A bruised dawn bleeds across the ruins of Michael's childhood home.
The once-orderly yard has become an unrecognizable landscape of shredded garden beds, scarred earth, and the twisted metal of a crumpled car, its bonnet marked by a shallow, palm-shaped dent.
As the horizon pales, shadows cling to the chaos, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the sharp crunch of Michael's bare feet shifting through debris.
The silence is haunted, thick and expectant.
Every sound—shattered glass beneath his feet, the wind fluttering a torn curtain—feels amplified, as though the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next act of violence.
Dirt and blood streak Michael's trembling hands. He stands at the center of the devastation, barely able to process the destruction he has wrought. Bruises mottled across his arms, his shirt torn, Michael's breath rasps in shallow gasps - half from exhaustion, half from the furious energy of Mistura still sizzling at the edge of his senses.
His eyes, briefly catching the broken reflection in a hubcap, simmer with violet light. The memory of the rampage comes back in fractured flashes: an inhuman howl tearing from his throat, the searing rush of power, trees falling and metal yielding to blows he can barely remember landing.
Each recollection is a knife twisting in his gut, a reminder of the monster he has become.
He drops to his knees in the cold, wet grass, shoulders heaving as the weight of guilt and confusion presses down. The ground feels like a grave, and he is buried beneath the rubble of his own making.
A sly, sultry voice—Mistura's—curling from nowhere and everywhere at once, coils into his thoughts:
"You see what you're capable of, Michael?
You're not a victim.
You're power itself.
Stop running and accept what you are."
He clamps his hands over his ears, heart hammering.
"Get out," he chokes, digging his fingers desperately into the soil. The ground feels cool and real, but the power thrums on—unstoppable, tempting.
It whispers promises of strength, of control, but all he can see is the destruction left in its wake.
Blood trickles from a fresh cut along his arm, soaking into grass torn up by his own hands.
Michael crawls toward a ruin of crushed violets that once lined the path to his door—his mother's favorite.
He stares at the ruined blossoms, memory and longing colliding with shame. The vibrant colors are now muted, just like his heart.
Visions ripple through his mind:
Rossie's laughter, soft and bright;
Angela's teasing smile;
The fear that now shadows both their faces—the fear he put there.
Tears cut clean lines through the grime on his cheeks. His eyes, violet light flickering, fade briefly as the internal battle flares.
"I just wanted to protect them. Not become a monster...."
A sudden disturbance: engines atop gravel, the distant crackle of a police radio, a searcher's voice calling—his name, maybe, muffled by the rising wind.
Panic surges through him, a tidal wave of dread. They're coming for him, and he knows he can't let them see what he's become.
He lurches to shaky feet, instinct warring with desire.
Should he run and preserve his secret, or risk everything in hope someone can save him from what he is becoming?
The thought of facing them, of revealing the truth, sends a shiver down his spine.
As the sky lightens, painting the devastation in a blue-pink glow, Michael slips away from the wreckage. He skirts the search lights—half-ghost, half-hunted beast—his bare feet silent now on dew-slicked grass. The air is thick with tension, each breath a reminder of the choices he's made.
Fog curls low as he disappears into the gray, the violet in his eyes igniting once more, promising that his story and the struggle for his soul—has only begun.
The sirens wail louder, a haunting chorus that echoes in his mind, and he knows he can't hide forever. The dawn may be breaking, but the darkness within him is far from vanquished.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The clock above Haul Academy's library chimed 6:40 PM, its sound echoing through the dusty air as motes danced in the golden light.
Deep in the restricted archive, Becky hunched over a splintered table, brow furrowed, her fingers tracing the brittle, vine-creased pages of an ancient tome. The cryptic symbols shimmered faintly, as if warning her to turn back.
Suddenly, her voice cut through the silence, urgent and shaky.
"Rossie! You need to see this—now."
Rossie, two aisles away, froze. The bracelet Eli had given her pulsed cold against her wrist. Heart racing, she darted between the stacks, nearly colliding with Ethan and Lila.
"What's going on?" Lila asked, her eyes wide with concern.
At Becky's table, Rossie gasped. Five pages were filled with indecipherable script, but it was the ominous sketch that made her stomach drop—a book bound with thorned vines, leaking a black, mistlike energy.
Becky's eyes were wide, her voice trembling. "This book talks about an already existing book titled Mistura.
The script… it isn't in any known language.
But I managed to piece together some warnings and a title in the margins: 'The Will and Power of Mistura.'
It says the power inside was forced into the book—locked away so only a worthy bearer could ever wield it."
She slid a loose sheet toward Rossie, her hands shaking.
"Look, these passages… they talk about possession. Anyone who opens it risks losing their mind—or their soul."
Lila took a step back, her face pale.
"This is insane. We have to tell the school authorities.
Becky snapped the book shut, the sound echoing ominously in the quiet.
"No, wait. There's more. Some of the warnings match what happened at Michael's house.
The possession… the violence. There's even a line about unchecked power tearing apart its vessel. I found a sketch in the margins that looks like the same runes Rossie saw."
Rossie's heart raced. " My dad… he called me yesterday. The police found a weird book at Michael's—they said it gave off 'bad energy.' It matches Becky's description exactly."
Ethan's brow furrowed, glancing between them.
"But what if the faculty misreads it?
What if we tip off the wrong people?
Last time someone tried to help, the principal nearly called the police on us—"
"That was before the occult group started marking students!" Lila interrupted, her voice tense. "This isn't just our problem anymore."
Becky nodded, biting her lip, knuckles white around the book's spine.
"We can't ignore this. We need to figure it out before it's too late."
Lila's voice dropped to a whisper, fear creeping in.
"But what if reporting it causes more harm?
What if someone powerful from the cult hears first?"
Ethan's tone turned firm. "We handle this ourselves. We always have. If the school steps in and gets it wrong, Michael and all of us could be at risk."
Rossie took a deep breath... "We'll keep looking for Michael.
If things spiral, we go to my dad—not the school.
Deal?"
A heavy silence fell over the group.
Outside, a bell tolled—hollow and foreboding. The line between safety and calamity had never been so razor-thin.
In that moment, united by secrecy and fear, they made their choice: to face the storm alone until fate, or the Mistura, forced their hand.