Evening lingered. The school was empty.
The corridors were quiet now, the air still except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
A few stray pieces of paper drifted along the tile floor, pushed by the occasional draft, but there was no one left to notice.
The classrooms sat in silence, their doors cracked open like yawning mouths. The after-school hum of the school had died down hours ago.
And then there was the laughter.
Muffled, low—echoing through the restroom like the fading growl of some animal after a hunt. It came from five boys, but only one was in the center of it all.
Red hair, dark eyes, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His foot was planted firmly on the chest of another boy who was lying curled on the floor.
The boy beneath him—black hair, black eyes—had a thin trail of blood running from his mouth, the only sign of the damage.
He trembled, shoulders shaking, but his lips were pressed tight together, trying to suppress any sound that might slip out.
"Hey, you bastard. Give me the money."
The voice was sharp. The tone... calm. It was the kind of voice that spoke with absolute certainty. Like there was no question—no hesitation. He knew what he wanted.
The boy on the ground barely managed a breath.
"But, that's my money for—"
The red-haired boy kicked him again, not hard enough to cause more damage, but enough to make his ribs creak under the pressure.
"I don't care. Just give me the money or you're dead meat."
The boy froze. He didn't scream, didn't even flinch. His mind screamed, but his body stayed motionless.
He knew better than to cry out. The pain wouldn't stop if he did. No one would come. No one would care. It would just get worse.
The four others—standing a few paces away, leaning against the sink, arms crossed—laughed under their breath. But none of them moved any closer. None of them tried to stop it. They just watched.
And there was something about the way they watched, as though they knew something... something they weren't saying. It wasn't fear of the red-haired boy—not really. No, they feared something else.
Something that made their eyes flick toward the door every few seconds, as if there was a shadow watching them all.
The boy on the floor—black hair, black eyes—shifted slowly. His hand shook as it reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Touched the screen few times. His fingers were trembling,but he continued nonetheless.
A QR code appeared. He held it out.
The red-haired boy scared it, a wide grin breaking across his face at the notification of confirmation that he receivedthe money.
"You should've done this sooner, bastard."
He turned, tossing a final look over his shoulder.
"See you later, moron. If I need more money, I'll come to you."
The others laughed again, the sound ringing in the empty room. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp. Empty. They shuffled out behind him, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.
The door clicked shut, and the sound of their laughter lingered in the air.
The boy on the floor stayed there. He didn't move right away. Didn't rise. He couldn't. His chest was tight. His throat felt like it was closing in.
The words to scream were stuck inside him, but he knew better than to give in. Crying out would only make it worse.
His body shuddered once, then twice, as he finally pushed himself up from the cold tile. His knees felt weak, his hands unsteady as he braced himself against the sink.
He looked at himself in the mirror above. His face was pale, his lips pressed tight to stop them from trembling.
He wiped the blood from his mouth, but it only smeared across his hand. His eyes were darker than they should have been. Hollow.
In the silence of the room, everything felt heavy.
He had given in. Again.
A sick feeling curled in his stomach. He wasn't just angry at them. No, that would be too simple. He was angry at himself. For being weak. For letting it happen again. For always letting it happen.
But it wasn't just anger. There was something else. Something worse.
Something that made him want to turn the mirror away, because he couldn't stand the look of himself anymore.
He wasn't just a victim. He wasn't just some helpless thing being kicked around. He was... nothing.
The boy swallowed hard.
He looked back at his reflection.
'Is this who I am?'
It was a question that never seemed to go away. The kind of question that sat in the back of his mind, gnawing at him, waiting for the right moment to break free.
He couldn't answer it. Not now. Not ever. Because the answer was too ugly.
And deep down, he already knew.
The silence in the room pressed against him. He could hear the faint echoes of the others' laughter still bouncing down the hallway. It was hollow. It was distant. It was gone. But it wouldn't ever leave him.
He turned away from the mirror.
The school was empty now. The doors locked. The lights dimmed.
And still, that hollow feeling followed him.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ Dimension Walker ✶
✧ The Veiled Paragon ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The tiles of the school hallway were cold beneath his shoes. Cold and echoing—every step he took after that moment in the bathroom felt heavier than the last.
He didn't look up.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, flickering every so often like they were struggling to stay awake. The classrooms were empty now. Doors shut.
Windows casting long shadows from the setting sun. School had ended a while ago, and with it, the illusion of safety.
His fingers clenched around the strap of his worn bag, knuckles white. His shoulder ached where the kick had landed. Still fresh. Still humming with pain.
But the silence was louder.
He made his way through the gates without looking back. His shoulders sagged, the weight of something invisible pressing them down. His eyes were open, but nothing felt real.
Not the sky above him, turning the shade of dying embers. Not the voices that occasionally drifted by from a distance. And certainly not himself.
There was a time when the world had felt different. When he'd believed the future held something more. But those memories had grown blurry, like half-remembered dreams from a childhood he didn't trust.
He walked.
The city wasn't close. Not really. But it was necessary.
He crossed a footbridge over a narrow canal, the water below tinted black with dusk. Graffiti lined the guardrails—names, slurs, confessions. Most of it faded, forgotten. Kind of like him.
Eventually, the road curved, widened, and opened into what most people would call a plaza. Though that word didn't really do it justice.
It was more like a stage.
Screens the size of buildings towered over the streets, playing music videos, ads, and looping news feeds with saccharine smiles and plastic voices.
Animated holograms danced mid-air above the crowds—some selling products, others just existing as eye candy. The lights never stopped. Colors bled into each other across chrome and glass.
A thousand digital faces smiled down at him.
None of them real.
The ground itself lit up in rhythm with the noise, pulsing to some invisible beat that only the happy seemed to hear. Laughter echoed between the buildings.
Tourists posed with peace signs beneath flashing banners. Somewhere nearby, someone was proposing to their partner under a floating projection of artificial fireworks.
And amidst it all, he walked. Head down. Bag slung low. Invisible.
No one looked twice.
No one ever did.
This world wasn't made for people like him.
It didn't even notice he existed.
He reached the train station. Bought a ticket without a word. Stepped onto the platform and waited beneath the artificial lights. His reflection in the glass pane beside him was faint, warped by grime and distortion.
He looked away.
The train arrived, sleek and silent.
Inside, it was warm, brightly lit. Strangers sat across from him, absorbed in their own lives—eyes on their phones, whispering to companions, dozing off against the window.
He found an empty seat by the corner and sank into it, resting his bag between his knees.
His head tilted back slightly. His eyes found the ceiling. Then the floor.
Never the other passengers.
Never the windows.
Never himself.
At the next stop, he got off. The platform was quieter here, just a few tired souls dragging their feet home. A cold wind brushed his cheek. He welcomed it. It made him feel... something.
Outside, the street was empty. Darker. Less noise. Only the buzz of a vending machine humming in the distance.
He looked up.
And for a moment, just a moment, the world opened.
The sky was clear tonight.
Countless stars scattered across the velvet above. Cold, brilliant, unreachable.
He kept walking, head tilted back, eyes tracing constellations he didn't know the names of. The stars didn't laugh. Didn't judge. Didn't pretend.
They just were.
That was enough.
He walked past a row of shuttered stores, turned down a narrow alley, and emerged onto a main road.
Traffic was thin. A convenience store stood ahead, lights buzzing faintly in the night.
He stepped inside.
Grabbed ingredientsto cook. A drink. Something sweet, maybe. He always chose something sweet, even if he didn't enjoy it anymore.
The cashier barely glanced at him.
He paid in silence, took the bag, and left.
His apartment wasn't far. Just a few blocks away. He walked slowly. No reason to hurry. There was nothing waiting for him except the quiet.
The building was old, but clean. He made sure of that.
The stairs creaked under his feet as he climbed to the third floor. No elevator. There never was. But it didn't matter.
He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him.
It was small—barely a room and a half. But spotless. Not a thing out of place. A small table, a single bed, a portable stove in the corner. A shelf of books. Some figurines. A half-finished model kit.
Clean.
Orderly.
It was the only place in the world that listened to him.
He set the bag down, took out the food, and prepared a plate. He didn't rush. He always cooked properly. Even for himself. Especially for himself.
Because if he didn't, who would?
Later, in the bathroom, he avoided the mirror.
He always did.
His reflection made his stomach churn. There was something wrong with the eyes. The expression. The whole image. As if the mirror was telling the truth, and the rest of the world wasn't.
He didn't want to see that.
He showered. Changed into something loose, something comfortable. Dried his hair with the towel hanging by the door.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he applied medicine to the bruises.
It stung.
But he didn't flinch.
This wasn't new.
This had been going on for years. Since middle school. Since the day they first approached him with smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
He didn't remember when the "jokes" became pain. When the pranks turned cruel. When the laughing stopped being funny. But he remembered how it felt.
Every time.
He'd thought about ending it. More times than he could count. In the quiet hours. With the blade trembling in his hand. Or standing on the edge of something high. Or watching the train rush past the platform and wondering how long it would take.
But fear... always won.
Not fear of death. Not really.
Fear of pain.
Fear of failing even at that.
He saw himself as weak. Pathetic. A coward who couldn't fight back. Couldn't escape. Couldn't even die properly.
But there was something else too.
Something softer.
A hope.
His birthday was coming soon.
Eighteen.
He kept telling himself: If something's going to change, it'll happen then. If not… then maybe…
He didn't finish the thought.
He didn't need to.
After dinner, he cleaned the dishes, dried them, and returned everything to its place. He didn't leave a mess. Never did.
The lights went out.
He crawled into bed, the sheets cool against his skin. He reached for his phone and opened his favorite reading app.
Fantasy stories. Comics. Novels about people who weren't him. People who were powerful, respected, chosen. Heroes with destinies. Outcasts who found their worth. Nobodies who became gods.
He read those stories until his eyes grew heavy.
Until he could imagine himself as someone else.
Until the weight in his chest softened, just a little.
Until he could sleep.
Maybe tomorrow would be different.
Maybe not.
But he held on.
Because hope—no matter how small—was still louder than despair.
-To Be Continued