée, too ashamed, too fractured to speak for myself.

The school excused me for a month, a mercy disguised as punishment. They said I needed time to recover, as if time alone could soothe wounds carved into my mind. Even now, I'm not sure if healing is something I can reach.

A therapist was assigned to untangle my chaos, but how do you calm nerves that still vibrate with phantom pain? How do you silence a storm that's made a home inside your head?

The day I finally told Hanari the truth, the weight of my own words crushed me. I cried. I broke. I admitted I was not okay — and somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel so much heavier.

When the tears finally fell, Hanari pulled me into her arms — no words, no questions, just the quiet strength of her embrace. It was her way of reminding me that I was still here, that I was alive, even if my mind had long wandered into the graveyard of my fears. Her warmth bled into my skin, thawing the frost left by endless nights of paranoia. And in her arms, I could finally...

Breathe.

And for the first time in days, I drifted — not into nightmares, not into fractured time loops or restless visions, but into something tender and whole.

I slept in peace.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Days slip through my fingers, and still, my feet refuse to touch the school grounds. I've let procrastination drape over me like a second skin, curling into my blankets as if they could protect me from everything I'm not ready to face. I feel better now, at least my body does — but my spirit won't rise.

Not yet.

There's a whisper in my mind, one that tells me to step forward, to walk into the unknown, because life rarely waits for those who hesitate. But I'm too tired, and for once, I want to be selfish enough to stay still — to let my bones sink into rest without guilt gnawing at me.

So my world shrinks to something soft and familiar: cooking for my sisters, sweeping the floors, folding laundry, turning ordinary moments into quiet lanterns that light my way back to myself. I even let myself imagine a life of simple domesticity.

But no — a housewife I could never be. Not in this life, not in this body.

I was tracing meaningless lines into my sketchbook when the silence broke. A knock — sharp, loud, persistent — rattled the door. A knock so familiar, I already knew whose hand it belonged to.

I wasn’t wearing my mask, so for a brief moment, I caught a small glimpse of the future. It was them — Ezra, Clarence, and Clara. Oddly enough, my mind felt calm, as if the usual storm had finally settled. Maybe it was because I was relaxed, and for once, my powers weren’t overwhelming me.

Perhaps the only real weapon against my own abilities was something as simple as staying calm. Maybe that was the key all along.

I walked toward the front door, and just as my vision predicted, there stood Ezra.

"Oh, my dove! I missed you!" Before I could even process the moment, Ezra swept me off my feet — quite literally — pulling me into a hug so sudden it forced a yelp out of me. Strangely enough, my little glimpse into the future never warned me about that.

The second he set me down, Clara stepped forward, pulling me into her own embrace. There was a warmth in it that made my heart ache in the best way. In that moment, surrounded by people who cared, I felt alive.

"I’m so glad you’re okay," Clara said softly, her voice trembling as unshed tears gathered in her eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m here — I’m okay now. Sane as ever," I reassured her, though my smile was just a little wobbly.

"Ooh, nice house." Ezra’s eyes darted around, already scanning every corner like a curious child in a new playground.

I let out a quiet groan, fully expecting him to start touching everything he could get his hands on.

"I’m really glad you’re okay now, Hagarin," Clarence said, his voice softer than usual. "When we saw you leaving school with Ms. Renée, you looked... not great."

I nodded, the memory making my shoulders tense involuntarily. "It was hell," I admitted. No sugarcoating, just the raw truth.

I led them into the living room, only to find Ezra already making himself at home, flipping through the movie collection like he owned the place.

"Have a seat, guys. I own the place anyway," Ezra joked, sprawling dramatically across the couch like a king claiming his throne.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a cushion and threw it straight at his face. Clara and Clarence burst into soft laughter as they settled into the room, filling the space with a comforting sense of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a while.

And it was nice — really nice.

I didn’t feel alone.

I had them, too.

They might each carry their own ghosts, their own cracks and sharp edges, but knowing we all had our struggles somehow made it easier to breathe. I wasn’t drifting aimlessly in isolation anymore. I had my people—chaotic, flawed, and human—right beside me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2,535 words

next chapter

Chapter 5: Of fights, Farewells, and Fools

I woke to the sharp chime of the bell, the sound pulling me abruptly from my daze and dragging me back into reality.

"Time's up," the proctor announced, his voice cutting through the lingering haze in my mind. Right — the gymnasium. I was still here. 

I turned my head, only to find Ezra sprawled unconscious on the floor. Instinctively, I reached out to shake him awake, but before my hand could make contact, a voice interrupted me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." I glanced up, finding one of my classmates watching me with thinly veiled amusement. "And why not?" I asked. He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. 

"Are you seriously asking that?" Something about his tone scratched at my nerves. Still, I forced myself to remain calm.

"If you can't answer a simple question, perhaps you shouldn't waste your breath."

"A sharp tongue won't save you from your own ignorance."

"And your refusal to clarify only proves your own." I frowned, though he only responded with a careless scoff. 

"Enough, Maverick," Clarence cut in, stepping between us with the practiced ease of someone used to extinguish petty conflicts. Maverick shrugged, utterly unbothered, and walked away without another word. 

"What's his problem?" I muttered to Clarence. Clarence let out a tired sigh. "He's always like that. Not the brightest socially, but quick to mock anyone who's even slightly out of the loop. Let's just say he finds entertainment in other people's confusion." 

"Charming," I said dryly. 

"Anyway, what do we do about Ezra?" 

"I'll notify the proctor," Clarence said, adjusting his glasses. "And for future reference, you should avoid touching him directly. His abilities are highly contagious — you did learn that from the time-travel session, didn't you?" 

"No," I admitted. "I didn't get that far. The bell rang before I could see anything else." "I see." Clarence gave a thoughtful nod before heading off to inform the proctor, leaving me alone with Ezra's motionless form and the unsettling realization that there's far more to this boy than I ever imagined. I watched as Ezra was hurried off to the infirmary, and with his absence came a flood of questions swirling in my mind. Why is he contagious? The thought looped over and over, each repetition tightening like a knot behind my eyes. 

Before I could stop it, my head began to ache — a slow, creeping pulse that warned me something was coming. 

A vision, maybe. My magic stirring to life. Panic shot through me, and I bolted toward the bench where I'd left my mask, my hands shaking as I slipped it back on. Just in time, too — a fragmented memory was already clawing its way to the surface, blurring my vision and distorting reality. If I hadn't covered my face, I'd probably be the next one dragged off to the infirmary. A sigh of relief slipped from my lips as I sank onto the bench. 

Honestly, I can't even overthink without overthinking the fact that overthinking might actually make me pass out. And somehow, just by trying to figure everything out, I end up drained by my own powers. Truly, fate has a twisted sense of humor. 

"Hagarin~" Clara's sing-song voice rang out as she skipped over and settled beside me. I noticed her monocle wasn't on her face but dangling between her fingers. 

"I saw your face earlier! You're really pretty, you know that?" she said with a bright smile.

"Oh... thank you?" I replied, caught somewhere between confusion and gratitude. She only giggled in response.

"Wait—why aren't you wearing your monocle? Wouldn't that give you a headache if your power activates?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. 

She shook her head with a proud grin. "I've managed to control about ten percent of my power now. It's not much, but it's a lot better than having no control at all." 

"That ten percent lets me shut down a small part of my ability. It only kicks in randomly if I'm feeling really anxious or overwhelmed," she explained, and I nodded along. 

"What about the rest of your power? What can you do at full strength?" 

"Well..." She tapped her chin playfully. "The best part is feeling almost normal—for once. No headaches, no sudden visions of doom. It's peaceful." 

"But why a monocle? Wouldn't it make more sense to cover both eyes if seeing the future is such a problem?" I asked. She laughed softly. "I only have time magic in one eye—my left. The right eye? That one's all nature. Back when I was a kid, I used to keep my mom's plants alive with a flick of my fingers." 

"Speaking of my mom, want to come visit her with me sometime? She's dead, by the way.""...What—oh! I'm so sorry for your loss," I stammered, completely thrown off by her delivery. Clara only smiled, unbothered as always.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When class hours ended, Clara insisted that Clarence join us, but he politely declined, mentioning he already had other plans. So, in the end, it was just me and Clara. We strolled along the stone pavement, the crisp air mingling with the rustling of trees lining the path.

 I found myself enjoying the peacefulness, a rare moment of tranquility. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Clara hopping along the stepping stones, entertaining herself like a carefree child. "Y'know, Hagarin, I have a feeling you'll end up acing the entire class," she said suddenly, her voice light and confident. 

"I'm not sure if I should believe that, considering we both have the ability to see the future," I hummed, keeping my gaze forward. 

"I'm saying this from instinct, not sight." She spun to face me, sliding her monocle back into place—a clear sign she wasn't using her powers to peek ahead. 

"Right," I scoffed softly. "Why won't you believe me?" she pouted. "You're already better than half our classmates, and most of them barely have two functioning brain cells to rub together. Plus, they're just mean for no reason." "Are they?" I raised a brow. "I guess I never really paid much attention to anyone." The scenery was far more interesting, in my opinion. 

Clara hopped off the last stepping stone and walked beside me. "Have you not noticed Maverick? Or even Liviya? They're not full-blown bullies or anything, but the mess in their heads is loud enough to drown out whatever kindness they might have had. Honestly, they're so chaotic, it's hard to even see them as normal." 

"I suppose they do give me some unpleasant looks now and then," I admitted after a brief pause. "What about the blind girl? I haven't seen her face either. Everyone took off their... stuff during class, but I never caught a glimpse of her," I said, curiously. 

"Oh, Alain? She's sweet, just incredibly quiet. But if you ever get the chance to talk to her, you'll like her," Clara said with a fond smile. 

"She's blind, yes, but her powers let her see everything—every possibility, every shift in time. That's why she wears a blindfold. Without it, her mind gets overwhelmed. Though, from what I've seen, she's making progress."

"That's... actually fascinating. It's like a blessing wrapped in a curse." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Imagine being born without sight, unable to witness the beauty of the world—only to be gifted the power to see everything at once. Still, I'm guessing that's nothing compared to ordinary vision."

I glanced at Clara, my thoughts drifting. "Seeing through the eyes of a time traveler is so strange. For me, it's all washed-out shades of blue, with a slight distortion. Like looking through fogged glass." 

"Really? Blue?" Clara tilted her head. "For me, it's this pale brown haze, almost sepia." She laughed softly. "Maybe it has something to do with our actual eye color."

"Could be," I said, returning her smile. "Just another strange part of our lives, I guess." 

We finally arrived at her mother's tomb. "Hi, Mom. I brought a friend with me today—another new one besides Clarence," Clara said softly as she stepped closer to the grave.

"We learned how to time travel in class today." The tomb itself was well-maintained, adorned with delicate decorations built into the stone. It felt intentional, almost like a tradition that had been passed down through generations. Every small detail seemed to hold a memory. 

I stood beside Clara, quietly listening as she rambled on, speaking to her mother as though she were still right there with us. 

I'd be like that too if I ever had the chance to bury my mother—to care for her tomb and visit her like this. But no, life gave me something far more cruel. A memory I can never bury, no matter how much I want to. 

When it ended, we both lit candles as a gesture of respect, the soft flicker of the flames dancing in the cool air. 

As we slowly walked down the stone path, I broke the silence.

"Clara, if life wasn't so cruel, would you actually enjoy living?" I asked as we slowly made our way down the stone path.She gave a soft laugh, but there was a hint of bitterness behind it. 

"I'm content with my life—even if the word enjoy doesn't really fit anywhere in it. If life had been kinder, I wouldn't have met Clarence... or you."

"Everything that happened today wouldn't have happened. That's just how fate works—we either accept it or keep fighting something we can't change." She paused, looking up at the floating lanterns that were starting to light our way. 

"I know this world of ours is swallowed whole by magic, and sure, anything feels possible—like we're trapped in some cruel fairytale. Hell, reincarnation might even be real for all we know. But even so, I think I like this life. Just... go with the flow. Maybe you'll find a reason to keep going."

"Right," I murmured. "The power to rewrite my past and change the future is right at my fingertips... yet I didn't take it."Clara glanced at me, her expression unreadable. 

"Because you know you'd die if you mess up your timeline."

"Time, fate—whatever people want to call it—it's such a tangled mess," she sighed. 

"Sometimes, I wish I had something simple. Like the power to grow flowers or control fire. Something that doesn't make my head hurt."

"I get that," I said quietly. Neither of us spoke after that. We just walked, both letting out a long sigh at the same time, letting the silence say the rest.

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Later that evening, Clara and I parted ways to head back to our homes. Tomorrow was another day, and honestly, I was relieved this one had finally come to an end. When I stepped through the door, the soft murmur of the television greeted me. 

"I'm home... sorry I'm late," I said quietly, spotting Hanari lounging on the couch. 

"Where'd you even go?" she asked, barely glancing my way as I slipped off my shoes and dropped onto the couch beside her. "I, uh... went with a friend to visit her mom's grave."

Hanari just hummed in response, munching lazily on her slice of apple pie. 

"I don't have any friends anymore, you know. You're never there. Maybe you could come to the main building and have lunch with me sometime? I saw your schedule—you have way more free periods than I do." 

"Can't," I shrugged. 

"Too lazy to walk that far, and the main building's practically on the other side of the campus."Hanari groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions like her life was ending.

"What if I just come to your building instead?"

"They probably won't let you," I said, stealing a glance at her.

She groaned again, louder this time, like the weight of her tragic social life was too much to bear. "I look like some lonely loser."

"You'll live," I muttered, grabbing her fork and stealing a bite of her apple pie before she could protest.

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Friday — Sparring Day.

Every Friday, our class dedicates the entire day to sparring practice. It's the only time we're allowed to fully use our powers against each other — under supervision, of course.

We were all gathered at the field, the usual spot for these sessions. I stood at the edge, quietly observing my classmates as they clashed, each person using their abilities in creative or chaotic ways. 

Some were flashy, showing off like they were performing for an audience. Others fought with precision, wasting no movement. Then, the proctor called out the next pair. 

"Hagarin... versus..."There was a brief pause before the proctor continued.

"Oh, Clara." Both of us froze for a second, equally surprised. From across the field, Clara waved nervously.

"Go easy on me, Hagarin!" she called out with a laugh, though there was a flicker of real concern in her voice. We took our places, standing opposite each other in the center of the field. 

All eyes were on us now — classmates whispering, some curious, others already making guesses about who would win. We stood across from each other, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the field. 

The proctor raised his hand — the signal to begin. Clara didn't waste a second. The ground beneath me trembled as thick roots erupted from the earth, twisting and surging toward me like serpents. I leapt back, narrowly avoiding the first strike, but more followed in its wake, branches splitting off and shooting upward to block my escape. 

She's fast. Faster than I expected.

I darted between the branches, my body weaving instinctively to avoid getting caught. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clara raise her hand — this time, a single rosebud bloomed at her fingertips. 

With a flick of her wrist, the rose shot toward me like an arrow, its petals sharp like blades. It wasn't aimed at me directly — it was after my mask. I ducked just in time, the flower slicing through the air above my head. 

"She's really aiming for my mask?" I muttered to myself. Typical Clara move — clever, but predictable. If my mask comes off, my power will surge uncontrollably, and we both know that could end the match in chaos.

"Trying to cheat already?" I called out, though my tone was lighthearted.

"Not cheating! Just creative strategy!" Clara shouted back, a grin splitting her face as more vines slithered toward my ankles.

I stomped hard, shattering a root just before it wrapped around my foot. If I let her trap me, it's over. The rules are simple — whoever hits the ground and stays down for five seconds loses.

 "Alright," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "My turn." Clara raised a brow, unfazed, as she unleashed another wave of attacks — every flower she could summon sharpened into dart-like projectiles, whistling through the air toward me.

 I dodged each one with ease, weaving left and right, but just as I landed, something coiled around my ankle. 

A vine. Clara snorted, clearly proud of herself, her confidence radiating as she tugged slightly, tightening the grip on my leg. 

"Gotcha." But this was exactly what I wanted. I kept my back turned to her as she broke into a sprint, closing the distance between us. I could feel the anticipation rolling off her — she thought this was her win.

 That's when I calmly reached up and removed my mask. For the first time, the power I'd always struggled to control worked with me instead of against me. 

Clara's eyes widened in shock as my gaze met hers, the air between us thickening as time itself slowed to a crawl. The vine around my leg twitched, then loosened, retracting inch by inch as Clara's body faltered. 

She stumbled, knees hitting the grass with a dull thud, a soft curse slipping from her lips. I could feel her discomfort, the telltale headache caused when her own time vision clashed with the distortion I created.

 Her powers were fighting mine, and neither of us could fully stop it. Still, all I had to do was keep her down — and slowed — long enough.

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1!"The entire class counted down, their voices echoing across the field.

I took a deep breath, lowering my mask back over my face just as the proctor raised his hand.

"Winner — Hagarin." 

---------------------

"It's fine, really. You don't have to apologize." Clara reassured me, still comfortably seated on the hospital bed.

"Clara! I'm really sorry." I showed up at the infirmary, holding an apple pie as my peace offering. She just smiled, waving off my concern.

"You really did well back there, but didn't I already tell you to go easy on me?" She chuckled softly.

I sat at the edge of the bed, carefully cutting the apple pie. "Well, I'm glad I lost though. Thanks for the food, I guess." Clara added with a light laugh.

The laughter and chatter from earlier had long faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the evening settling in. The sky outside was painted in soft hues of sunset as I walked down the hall, my steps slow and hesitant.

Part of me didn't want to leave Clara alone in the infirmary, but she had insisted I go home, saying her dad would be there to pick her up soon anyway. The halls were practically deserted now — most students had already gone home, leaving only a few teachers and staff lingering somewhere in the building.

Or so I thought.

That was until I heard soft giggles echoing behind me — the unmistakable sound of someone laughing to themselves. And who else could it be but Ezra?

"Don't touch me," I said immediately, spinning around to face him.

He raised both hands in mock surrender, a grin plastered on his face. "I haven't even done anything!"

"You always tense up when I'm around, don't you? Dove, you gotta ease up a little," he cackled, his voice echoing faintly through the empty hall.

I crossed my arms, trying not to let his antics get to me. "What do you even want? And why are you still here this late?"

Ezra clasped his hands together, his smile never fading. "Oh, I got detention — something about almost killing a classmate earlier!" he said, far too casually for my liking.

I raised a brow, equal parts concerned and confused. "Almost killing someone? How did you even come to that conclusion?" 

"Easy! That classmate was Maverick — y'know, the guy who acts like he's the smartest person in the universe but actually reeks of arrogance." Ezra rolled his eyes dramatically before clasping his hands together, voice brimming with exaggerated enthusiasm. "So, to help him fully experience my sincere, heartfelt, emotionally touching anger, I pulled out a pistol when I got close to him."

He even pointed upward like some self-proclaimed intellectual giving a lecture.

I blinked, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he just said. "Wait—hold on. A pistol? How did you even... What?"

Ezra gasped, clutching his chest like I'd just shattered his heart. "You didn't watch me? Oh, dove, I'm hurt! Absolutely heartbroken!"

I just stared at him, my silence practically speaking for itself. Ezra, on the other hand, stared back at me like a giant question mark had just popped out of his head.

Oh. Right. I forgot — he couldn't even see my face. The mask was still on.

"So...uh, just don't do it again." I finally broke the awkward silence.

"I like whatever is wrong with you — it's fascinating. I'm following you home." Ezra grinned, that usual chaotic glint in his eyes.

"Don't—"

"Too late! Let's go!" Before I could even finish, he grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me along.

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3,429 words

Chapter 5: Of fights, Farewells, and Fools

I woke to the sharp chime of the bell, the sound pulling me abruptly from my daze and dragging me back into reality.

"Time's up," the proctor announced, his voice cutting through the lingering haze in my mind. Right — the gymnasium. I was still here. 

I turned my head, only to find Ezra sprawled unconscious on the floor. Instinctively, I reached out to shake him awake, but before my hand could make contact, a voice interrupted me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." I glanced up, finding one of my classmates watching me with thinly veiled amusement. "And why not?" I asked. He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. 

"Are you seriously asking that?" Something about his tone scratched at my nerves. Still, I forced myself to remain calm.

"If you can't answer a simple question, perhaps you shouldn't waste your breath."

"A sharp tongue won't save you from your own ignorance."

"And your refusal to clarify only proves your own." I frowned, though he only responded with a careless scoff. 

"Enough, Maverick," Clarence cut in, stepping between us with the practiced ease of someone used to extinguish petty conflicts. Maverick shrugged, utterly unbothered, and walked away without another word. 

"What's his problem?" I muttered to Clarence. Clarence let out a tired sigh. "He's always like that. Not the brightest socially, but quick to mock anyone who's even slightly out of the loop. Let's just say he finds entertainment in other people's confusion." 

"Charming," I said dryly. 

"Anyway, what do we do about Ezra?" 

"I'll notify the proctor," Clarence said, adjusting his glasses. "And for future reference, you should avoid touching him directly. His abilities are highly contagious — you did learn that from the time-travel session, didn't you?" 

"No," I admitted. "I didn't get that far. The bell rang before I could see anything else." "I see." Clarence gave a thoughtful nod before heading off to inform the proctor, leaving me alone with Ezra's motionless form and the unsettling realization that there's far more to this boy than I ever imagined. I watched as Ezra was hurried off to the infirmary, and with his absence came a flood of questions swirling in my mind. Why is he contagious? The thought looped over and over, each repetition tightening like a knot behind my eyes. 

Before I could stop it, my head began to ache — a slow, creeping pulse that warned me something was coming. 

A vision, maybe. My magic stirring to life. Panic shot through me, and I bolted toward the bench where I'd left my mask, my hands shaking as I slipped it back on. Just in time, too — a fragmented memory was already clawing its way to the surface, blurring my vision and distorting reality. If I hadn't covered my face, I'd probably be the next one dragged off to the infirmary. A sigh of relief slipped from my lips as I sank onto the bench. 

Honestly, I can't even overthink without overthinking the fact that overthinking might actually make me pass out. And somehow, just by trying to figure everything out, I end up drained by my own powers. Truly, fate has a twisted sense of humor. 

"Hagarin~" Clara's sing-song voice rang out as she skipped over and settled beside me. I noticed her monocle wasn't on her face but dangling between her fingers. 

"I saw your face earlier! You're really pretty, you know that?" she said with a bright smile.

"Oh... thank you?" I replied, caught somewhere between confusion and gratitude. She only giggled in response.

"Wait—why aren't you wearing your monocle? Wouldn't that give you a headache if your power activates?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. 

She shook her head with a proud grin. "I've managed to control about ten percent of my power now. It's not much, but it's a lot better than having no control at all." 

"That ten percent lets me shut down a small part of my ability. It only kicks in randomly if I'm feeling really anxious or overwhelmed," she explained, and I nodded along. 

"What about the rest of your power? What can you do at full strength?" 

"Well..." She tapped her chin playfully. "The best part is feeling almost normal—for once. No headaches, no sudden visions of doom. It's peaceful." 

"But why a monocle? Wouldn't it make more sense to cover both eyes if seeing the future is such a problem?" I asked. She laughed softly. "I only have time magic in one eye—my left. The right eye? That one's all nature. Back when I was a kid, I used to keep my mom's plants alive with a flick of my fingers." 

"Speaking of my mom, want to come visit her with me sometime? She's dead, by the way.""...What—oh! I'm so sorry for your loss," I stammered, completely thrown off by her delivery. Clara only smiled, unbothered as always.

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When class hours ended, Clara insisted that Clarence join us, but he politely declined, mentioning he already had other plans. So, in the end, it was just me and Clara. We strolled along the stone pavement, the crisp air mingling with the rustling of trees lining the path.

 I found myself enjoying the peacefulness, a rare moment of tranquility. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Clara hopping along the stepping stones, entertaining herself like a carefree child. "Y'know, Hagarin, I have a feeling you'll end up acing the entire class," she said suddenly, her voice light and confident. 

"I'm not sure if I should believe that, considering we both have the ability to see the future," I hummed, keeping my gaze forward. 

"I'm saying this from instinct, not sight." She spun to face me, sliding her monocle back into place—a clear sign she wasn't using her powers to peek ahead. 

"Right," I scoffed softly. "Why won't you believe me?" she pouted. "You're already better than half our classmates, and most of them barely have two functioning brain cells to rub together. Plus, they're just mean for no reason." "Are they?" I raised a brow. "I guess I never really paid much attention to anyone." The scenery was far more interesting, in my opinion. 

Clara hopped off the last stepping stone and walked beside me. "Have you not noticed Maverick? Or even Liviya? They're not full-blown bullies or anything, but the mess in their heads is loud enough to drown out whatever kindness they might have had. Honestly, they're so chaotic, it's hard to even see them as normal." 

"I suppose they do give me some unpleasant looks now and then," I admitted after a brief pause. "What about the blind girl? I haven't seen her face either. Everyone took off their... stuff during class, but I never caught a glimpse of her," I said, curiously. 

"Oh, Alain? She's sweet, just incredibly quiet. But if you ever get the chance to talk to her, you'll like her," Clara said with a fond smile. 

"She's blind, yes, but her powers let her see everything—every possibility, every shift in time. That's why she wears a blindfold. Without it, her mind gets overwhelmed. Though, from what I've seen, she's making progress."

"That's... actually fascinating. It's like a blessing wrapped in a curse." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Imagine being born without sight, unable to witness the beauty of the world—only to be gifted the power to see everything at once. Still, I'm guessing that's nothing compared to ordinary vision."

I glanced at Clara, my thoughts drifting. "Seeing through the eyes of a time traveler is so strange. For me, it's all washed-out shades of blue, with a slight distortion. Like looking through fogged glass." 

"Really? Blue?" Clara tilted her head. "For me, it's this pale brown haze, almost sepia." She laughed softly. "Maybe it has something to do with our actual eye color."

"Could be," I said, returning her smile. "Just another strange part of our lives, I guess." 

We finally arrived at her mother's tomb. "Hi, Mom. I brought a friend with me today—another new one besides Clarence," Clara said softly as she stepped closer to the grave.

"We learned how to time travel in class today." The tomb itself was well-maintained, adorned with delicate decorations built into the stone. It felt intentional, almost like a tradition that had been passed down through generations. Every small detail seemed to hold a memory. 

I stood beside Clara, quietly listening as she rambled on, speaking to her mother as though she were still right there with us. 

I'd be like that too if I ever had the chance to bury my mother—to care for her tomb and visit her like this. But no, life gave me something far more cruel. A memory I can never bury, no matter how much I want to. 

When it ended, we both lit candles as a gesture of respect, the soft flicker of the flames dancing in the cool air. 

As we slowly walked down the stone path, I broke the silence.

"Clara, if life wasn't so cruel, would you actually enjoy living?" I asked as we slowly made our way down the stone path.She gave a soft laugh, but there was a hint of bitterness behind it. 

"I'm content with my life—even if the word enjoy doesn't really fit anywhere in it. If life had been kinder, I wouldn't have met Clarence... or you."

"Everything that happened today wouldn't have happened. That's just how fate works—we either accept it or keep fighting something we can't change." She paused, looking up at the floating lanterns that were starting to light our way. 

"I know this world of ours is swallowed whole by magic, and sure, anything feels possible—like we're trapped in some cruel fairytale. Hell, reincarnation might even be real for all we know. But even so, I think I like this life. Just... go with the flow. Maybe you'll find a reason to keep going."

"Right," I murmured. "The power to rewrite my past and change the future is right at my fingertips... yet I didn't take it."Clara glanced at me, her expression unreadable. 

"Because you know you'd die if you mess up your timeline."

"Time, fate—whatever people want to call it—it's such a tangled mess," she sighed. 

"Sometimes, I wish I had something simple. Like the power to grow flowers or control fire. Something that doesn't make my head hurt."

"I get that," I said quietly. Neither of us spoke after that. We just walked, both letting out a long sigh at the same time, letting the silence say the rest.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, Clara and I parted ways to head back to our homes. Tomorrow was another day, and honestly, I was relieved this one had finally come to an end. When I stepped through the door, the soft murmur of the television greeted me. 

"I'm home... sorry I'm late," I said quietly, spotting Hanari lounging on the couch. 

"Where'd you even go?" she asked, barely glancing my way as I slipped off my shoes and dropped onto the couch beside her. "I, uh... went with a friend to visit her mom's grave."

Hanari just hummed in response, munching lazily on her slice of apple pie. 

"I don't have any friends anymore, you know. You're never there. Maybe you could come to the main building and have lunch with me sometime? I saw your schedule—you have way more free periods than I do." 

"Can't," I shrugged. 

"Too lazy to walk that far, and the main building's practically on the other side of the campus."Hanari groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions like her life was ending.

"What if I just come to your building instead?"

"They probably won't let you," I said, stealing a glance at her.

She groaned again, louder this time, like the weight of her tragic social life was too much to bear. "I look like some lonely loser."

"You'll live," I muttered, grabbing her fork and stealing a bite of her apple pie before she could protest.

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Friday — Sparring Day.

Every Friday, our class dedicates the entire day to sparring practice. It's the only time we're allowed to fully use our powers against each other — under supervision, of course.

We were all gathered at the field, the usual spot for these sessions. I stood at the edge, quietly observing my classmates as they clashed, each person using their abilities in creative or chaotic ways. 

Some were flashy, showing off like they were performing for an audience. Others fought with precision, wasting no movement. Then, the proctor called out the next pair. 

"Hagarin... versus..."There was a brief pause before the proctor continued.

"Oh, Clara." Both of us froze for a second, equally surprised. From across the field, Clara waved nervously.

"Go easy on me, Hagarin!" she called out with a laugh, though there was a flicker of real concern in her voice. We took our places, standing opposite each other in the center of the field. 

All eyes were on us now — classmates whispering, some curious, others already making guesses about who would win. We stood across from each other, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the field. 

The proctor raised his hand — the signal to begin. Clara didn't waste a second. The ground beneath me trembled as thick roots erupted from the earth, twisting and surging toward me like serpents. I leapt back, narrowly avoiding the first strike, but more followed in its wake, branches splitting off and shooting upward to block my escape. 

She's fast. Faster than I expected.

I darted between the branches, my body weaving instinctively to avoid getting caught. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clara raise her hand — this time, a single rosebud bloomed at her fingertips. 

With a flick of her wrist, the rose shot toward me like an arrow, its petals sharp like blades. It wasn't aimed at me directly — it was after my mask. I ducked just in time, the flower slicing through the air above my head. 

"She's really aiming for my mask?" I muttered to myself. Typical Clara move — clever, but predictable. If my mask comes off, my power will surge uncontrollably, and we both know that could end the match in chaos.

"Trying to cheat already?" I called out, though my tone was lighthearted.

"Not cheating! Just creative strategy!" Clara shouted back, a grin splitting her face as more vines slithered toward my ankles.

I stomped hard, shattering a root just before it wrapped around my foot. If I let her trap me, it's over. The rules are simple — whoever hits the ground and stays down for five seconds loses.

 "Alright," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "My turn." Clara raised a brow, unfazed, as she unleashed another wave of attacks — every flower she could summon sharpened into dart-like projectiles, whistling through the air toward me.

 I dodged each one with ease, weaving left and right, but just as I landed, something coiled around my ankle. 

A vine. Clara snorted, clearly proud of herself, her confidence radiating as she tugged slightly, tightening the grip on my leg. 

"Gotcha." But this was exactly what I wanted. I kept my back turned to her as she broke into a sprint, closing the distance between us. I could feel the anticipation rolling off her — she thought this was her win.

 That's when I calmly reached up and removed my mask. For the first time, the power I'd always struggled to control worked with me instead of against me. 

Clara's eyes widened in shock as my gaze met hers, the air between us thickening as time itself slowed to a crawl. The vine around my leg twitched, then loosened, retracting inch by inch as Clara's body faltered. 

She stumbled, knees hitting the grass with a dull thud, a soft curse slipping from her lips. I could feel her discomfort, the telltale headache caused when her own time vision clashed with the distortion I created.

 Her powers were fighting mine, and neither of us could fully stop it. Still, all I had to do was keep her down — and slowed — long enough.

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1!"The entire class counted down, their voices echoing across the field.

I took a deep breath, lowering my mask back over my face just as the proctor raised his hand.

"Winner — Hagarin." 

---------------------

"It's fine, really. You don't have to apologize." Clara reassured me, still comfortably seated on the hospital bed.

"Clara! I'm really sorry." I showed up at the infirmary, holding an apple pie as my peace offering. She just smiled, waving off my concern.

"You really did well back there, but didn't I already tell you to go easy on me?" She chuckled softly.

I sat at the edge of the bed, carefully cutting the apple pie. "Well, I'm glad I lost though. Thanks for the food, I guess." Clara added with a light laugh.

The laughter and chatter from earlier had long faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the evening settling in. The sky outside was painted in soft hues of sunset as I walked down the hall, my steps slow and hesitant.

Part of me didn't want to leave Clara alone in the infirmary, but she had insisted I go home, saying her dad would be there to pick her up soon anyway. The halls were practically deserted now — most students had already gone home, leaving only a few teachers and staff lingering somewhere in the building.

Or so I thought.

That was until I heard soft giggles echoing behind me — the unmistakable sound of someone laughing to themselves. And who else could it be but Ezra?

"Don't touch me," I said immediately, spinning around to face him.

He raised both hands in mock surrender, a grin plastered on his face. "I haven't even done anything!"

"You always tense up when I'm around, don't you? Dove, you gotta ease up a little," he cackled, his voice echoing faintly through the empty hall.

I crossed my arms, trying not to let his antics get to me. "What do you even want? And why are you still here this late?"

Ezra clasped his hands together, his smile never fading. "Oh, I got detention — something about almost killing a classmate earlier!" he said, far too casually for my liking.

I raised a brow, equal parts concerned and confused. "Almost killing someone? How did you even come to that conclusion?" 

"Easy! That classmate was Maverick — y'know, the guy who acts like he's the smartest person in the universe but actually reeks of arrogance." Ezra rolled his eyes dramatically before clasping his hands together, voice brimming with exaggerated enthusiasm. "So, to help him fully experience my sincere, heartfelt, emotionally touching anger, I pulled out a pistol when I got close to him."

He even pointed upward like some self-proclaimed intellectual giving a lecture.

I blinked, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he just said. "Wait—hold on. A pistol? How did you even... What?"

Ezra gasped, clutching his chest like I'd just shattered his heart. "You didn't watch me? Oh, dove, I'm hurt! Absolutely heartbroken!"

I just stared at him, my silence practically speaking for itself. Ezra, on the other hand, stared back at me like a giant question mark had just popped out of his head.

Oh. Right. I forgot — he couldn't even see my face. The mask was still on.

"So...uh, just don't do it again." I finally broke the awkward silence.

"I like whatever is wrong with you — it's fascinating. I'm following you home." Ezra grinned, that usual chaotic glint in his eyes.

"Don't—"

"Too late! Let's go!" Before I could even finish, he grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me along.

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3,429 words

Chapter 5: Of fights, Farewells, and Fools

I woke to the sharp chime of the bell, the sound pulling me abruptly from my daze and dragging me back into reality.

"Time's up," the proctor announced, his voice cutting through the lingering haze in my mind. Right — the gymnasium. I was still here. 

I turned my head, only to find Ezra sprawled unconscious on the floor. Instinctively, I reached out to shake him awake, but before my hand could make contact, a voice interrupted me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." I glanced up, finding one of my classmates watching me with thinly veiled amusement. "And why not?" I asked. He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. 

"Are you seriously asking that?" Something about his tone scratched at my nerves. Still, I forced myself to remain calm.

"If you can't answer a simple question, perhaps you shouldn't waste your breath."

"A sharp tongue won't save you from your own ignorance."

"And your refusal to clarify only proves your own." I frowned, though he only responded with a careless scoff. 

"Enough, Maverick," Clarence cut in, stepping between us with the practiced ease of someone used to extinguish petty conflicts. Maverick shrugged, utterly unbothered, and walked away without another word. 

"What's his problem?" I muttered to Clarence. Clarence let out a tired sigh. "He's always like that. Not the brightest socially, but quick to mock anyone who's even slightly out of the loop. Let's just say he finds entertainment in other people's confusion." 

"Charming," I said dryly. 

"Anyway, what do we do about Ezra?" 

"I'll notify the proctor," Clarence said, adjusting his glasses. "And for future reference, you should avoid touching him directly. His abilities are highly contagious — you did learn that from the time-travel session, didn't you?" 

"No," I admitted. "I didn't get that far. The bell rang before I could see anything else." "I see." Clarence gave a thoughtful nod before heading off to inform the proctor, leaving me alone with Ezra's motionless form and the unsettling realization that there's far more to this boy than I ever imagined. I watched as Ezra was hurried off to the infirmary, and with his absence came a flood of questions swirling in my mind. Why is he contagious? The thought looped over and over, each repetition tightening like a knot behind my eyes. 

Before I could stop it, my head began to ache — a slow, creeping pulse that warned me something was coming. 

A vision, maybe. My magic stirring to life. Panic shot through me, and I bolted toward the bench where I'd left my mask, my hands shaking as I slipped it back on. Just in time, too — a fragmented memory was already clawing its way to the surface, blurring my vision and distorting reality. If I hadn't covered my face, I'd probably be the next one dragged off to the infirmary. A sigh of relief slipped from my lips as I sank onto the bench. 

Honestly, I can't even overthink without overthinking the fact that overthinking might actually make me pass out. And somehow, just by trying to figure everything out, I end up drained by my own powers. Truly, fate has a twisted sense of humor. 

"Hagarin~" Clara's sing-song voice rang out as she skipped over and settled beside me. I noticed her monocle wasn't on her face but dangling between her fingers. 

"I saw your face earlier! You're really pretty, you know that?" she said with a bright smile.

"Oh... thank you?" I replied, caught somewhere between confusion and gratitude. She only giggled in response.

"Wait—why aren't you wearing your monocle? Wouldn't that give you a headache if your power activates?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. 

She shook her head with a proud grin. "I've managed to control about ten percent of my power now. It's not much, but it's a lot better than having no control at all." 

"That ten percent lets me shut down a small part of my ability. It only kicks in randomly if I'm feeling really anxious or overwhelmed," she explained, and I nodded along. 

"What about the rest of your power? What can you do at full strength?" 

"Well..." She tapped her chin playfully. "The best part is feeling almost normal—for once. No headaches, no sudden visions of doom. It's peaceful." 

"But why a monocle? Wouldn't it make more sense to cover both eyes if seeing the future is such a problem?" I asked. She laughed softly. "I only have time magic in one eye—my left. The right eye? That one's all nature. Back when I was a kid, I used to keep my mom's plants alive with a flick of my fingers." 

"Speaking of my mom, want to come visit her with me sometime? She's dead, by the way.""...What—oh! I'm so sorry for your loss," I stammered, completely thrown off by her delivery. Clara only smiled, unbothered as always.

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When class hours ended, Clara insisted that Clarence join us, but he politely declined, mentioning he already had other plans. So, in the end, it was just me and Clara. We strolled along the stone pavement, the crisp air mingling with the rustling of trees lining the path.

 I found myself enjoying the peacefulness, a rare moment of tranquility. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Clara hopping along the stepping stones, entertaining herself like a carefree child. "Y'know, Hagarin, I have a feeling you'll end up acing the entire class," she said suddenly, her voice light and confident. 

"I'm not sure if I should believe that, considering we both have the ability to see the future," I hummed, keeping my gaze forward. 

"I'm saying this from instinct, not sight." She spun to face me, sliding her monocle back into place—a clear sign she wasn't using her powers to peek ahead. 

"Right," I scoffed softly. "Why won't you believe me?" she pouted. "You're already better than half our classmates, and most of them barely have two functioning brain cells to rub together. Plus, they're just mean for no reason." "Are they?" I raised a brow. "I guess I never really paid much attention to anyone." The scenery was far more interesting, in my opinion. 

Clara hopped off the last stepping stone and walked beside me. "Have you not noticed Maverick? Or even Liviya? They're not full-blown bullies or anything, but the mess in their heads is loud enough to drown out whatever kindness they might have had. Honestly, they're so chaotic, it's hard to even see them as normal." 

"I suppose they do give me some unpleasant looks now and then," I admitted after a brief pause. "What about the blind girl? I haven't seen her face either. Everyone took off their... stuff during class, but I never caught a glimpse of her," I said, curiously. 

"Oh, Alain? She's sweet, just incredibly quiet. But if you ever get the chance to talk to her, you'll like her," Clara said with a fond smile. 

"She's blind, yes, but her powers let her see everything—every possibility, every shift in time. That's why she wears a blindfold. Without it, her mind gets overwhelmed. Though, from what I've seen, she's making progress."

"That's... actually fascinating. It's like a blessing wrapped in a curse." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Imagine being born without sight, unable to witness the beauty of the world—only to be gifted the power to see everything at once. Still, I'm guessing that's nothing compared to ordinary vision."

I glanced at Clara, my thoughts drifting. "Seeing through the eyes of a time traveler is so strange. For me, it's all washed-out shades of blue, with a slight distortion. Like looking through fogged glass." 

"Really? Blue?" Clara tilted her head. "For me, it's this pale brown haze, almost sepia." She laughed softly. "Maybe it has something to do with our actual eye color."

"Could be," I said, returning her smile. "Just another strange part of our lives, I guess." 

We finally arrived at her mother's tomb. "Hi, Mom. I brought a friend with me today—another new one besides Clarence," Clara said softly as she stepped closer to the grave.

"We learned how to time travel in class today." The tomb itself was well-maintained, adorned with delicate decorations built into the stone. It felt intentional, almost like a tradition that had been passed down through generations. Every small detail seemed to hold a memory. 

I stood beside Clara, quietly listening as she rambled on, speaking to her mother as though she were still right there with us. 

I'd be like that too if I ever had the chance to bury my mother—to care for her tomb and visit her like this. But no, life gave me something far more cruel. A memory I can never bury, no matter how much I want to. 

When it ended, we both lit candles as a gesture of respect, the soft flicker of the flames dancing in the cool air. 

As we slowly walked down the stone path, I broke the silence.

"Clara, if life wasn't so cruel, would you actually enjoy living?" I asked as we slowly made our way down the stone path.She gave a soft laugh, but there was a hint of bitterness behind it. 

"I'm content with my life—even if the word enjoy doesn't really fit anywhere in it. If life had been kinder, I wouldn't have met Clarence... or you."

"Everything that happened today wouldn't have happened. That's just how fate works—we either accept it or keep fighting something we can't change." She paused, looking up at the floating lanterns that were starting to light our way. 

"I know this world of ours is swallowed whole by magic, and sure, anything feels possible—like we're trapped in some cruel fairytale. Hell, reincarnation might even be real for all we know. But even so, I think I like this life. Just... go with the flow. Maybe you'll find a reason to keep going."

"Right," I murmured. "The power to rewrite my past and change the future is right at my fingertips... yet I didn't take it."Clara glanced at me, her expression unreadable. 

"Because you know you'd die if you mess up your timeline."

"Time, fate—whatever people want to call it—it's such a tangled mess," she sighed. 

"Sometimes, I wish I had something simple. Like the power to grow flowers or control fire. Something that doesn't make my head hurt."

"I get that," I said quietly. Neither of us spoke after that. We just walked, both letting out a long sigh at the same time, letting the silence say the rest.

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Later that evening, Clara and I parted ways to head back to our homes. Tomorrow was another day, and honestly, I was relieved this one had finally come to an end. When I stepped through the door, the soft murmur of the television greeted me. 

"I'm home... sorry I'm late," I said quietly, spotting Hanari lounging on the couch. 

"Where'd you even go?" she asked, barely glancing my way as I slipped off my shoes and dropped onto the couch beside her. "I, uh... went with a friend to visit her mom's grave."

Hanari just hummed in response, munching lazily on her slice of apple pie. 

"I don't have any friends anymore, you know. You're never there. Maybe you could come to the main building and have lunch with me sometime? I saw your schedule—you have way more free periods than I do." 

"Can't," I shrugged. 

"Too lazy to walk that far, and the main building's practically on the other side of the campus."Hanari groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions like her life was ending.

"What if I just come to your building instead?"

"They probably won't let you," I said, stealing a glance at her.

She groaned again, louder this time, like the weight of her tragic social life was too much to bear. "I look like some lonely loser."

"You'll live," I muttered, grabbing her fork and stealing a bite of her apple pie before she could protest.

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Friday — Sparring Day.

Every Friday, our class dedicates the entire day to sparring practice. It's the only time we're allowed to fully use our powers against each other — under supervision, of course.

We were all gathered at the field, the usual spot for these sessions. I stood at the edge, quietly observing my classmates as they clashed, each person using their abilities in creative or chaotic ways. 

Some were flashy, showing off like they were performing for an audience. Others fought with precision, wasting no movement. Then, the proctor called out the next pair. 

"Hagarin... versus..."There was a brief pause before the proctor continued.

"Oh, Clara." Both of us froze for a second, equally surprised. From across the field, Clara waved nervously.

"Go easy on me, Hagarin!" she called out with a laugh, though there was a flicker of real concern in her voice. We took our places, standing opposite each other in the center of the field. 

All eyes were on us now — classmates whispering, some curious, others already making guesses about who would win. We stood across from each other, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the field. 

The proctor raised his hand — the signal to begin. Clara didn't waste a second. The ground beneath me trembled as thick roots erupted from the earth, twisting and surging toward me like serpents. I leapt back, narrowly avoiding the first strike, but more followed in its wake, branches splitting off and shooting upward to block my escape. 

She's fast. Faster than I expected.

I darted between the branches, my body weaving instinctively to avoid getting caught. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clara raise her hand — this time, a single rosebud bloomed at her fingertips. 

With a flick of her wrist, the rose shot toward me like an arrow, its petals sharp like blades. It wasn't aimed at me directly — it was after my mask. I ducked just in time, the flower slicing through the air above my head. 

"She's really aiming for my mask?" I muttered to myself. Typical Clara move — clever, but predictable. If my mask comes off, my power will surge uncontrollably, and we both know that could end the match in chaos.

"Trying to cheat already?" I called out, though my tone was lighthearted.

"Not cheating! Just creative strategy!" Clara shouted back, a grin splitting her face as more vines slithered toward my ankles.

I stomped hard, shattering a root just before it wrapped around my foot. If I let her trap me, it's over. The rules are simple — whoever hits the ground and stays down for five seconds loses.

 "Alright," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "My turn." Clara raised a brow, unfazed, as she unleashed another wave of attacks — every flower she could summon sharpened into dart-like projectiles, whistling through the air toward me.

 I dodged each one with ease, weaving left and right, but just as I landed, something coiled around my ankle. 

A vine. Clara snorted, clearly proud of herself, her confidence radiating as she tugged slightly, tightening the grip on my leg. 

"Gotcha." But this was exactly what I wanted. I kept my back turned to her as she broke into a sprint, closing the distance between us. I could feel the anticipation rolling off her — she thought this was her win.

 That's when I calmly reached up and removed my mask. For the first time, the power I'd always struggled to control worked with me instead of against me. 

Clara's eyes widened in shock as my gaze met hers, the air between us thickening as time itself slowed to a crawl. The vine around my leg twitched, then loosened, retracting inch by inch as Clara's body faltered. 

She stumbled, knees hitting the grass with a dull thud, a soft curse slipping from her lips. I could feel her discomfort, the telltale headache caused when her own time vision clashed with the distortion I created.

 Her powers were fighting mine, and neither of us could fully stop it. Still, all I had to do was keep her down — and slowed — long enough.

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1!"The entire class counted down, their voices echoing across the field.

I took a deep breath, lowering my mask back over my face just as the proctor raised his hand.

"Winner — Hagarin." 

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"It's fine, really. You don't have to apologize." Clara reassured me, still comfortably seated on the hospital bed.

"Clara! I'm really sorry." I showed up at the infirmary, holding an apple pie as my peace offering. She just smiled, waving off my concern.

"You really did well back there, but didn't I already tell you to go easy on me?" She chuckled softly.

I sat at the edge of the bed, carefully cutting the apple pie. "Well, I'm glad I lost though. Thanks for the food, I guess." Clara added with a light laugh.

The laughter and chatter from earlier had long faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the evening settling in. The sky outside was painted in soft hues of sunset as I walked down the hall, my steps slow and hesitant.

Part of me didn't want to leave Clara alone in the infirmary, but she had insisted I go home, saying her dad would be there to pick her up soon anyway. The halls were practically deserted now — most students had already gone home, leaving only a few teachers and staff lingering somewhere in the building.

Or so I thought.

That was until I heard soft giggles echoing behind me — the unmistakable sound of someone laughing to themselves. And who else could it be but Ezra?

"Don't touch me," I said immediately, spinning around to face him.

He raised both hands in mock surrender, a grin plastered on his face. "I haven't even done anything!"

"You always tense up when I'm around, don't you? Dove, you gotta ease up a little," he cackled, his voice echoing faintly through the empty hall.

I crossed my arms, trying not to let his antics get to me. "What do you even want? And why are you still here this late?"

Ezra clasped his hands together, his smile never fading. "Oh, I got detention — something about almost killing a classmate earlier!" he said, far too casually for my liking.

I raised a brow, equal parts concerned and confused. "Almost killing someone? How did you even come to that conclusion?" 

"Easy! That classmate was Maverick — y'know, the guy who acts like he's the smartest person in the universe but actually reeks of arrogance." Ezra rolled his eyes dramatically before clasping his hands together, voice brimming with exaggerated enthusiasm. "So, to help him fully experience my sincere, heartfelt, emotionally touching anger, I pulled out a pistol when I got close to him."

He even pointed upward like some self-proclaimed intellectual giving a lecture.

I blinked, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he just said. "Wait—hold on. A pistol? How did you even... What?"

Ezra gasped, clutching his chest like I'd just shattered his heart. "You didn't watch me? Oh, dove, I'm hurt! Absolutely heartbroken!"

I just stared at him, my silence practically speaking for itself. Ezra, on the other hand, stared back at me like a giant question mark had just popped out of his head.

Oh. Right. I forgot — he couldn't even see my face. The mask was still on.

"So...uh, just don't do it again." I finally broke the awkward silence.

"I like whatever is wrong with you — it's fascinating. I'm following you home." Ezra grinned, that usual chaotic glint in his eyes.

"Don't—"

"Too late! Let's go!" Before I could even finish, he grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me along.

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3,429 words

next chapter

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

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

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Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

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I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

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The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

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

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Next chapter

Chapter 2: Confusion

This chapter includes:

Headaches, migraines, and medical distressInsomnia and exhaustion Mild body horror (temporary sensory loss, forced unconsciousness)Mentions of an accident (without graphic detail)Mild language and frustration between characters

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hagarin's POV

After a few months of studying books, history, and magic, we finally reach a moment wherein we are permitted to experiment on what kind of alchemy power we can cast.

And I feel a headache growing in my head today. Come to think of it, my head doesn't seem to stop aching within those past months. I often pass out, and a visual of people's memories flashes through my mind.

This led to insomnia.

Pills weren't enough to ease the growing ache in my head. All I ever had to do was sleep away the pain. I have no idea what is going on with me. Yesterday evening, I instantly slept on my bed when I returned from school. My siblings were growing worried about my antics, and I often left them hanging with lame excuses. Truth be told, I also don't know what's going on.

But in all seriousness, I want to find out what is going on with me. For I don't want to worry my sisters, and I also don't want to wait for death knocking at my door for not taking care of myself.

Today is the day we practice magic.

I silently wore my shoes while tolerating Hanari's loud munching on her macaroni food. "You are so silent, and it's killing me," she bluntly said.

I turned to her to retort a reply, but the sharp headache suddenly spiked up again. I had a frown etched on my face and couldn't hear her properly, but I could see her speaking. But why can't I hear her?

"Hey, are you okay?" I heard her faint voice and buried my face in my hands as I steadied my breathing. Another memory flashed in my mind. She held my shoulder to slightly shake me awake.

"Why are you avoiding my gaze, Hagarin?" She said as irritation lingered in her voice. "I can't explain it," I answered, and it sums up the confusion and tension hanging in the air between us.

"No, you explain." Hanari said while attempting to make me look at her, but I closed my eyes instead. "wait, my head hurts." another lame excuse flew out of my mouth.

"Yeah, I can see that. Is your vision going bad?" She asked worriedly.

"I think...?" I lied.

It's not about my vision.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After arguing with Hanari, we both ended up going to school anyway. We are currently doing experiments. Many discovered a few tricks to manipulate an object to float them in the air, and many discovered things on their own, and here I am, blankly staring at the small white flowers that the spell I created.

Weird. The image that flashed in my mind seemed that it didn't happen. Was it because I avoided something, and that's why the outcome was different? I don't understand.Hanari was supposed to shake me. To snap out of my daze. It didn't happen. Why?

"Hagarin. Hello?"

I snapped out of my daze, and my eyes wandered to the person who called me. I braced myself for the headache forming from a mile away.

"Yes?" I stared at her. I somewhat felt...Glad? Glad that I didn't feel any sharp pain, headache, or worse, a migraine. It's Ms. Renée who called me. "You've been staring blankly at that flower. What is going on?" concern lingered against her voice as I avoided her gaze.

“Yes.” what?

“I meant to say, I’m okay.”

"From your actions, it doesn't seem like it." She said with a hint of amusement in her tone. I let out a sigh and hesitated whether I should share this annoying headache with her or not.

"Lately, I've been feeling extreme headaches." I started.

"And that headache hinders my ability to do daily tasks with ease." I sighed and felt another migraine from a mile away. "As exaggerated as I make it sound, it does really hurt like a dinosaur stepping on my head." I dramatically expressed making her deadpan.

"You would've died if that's the capacity of the pain of the headache is giving you." She crossed her arms. "Go on and continue." She waved her hand dismissively while checking her phone.

"When the headache continued, images kept flashing in my mind. It's as if I could see what could happen." I sighed. "I later learned about it today because I literally saw a bus flash in my mind, and it hit a little girl on the road."

Renée abruptly stopped scrolling on her phone and paused. "what?" Was all she uttered.

"5:40 AM, near the cathedral, at the Osuado street..." She muttered under her breath, however, that didn't go unnoticed by me.

"How do you know? It wasn't aired in the news..." I replied as she stared at me. My eyes widened when I saw her glowing. Her amber eyes were glowing as the faint gold color was added a touch up to the bright light.

"Hagarin." Her voice echoed, and before I knew it, our surroundings turned grey. Except for us.

"Ms. Renée...?" I muttered worriedly as she walked towards me. "You're power is no ordinary."

"And, I'm sorry if I failed to notice this sooner Hagarin. I shall put you to sleep and worry not, you'll feel at ease once you see the light again." I heard her voice echo as she spoke. But why?

I saw her hand come in contact with my forehead and felt my lids grow heavy until the last glimpse I saw was Renée's figure.

And everything went black. - What day was it? Was it night or day? I'm hungry.

Muffled sounds of voices entered my hearing. I couldn't see anything. My eyes wouldn't open when I tried to. My senses were working but my sight seemed to have other plans.

Why can't I open my eyes? What happened?

I have to wake up. I have to know what is going on. I have no choice but to do this.

3...2..1...

I forced myself to suddenly move and that made me effectively open my eyes because I accidentally hit my arm with a metal. I let the surroundings ponder inside my head and finally realized. I'm at the clinic.

and on a hospital bed.

How long was I out for?

"Thank whatever gods that granted you to wake up." I heard a voice beside me. It startled me when it was Hanari. "What happened?" We both said at the same time making me deadpan while she just gave me an expression filled with disbelief.

"Don't play with me right now." She returned the same deadpanned expression as mine. "I knew something was wrong with you, and you weren't telling me. What are you? 4? Do I have to baby you for you to tell me?" She said as I only sighed out of irritation. Of all the things I could get, why do I have to deal with her unwavering concern the first time I open my eyes after passing out?

"Look, I don't know what is going on with me either," I answered. It made her give me an exasperated sigh as if the world was gonna collide. "You could've told me about you're fucking migraine." Hanari gave me a stern expression. "And what?" I deadpanned.

"What do you mean "What?" Do you not know how much worry and concern I felt when I saw you being carried here? Ms. Renée told me you are experiencing headaches!" she shook my bed out of frustration.

"Oh, right. Ms. Renée." I thought for a moment making her let out a scoff. "So? Are you not gonna explain and wait for her to return?" Hanari crossed her arms as she waited impatiently on the chair.

"alright, but you gotta answer my questions too."

"deal." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1,316 words.

next chapter

Chapter 1: Present time

This chapter contains themes that may be sensitive to some readers, including:

References to past violenceMentions of death, Light school stress and academic pressure, Brief mention of dangerous creatures and plants (idk how sensitive are yall but hell yeah), Mild language.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hagarin's POV After many years, we are finally old enough to leave the institution and live independently in the city. My sisters and I are still together and living under the same roof. I also saw several changes in ourselves as we grew up.

And today, both Hanari and I are 15 years old. We spent years studying within the facility and never had the opportunity to attend a regular school. Now that we are living alone, we can finally attend school. I considered staying at home and do houseworks while my two sisters continue with their studies, but Hanari insisted that I should as well.

We all know that education will always be important in many aspects in lives.

Every morning, we follow a certain timetable. I get up early to cook our breakfast, and Hanari and our younger sister will get up early to prepare for school. When they're finished, we'll all enjoy breakfast together. After that, Hanari will wash the dishes as I prepare for school, and our younger sister will assist in putting the plates back in the drawers.

That routine goes on and on everyday.

Sharing what has just happened at the school we attend is stressful, at least for me and Hanari. Our younger sister is stress-free since she is still young and a kindergarten student.

Lately, we have been learning many magic spells, doing scientific experiments, studying a bunch of literature and theses, and many more.

I can say that studying magic spells and doing scientific experiments will help us discover what elemental power we possess.

As I listen to my journalism teacher, I'm fighting the urge to fall asleep. She was now discussing the significance of magic, particularly how it began.

"Magic is important to everyone. No matter how unfair or how much chaos it brings to our lives." she went on to say. "And, in the beginning, the use of magic was legalized as a weapon to defend ourselves, but I have to warn everyone not to be such a prick when it comes to using magic." She giggled, went to the board, and began writing.

"To be exact, 8290 years ago, magic was discovered by a witch," she said, making my focus adjust to her as I listened. I was intrigued. "That witch was none other than Victoria Lemioska." It intrigued the whole class. "Also known as; Victo. Now that you all came to a realization, in all places in the world, her face, and statues are everywhere. As we are all deeply connected with her discovery of the magic," she said before turning to us once again.

"Since Victo is a witch, she first discovered a spell to make a withered plant come back to life." The teacher pulled out a withered rose and used magic to bring it back to a healthy life while it floated in the air. "Victo discovered that spell and named it Resuscitate."

"As time passes by, more spells are discovered by her."

"You can learn it in your spell class."

"But as a journalist, I have seen her notebook filled with magical spells; half of it is forbidden to be used as it casts irreversible damage to anything." She snapped her fingers, making an image of the notebook appear in the air.

We all gazed up, awestruck. It's quite a hefty notepad. Though the object is significantly tarnished due to its age, I can see that the writing on the notepad is still legible and readable to anybody. However, I was attracted by the prohibited magic. I feel that the banned spells are not included in the magic books that are handed to us.

when the image disappeared and the rose landed on her desk. "The notebook was located in our national museum, the Metallica Museum." Our teacher was about to speak again, but then a student raised their hand.

"Ma'am, what about the five major elements?" A student asked.

"The five major elements were discovered by Baili Hermin," our teacher stated. "He was also a journalist like me, and of course, being a journalist requires traveling around the world to explore many things."

"Fun fact, he also used to work under the branch of media analyst, wherein I also work." She proudly claimed. "Moving on, it may sound unrealistic, but Baili met Victoria in a desert. Baili was almost attacked by a lion, but Victo blinded the lion with a spell and took Baili to a cave."

"There's proof, no matter how unrealistic, that Baili's diary was found, and it was also in the museum. He documented his whole journey of travelling around the world, and the most highlighted part of his diary was the discovery of the five major elements."

"He discovered it because of Victo. Baili wrote everything about what Victo said about magic spells, making it more believable that magic spells exist."

"When the article reached many people, the majority of the people started to panic, and out of panic, everyone else planned to execute Victo. The reason is that Victo is nothing but an outcast in the world; possessing magic is absurd and unbelievable."

"And yet, we are here, prone to using magic," our teacher said.

"The elements were discovered when Victo was executed; a light escaped from her chest, making it explode through the sky. It landed on humans, animals, and most importantly, plants."

"Which resulted in why we have species in the forest that are completely dangerous and can harm your life, for example, the flower Rafflesia."

"Before the light landed on that flower, it's just the biggest flower in the world and has a foul odor to attract insects to kill."

"Now it still does its purpose, but it has the ability to stretch away from its position and follow you everywhere in the forest." Our teacher deadpanned making the whole class laughed.

"To make this quick, the five major elements landed on five humans, and those humans are now known to be the gods of those major elements." Our teacher sighed. "We are all aware that the most powerful and rare element to possess is time; in other words, you can control the time, predict what's going to happen, and there are many other signs to feel if you possess one."

"Second is nature."

"Remember, never mess with nature itself, as it was the one that gave us a reason to live in, to breathe in. The ability to possess nature grants you access to control plants and animals."

"But isn't changing the weather also a part of it?" A student asked. "Only the god of nature can do that." Our teacher chuckled. "Come to think of it, the God of Nature has a 15-year streak of absence. Many say that her aura is still around, but many also believe she has passed away, and it's just nature speaking," the teacher sighed.

"Moving on, fire is on the third."

"In my study, fire is always predicted to be possessed by someone who has such a boisterous personality, while the ice one is someone who is...restrained." our teacher summoned her book and it was probably her personalized book. It has a lot of pages and everything that was written in that book was her understanding on how to predict which element do a person possesses.

"ah, here it is." She placed her book on the desk and started reading.

"The element of fire is known to be the most fascinating, exquisite and ravishing elemental of all. It was asserted as one considering a klatsch of people are indulged to play with fire even if it only steers to harm."

"and by all means of harm, it can also be describe as destruction." she finished making the whole class whisper among themselves. "But that doesn't mean to treat someone with disrespect just because they hold that elemental power." She sighed.

THIRD PERSON'S POV

The teacher noticed the change of atmosphere in her class and sighed. "You all probably have forgotten my name but once again, my name is Renée and I hope you all learned something today." Renée glanced at her watch on her wrist.

many students started to protest on her from leaving. They still have a lot of questions with the history but that will all be answered at the next time they see each other again. Renée only stifled a chuckle at the frustrated expression of their students. Curiosity truly made their heads run wild.

"An advance reading on your textbooks won't hurt. Simply just turn your page to chapter 5 and all of your questions will be briefly answered as it provides descriptive explanation to everything." Renée finally exit the classroom.

Once she did, the students in her class opened their textbooks to discover a lot more information. As Renée exit the classroom, she went to the elevator to venture her way to her next class but she was greeted by another teacher; Kyla.

"I see you've gotten your students all pumped up. Quite a headache to deal with." Kyla scoffed as she pressed on the buttons. It only made Renée shrug. "Don't act like you aren't as curious as them when you're at that age." Renée retorted to only make Kyla chuckle and let Renée's tone slide for now. "I assumed you've found someone with a rare element in this class. Hmm?" Kyla's eyes watched Renée's expression from the reflections of the elevator.

"It was such a rare occurrence indeed." Renée remembered Hagarin. "Her eyes are different from the rest. The colors were a lot more dull than the others making it more accessible to assume that she was an extraordinary person." Renée thoughtfully answered. "And this by this she you are referring to, who is she?" Kyla averted her eyes from Renée and focused on the door as it opened. a small ding was heard as they reached the floor. Renée walked ahead of Kyla but spoke before leaving. "Hagarin."

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1,702 words.

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.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 2,731 words.

Chapter 1: Present time

This chapter contains themes that may be sensitive to some readers, including:

References to past violenceMentions of death, Light school stress and academic pressure, Brief mention of dangerous creatures and plants (idk how sensitive are yall but hell yeah), Mild language.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hagarin's POV After many years, we are finally old enough to leave the institution and live independently in the city. My sisters and I are still together and living under the same roof. I also saw several changes in ourselves as we grew up.

And today, both Hanari and I are 15 years old. We spent years studying within the facility and never had the opportunity to attend a regular school. Now that we are living alone, we can finally attend school. I considered staying at home and do houseworks while my two sisters continue with their studies, but Hanari insisted that I should as well.

We all know that education will always be important in many aspects in lives. 

In the world we live in, survival demands sharp minds—not just sharpened by magic, but by the brutal chaos we humans created for ourselves.

We’re still human, I suppose. Just tainted—twisted by the very magic that makes me wonder: is this still humanity, or were we meant to become something else entirely? 

The world has grown far more advanced ever since magic spread across it. Nothing feels impossible anymore. Some have forgotten where they came from. Others cling to old traditions and beliefs. And then there are those who simply don’t care.

Maybe that’s why the world feels so loud. Everyone’s different now, and no one seems willing to accept what we’ve become.

Look around, and you might see flying cars soaring through the skies of this city. In another, people ride enchanted brooms as their everyday transport. Everything and everyone is different—blended together in a strange mix of magic, machines, and habits.

But here…

I live in a city considered the richest in the world. The nation itself—Aloy—owes its wealth to vast oil reserves. Oil money built everything here. Because of that upper hand, nearly everything is accessible. Magic, technology, luxury—you name it. In Aloy, nothing feels out of reach.

What this city values most, though, isn’t oil—it’s metal. Preserved, traded, revered. I think it’s because the city was once ruled by a god whose very touch could turn anything into metal. Not figuratively—literally. Stone, wood, even flesh. Everything he touched became metal.

And that kind of power leaves a mark. On the land, on the people, on the way we see worth.

But that might not matter now. What matters is that every morning, we follow a certain timetable. I get up early to cook our breakfast, and Hanari and our younger sister will get up early to prepare for school. When they're finished, we'll all enjoy breakfast together. After that, Hanari will wash the dishes as I prepare for school, and our younger sister will assist in putting the plates back in the drawers.

That routine goes on and on everyday.

Sharing what has just happened at the school we attend is stressful, at least for me and Hanari. Our younger sister is stress-free since she is still young and a kindergarten student.

Lately, we have been learning many magic spells, doing scientific experiments, studying a bunch of literature and theses, and many more.

I can say that studying magic spells and doing scientific experiments will help us discover what elemental power we possess.

As I listen to my journalism teacher, I'm fighting the urge to fall asleep. She was now discussing the significance of magic, particularly how it began.

"Magic is important to everyone. No matter how unfair or how much chaos it brings to our lives." she went on to say. "And, in the beginning, the use of magic was legalized as a weapon to defend ourselves, but I have to warn everyone not to be such a prick when it comes to using magic." She giggled, went to the board, and began writing.

"To be exact, 8290 years ago, magic was discovered by a witch," she said, making my focus adjust to her as I listened. I was intrigued. "That witch was none other than Victoria Lemioska." It intrigued the whole class. "Also known as; Victo. Now that you all came to a realization, in all places in the world, her face, and statues are everywhere. As we are all deeply connected with her discovery of the magic," she said before turning to us once again.

"Since Victo is a witch, she first discovered a spell to make a withered plant come back to life." The teacher pulled out a withered rose and used magic to bring it back to a healthy life while it floated in the air. "Victo discovered that spell and named it Resuscitate."

"As time passes by, more spells are discovered by her."

"You can learn it in your spell class."

"But as a journalist, I have seen her notebook filled with magical spells; half of it is forbidden to be used as it casts irreversible damage to anything." She snapped her fingers, making an image of the notebook appear in the air.

We all gazed up, awestruck. It's quite a hefty notepad. Though the object is significantly tarnished due to its age, I can see that the writing on the notepad is still legible and readable to anybody. However, I was attracted by the prohibited magic. I feel that the banned spells are not included in the magic books that are handed to us.

when the image disappeared and the rose landed on her desk. "The notebook was located in our national museum, the Metallica Museum." Our teacher was about to speak again, but then a student raised their hand.

"Ma'am, what about the five major elements?" A student asked.

"The five major elements were discovered by Baili Hermin," our teacher stated. "He was also a journalist like me, and of course, being a journalist requires traveling around the world to explore many things."

"Fun fact, he also used to work under the branch of media analyst, wherein I also work." She proudly claimed. "Moving on, it may sound unrealistic, but Baili met Victoria in a desert. Baili was almost attacked by a lion, but Victo blinded the lion with a spell and took Baili to a cave."

"There's proof, no matter how unrealistic, that Baili's diary was found, and it was also in the museum. He documented his whole journey of travelling around the world, and the most highlighted part of his diary was the discovery of the five major elements."

"He discovered it because of Victo. Baili wrote everything about what Victo said about magic spells, making it more believable that magic spells exist."

"When the article reached many people, the majority of the people started to panic, and out of panic, everyone else planned to execute Victo. The reason is that Victo is nothing but an outcast in the world; possessing magic is absurd and unbelievable."

"And yet, we are here, prone to using magic," our teacher said.

"The elements were discovered when Victo was executed; a light escaped from her chest, making it explode through the sky. It landed on humans, animals, and most importantly, plants."

"Which resulted in why we have species in the forest that are completely dangerous and can harm your life, for example, the flower Rafflesia."

"Before the light landed on that flower, it's just the biggest flower in the world and has a foul odor to attract insects to kill."

"Now it still does its purpose, but it has the ability to stretch away from its position and follow you everywhere in the forest." Our teacher deadpanned making the whole class laughed.

"To make this quick, the five major elements landed on five humans, and those humans are now known to be the gods of those major elements." Our teacher sighed. "We are all aware that the most powerful and rare element to possess is time; in other words, you can control the time, predict what's going to happen, and there are many other signs to feel if you possess one."

"Second is nature."

"Remember, never mess with nature itself, as it was the one that gave us a reason to live in, to breathe in. The ability to possess nature grants you access to control plants and animals."

"But isn't changing the weather also a part of it?" A student asked. "Only the god of nature can do that." Our teacher chuckled. "Come to think of it, the God of Nature has a 15-year streak of absence. Many say that her aura is still around, but many also believe she has passed away, and it's just nature speaking," the teacher sighed.

"Moving on, fire is on the third."

"In my study, fire is always predicted to be possessed by someone who has such a boisterous personality, while the ice one is someone who is...restrained. However, this is just a myth. It is still mostly believed that no matter what personality you posses you'd still get whatever." our teacher summoned her book and it was probably her personalized book. It has a lot of pages and everything that was written in that book was her understanding on how to predict which element do a person possesses.

"ah, here it is." She placed her book on the desk and started reading.

"The element of fire is known to be the most fascinating, exquisite and ravishing elemental of all. It was asserted as one considering a klatsch of people are indulged to play with fire even if it only steers to harm."

"and by all means of harm, it can also be describe as destruction." she finished making the whole class whisper among themselves. "But that doesn't mean to treat someone with disrespect just because they hold that elemental power." She sighed.

THIRD PERSON'S POV

The teacher noticed the change of atmosphere in her class and sighed. "You all probably have forgotten my name but once again, my name is Renée and I hope you all learned something today." Renée glanced at her watch on her wrist.

many students started to protest on her from leaving. They still have a lot of questions with the history but that will all be answered at the next time they see each other again. Renée only stifled a chuckle at the frustrated expression of their students. Curiosity truly made their heads run wild.

"An advance reading on your textbooks won't hurt. Simply just turn your page to chapter 5 and all of your questions will be briefly answered as it provides descriptive explanation to everything." Renée finally exit the classroom.

Once she did, the students in her class opened their textbooks to discover a lot more information. As Renée exit the classroom, she went to the elevator to venture her way to her next class but she was greeted by another teacher; Kyla.

"I see you've gotten your students all pumped up. Quite a headache to deal with." Kyla scoffed as she pressed on the buttons. It only made Renée shrug. "Don't act like you aren't as curious as them when you're at that age." Renée retorted to only make Kyla chuckle and let Renée's tone slide for now. "I assumed you've found someone with a rare element in this class. Hmm?" Kyla's eyes watched Renée's expression from the reflections of the elevator.

"It was such a rare occurrence indeed." Renée remembered Hagarin. "Her eyes are different from the rest. The colors were a lot more dull than the others making it more accessible to assume that she was an extraordinary person." Renée thoughtfully answered. "And this by this she you are referring to, who is she?" Kyla averted her eyes from Renée and focused on the door as it opened. a small ding was heard as they reached the floor. Renée walked ahead of Kyla but spoke before leaving. "Hagarin."

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2,022 words.

Chapter 2

I'm kinda cringing at chapters 1 and 2, but I want to include those silly little common things that every fantasy sht have

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.

Next chapter: Chapter 1: Present time

❝𝗛𝗶 𝗴𝘂𝘆𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗻𝗴𝘂𝘆𝘀!❞

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳

Navigations!

self-published fictions

Fragments of The Future: Dead Dove prophecy

Story Desc Prologue - Blood Stains Don't Wash Off Chapter 1: Present time Chapter 2: Confusion Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans Chapter 4: I see you Chapter 5: Of Fights, Farewells, and Fools Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher Chapter 7: Defending the Future Chapter 8: Blades and Rivalry Chapter 9: Totally a Normal Day Chapter 10: When the Silence Breaks

:) 𝖢𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽. Other accs: wattpad: @Okoyimara17

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