The blade's edge, a chilling promise of steel, rested against my chest.
"Come on, Lucas. Here's your one golden chance. Cut me down, if you can."
I guided the blade's tip toward my own heart, slow and deliberate, urging him to drive it in. My hand, still cupping his, was a puppeteer's, leading him to his fatal punchline.
His face went blank—confusion, fear, disbelief—all tangled up until he couldn't even process what was happening. His jaw hung slack, eyes wide and unfocused.
My friends weren't any better. Their expressions mirrored his, caught between alarm and utter bafflement. The nervous energy in the room was a living, breathing thing.
"E–Evan, what the hell are you—" Ryan started, his voice a frantic whisper.
I let go of Lucas's hand for a split second, enough to turn and fix Ryan with a glare that cut sharper than the sword itself.
"Shush." My voice was a low command. "Don't interrupt. This is between us, and us alone."
Ryan's mouth snapped shut. He didn't dare speak another word, but his eyes were a frantic dance between me and Lucas, his mind clearly trying to compute the sheer madness of the scene.
Aron, Wilson, and Tyler, the three sycophants, stood a little further back, their grins gone. They were like a pack of dogs suddenly realizing their alpha was playing a game far too dangerous for them to understand.
I turned back to Lucas, reclaiming his hand. His fingers were stiff, frozen around the hilt.
"So, Lucas… where were we? Ah, right." I tilted my head, voice light but cutting. "Thing is, sometimes people don't like each other. And when that happens, what do they usually do? Simple—ignore. Pretend the other doesn't exist."
I tilted my head, voice dropping lower, harsher. "But what happens when ignoring isn't an option?"
I didn't give him the chance to answer. "You push. You shove. You make the other person so uncomfortable they finally run. That's what I've been doing with you. Pushing, over and over. Ring a bell yet? Or do you want me to spell it out?"
A quiet, single laugh cut through the silence. It was my own. It didn't reach my eyes. "Don't tell me you forgot the first time. When I asked you to meet me alone. You remember that day, don't you? …Or was your memory as spineless as you are?"
He stayed silent, but I saw it—the tremor in his grip, the blade quivering just slightly. Rage was there, simmering beneath his skin, and all it needed was a little more poison from me. I could almost taste it in the air, a bitter, satisfying tang.
"Why so quiet, Lucas? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe… you just don't have the guts. That'd be just like you, wouldn't it?" I tilted my head, eyes fixed on him.
"Do you remember that day? The day everything fell apart for you. The day you realized you weren't a hero in the making… just a weakling pretending."
I laughed, sharp and cruel, the sound echoing off the cold marble walls. "Ah, that look on your face when I beat you into the dirt. Pathetic. Broken. You thought fighting back meant something, but all it did was prove how helpless you really are."
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Good. He was still in there.
"Oh, but that's not the part I enjoyed the most. No, no… the real fun was breaking that sword." I let the words hang in the air, watching as a new layer of horror bloomed in his eyes. "The first one your poor mother slaved away for, saving coin by coin just to see her boy smile. Do you remember the sound it made, Lucas? That sharp crack as I snapped it like a twig? It wasn't just steel breaking; it was her love, your hope. I broke it all right in front of you."
The sword in his hand shook harder, a metallic rattling that was the only sound besides my voice.
"And then there was that mutt you used to feed. Wagging its tail, loyal, stupid little thing. Do you remember how it cried before it stopped moving? The sound of its final whimper? You remember, don't you?" I smiled thinly. "I made sure of it."
His breathing hitched. He couldn't look away. I had his attention now, all of it. I had him trapped in a gallery of his own worst memories, and I was the artist.
"And the garden… oh, the garden," I whispered mockingly, a casual memory, a casual act of destruction. "The one you planted with that commoner girl. A place you tried so hard to protect, to cherish. I ground it into the dirt with my boots until not a single petal was left. Do you know why, Lucas? Because you needed to learn. You needed to understand that everything you care about turns to dust when I decide it will."
"Enough! You bastard!" His voice cracked with fury, a desperate, final sound that felt like a flimsy door finally giving way.
"Ah, there it is. That hatred, that burning inside you. Don't deny it. It's still festering, still rotting you from the inside. Every ounce of it is mine. I own that hate, Lucas. I carved it into you with my hands." I leaned closer, my voice low and poisonous. "So tell me, how does it feel knowing that everything you are—the anger, the resentment, the hate—it all came from me?"
I tapped the blade still pressed to my chest. "Now's your chance. It's right there, in your hand. One thrust—and the monster you hate finally bleeds for you. Do it, Lucas. Do it, and be free."
The steel bit in just enough to sting, warm blood trickling down in a thin line.
The others stirred instinctively, but I raised a hand—calm, commanding—holding them still.
Then I turned back to Lucas. Slowly, deliberately, I cupped his cheek. My palm met his skin, not tenderly, but with a faint, mocking slap. A reminder of who owned this moment.
"Come on, Lucas. Just one twitch of the wrist. That's all it takes. All that rage festering inside you… can't you feel it clawing to be released?"
Another slap, sharper this time. The sound was a crisp crack. The blade dug in deeper, the sting blooming red against my shirt.
"Still not enough?" My voice dripped with venom. "You've carried this hate like a torch your whole life—and now, even when the flame is in your hand, you hesitate? Pathetic."
My hand cracked across his face again. The third slap. It was loud, decisive, a final exclamation point.
"COME ON!" I roared, eyes drilling into his very soul.
Lucas screamed—rage and anguish spilling out at last. His grip shook, his body trembling, right on the edge of release… and then—
The sword clattered to the floor.
"I… I can't. Not like this. I won't let you decide who I am. I'll take my revenge one day—but not like thi—"
SLAP.
The sound cracked sharp in the washroom. His head snapped sideways, a bright red mark blooming on his cheek.
I grabbed his jaw, forcing his face to turn back to mine, my grip an iron vise.
"Pathetic," I whispered, leaning in close, my breath hot against his ear. "Even your hatred is weak. I gave you the perfect chance—and you let it slip. That doesn't make you noble, Lucas. It makes you broken. And I'll keep breaking you… until even your revenge tastes like ash."
I stood up, bored of this pitiful display. As I turned to leave, something clawed at the back of my mind. One last thing.
I stepped closer again, lifting the fallen sword. Its weight felt almost insulting in my hand, like a weapon wasted in the grip of someone like him.
Lucas looked up, cheeks flushed red from the slap, eyes burning with anger. It was almost pitiful. Almost.
I didn't care. I grabbed his cheeks, forcing his gaze to meet mine—my eyes, hollow and cold as a void.
"You know," I began, my voice low, deliberate, cruel, "there's a story I remember. It's a very old one, but it's still true."
I let the words drip slowly, each one sinking into him like poison.
"There was a boy from a nowhere village, the kind of place no one remembers. He dreamed too big, too far above his station. He was friends with a noble girl… a princess in all but title. And as their little bond deepened, so did his delusion—his love. Pathetic, isn't it? A stray dog falling for the master's daughter."
I smiled thinly, pressing the sword tip gently against his chest—not to pierce, but to remind him it could.
"But reality doesn't care about love. Reality has weight. The girl got engaged to a young master—noble, handsome, talented, influential. Everything she could ever want… everything the boy could never be. While the girl ascended, the boy remained what he always was—dirt. A nothing."
I tapped the blade against his chest, letting the point dig in just enough to draw another bead of blood.
"So tell me, Lucas… what could that boy possibly do? Compete? With what? His low birth? His scraps of talent? His empty dreams? People like him are born to be crushed. At best, they'll be forgotten. At worst, they'll end up serving men like me."
I leaned in closer, my lips at his ear, my voice sinking into something colder than hatred.
"So just like that boy, you'll watch. You'll watch the girl you loved become mine. You'll watch every dream you ever had get torn apart, step by step, until there's nothing left of you. That's your role. That's all you'll ever be."
I let go of his face, shoving it away like something filthy.
"Nothing."
After those last words, I rose without another glance.
The sharp echo of my shoes tapped against the cold floor, each step dragging the silence heavier.
My companions followed, their gazes lingering on the boy—slumped against the wall, eyes wide but lifeless, as if something inside had just snapped.
The bathroom door groaned open, then shut with a final, hollow thud.
And then, nothing.
Only silence remained, and within it, a boy who no longer had the strength to move.