Chapter One – Blood in the Hallways
The courtyard of Roselake Academy buzzed with the usual early morning noise — the low hum of conversation, the squeak of sneakers against stone, and the metallic clang of locker doors slamming shut. Yet amid the chatter, two boys leaned against the brick wall by the bicycle rack, whispering as though their words were contraband.
"I swear, he doesn't even study," muttered Marcus, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the school's main gate. "Top of the class every year, teachers kissing his shoes. It's not brains — it's the name."
Beside him, Jonah adjusted his bag and sighed. "You talk too much."
"No, seriously. You think Michael Visalla is just some genius? Please. His family owns this school."
Jonah's expression didn't change, but his tone dropped like a knife. "Then maybe stop talking before someone hears you."
As if summoned, the black town car glided through the gate. Clean, silent, and deadly in its elegance. The driver stepped out — black suit, no smile — and opened the rear door.
Michael Visalla stepped out.
Tall for his age, seventeen, with neatly combed black hair and eyes that didn't wander. He wore his uniform like armor — pristine blazer, crisp collar, polished shoes that clicked with precision. No need for bodyguards. The fear walked in with him.
Without a word, he headed into the main building, his bag slung over one shoulder, his gaze straight ahead. No one approached. No one dared.
He entered the Grade 11 classroom as the bell rang. The room quieted as if someone had turned down the volume of life. He didn't have to scan for his seat — front row, by the window, always the same. His books were already stacked, aligned by size and subject, a silent testament to his obsession with control.
The teacher greeted him with a subtle nod, the kind he gave no one else. Class began.
---
Meanwhile, two other boys entered the adjacent Grade 10 building at different times but with equal attention.
Dante Visalla arrived first — a quiet shadow in a world of noise. He wore the same blazer, the same crest on his chest, but it looked colder on him. His eyes were grey, expression unreadable, movements smooth and deliberate. Students glanced at him, unsure if they should fear him or respect him. Most chose both.
Nero Visalla followed minutes later, swaggering through the door with a half-smile that made people flinch. His hair was a mess, his tie loose, eyes burning with something too wild for the classroom. He didn't speak — just dropped into his chair at the front like a bomb waiting to go off.
The teacher paused, adjusted his collar, and continued without a word.
---
By lunch, the school was roaring again — footsteps echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls, the cafeteria alive with life. Until it wasn't.
Michael entered first.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Forks froze mid-air. The crowded aisle parted like water before a blade as he made his way toward the lunch counter, not even glancing around. Behind him, Dante and Nero followed, spaced like sentinels, yet walking their own path.
Trays were handed to them without request. The lunch lady didn't make eye contact.
Michael took a seat at the center table — his table. Two boys were already waiting.
Leo sat to his left — silent, sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered. He didn't speak much, but when he did, people listened.
Ray sat across — average height, easy grin, always joking, always watching. The kind of guy who made everyone laugh and made half of them disappear later.
Michael sat down. The others followed. Not a single person approached them. Around the cafeteria, people whispered, but not too loud. Not where they could be heard.
And in that silence, Michael began to eat.
As if he wasn't already feeding on the room.Ray was already halfway through his plate when he broke the silence.
"Well, boys," he said with a grin, "one more year. Grade 11 — the final stretch. You know what that means?"
Leo didn't answer. Michael kept eating, eyes distant.
"Didn't think princes ate in the same cafeteria as us commoners," Ray said, stealing a fry off Michael's tray.
Michael raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable. "Touch my food again and I'll replace your teeth with gravel."
Ray grinned, unfazed. "Spoken like a true gentleman."
Michael didn't smile, but a faint exhale through his nose gave away the amusement.
"I'm fashionably chaotic," Ray said, digging into his own sandwich. "Had to fake a nosebleed to get out of chemistry. Miss Carter was suspicious—probably because I was holding the tissue before the blood started."
Michael gave a small shake of his head. "One day, your stupidity is going to be medically significant."
"Maybe," Ray replied, mouth full. "But today is not that day."
They ate in silence for a moment, the rhythm of the canteen providing a backdrop. Across the room, a group of prefects were arguing about someone cheating on the mock exams. A junior tripped with his tray, and the room gave a collective groan as tomato soup splashed everywhere.
Ray leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "So, how's life being the golden boy of Visalla Industries?"
Michael's eyes flicked toward him. "Same as it's always been."
Ray gave a mock shiver. "That cold, huh?"
Michael didn't answer. Instead, he picked up a bottle of water and unscrewed the cap slowly.
Ray dropped the chair legs back down. "Hey, I'm serious for once. You've been more… sharp lately. And not in the good haircut way. Like—'I might kill someone with a coffee spoon' sharp."
Michael paused. "You watch too many crime shows."
"I live with three sisters. I don't have a choice."
Michael gave him a side glance. "I'm fine."
Ray raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Because I've seen you stare at the clock like it owes you money."
Michael hesitated, then looked up. "There's a lot happening."
Ray gave a low whistle. "That's the closest you've come to confessing emotion since Year Nine."
Michael smirked faintly. "Cherish the moment."
They both laughed—quiet, brief, the kind of laugh that lingers between friends who've known each other just long enough to understand when silence matters more than answers.
"Hey," Ray said suddenly, "I was gonna ask—what are you doing this weekend?"
Michael blinked. "Why?"
"Because there's a new arcade opening downtown. It's retro-themed. Neon lights. Old-school cabinets. The whole vibe. Thought we could go and you could lose at Street Fighter again."
Michael leaned back. "That's a generous interpretation of what happened."
"You got KO'd by Chun-Li in under twenty seconds."
"I let you win. You were crying about your breakup."
Ray groaned. "It was not a breakup. We just agreed we didn't have 'compatible star signs'."
Michael stared. "You do realize astrology is a scam, right?"
Ray grinned. "Then explain why every Scorpio I meet wants to stab me."
Michael said nothing, but a shadow of a smile crept onto his face again.
Before Ray could respond, the door to the canteen opened, and a new presence stepped inside.
Tall, messy blond hair, leather jacket, loud footsteps — a foreigner. American, judging by the confidence and lack of fear. He scanned the room like it belonged to him and walked right toward the center table.
Right toward them.
And then — he sat.
Right next to Michael Visalla.
The room stopped breathing.
Leo looked at him first, sharp and firm. "You should find another seat."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Why? It's just a chair."
Ray blinked. "He's serious, mate. Not your place."
The American leaned back, casually picking up a napkin. "It's not your school either. I sit where I want."
Michael slowly raised his eyes, his spoon frozen in the air. He looked at the boy — really looked. A stare that could gut a man.
But before Michael could speak, Nero appeared.
Silent until now, he stepped behind the foreigner like a shadow with a fuse.
With one hand, he grabbed the boy by his coat collar and yanked him up from the seat. The tray clattered to the floor.
"You should know your place, peasant," Nero growled, voice like broken glass.
The American didn't flinch. He punched Nero.
Hard.
Right in the jaw.
Gasps rippled through the cafeteria.
Nero stumbled a step back, stunned more by the audacity than the pain. In an instant, Leo and Ray were on the boy — grabbing his arms, pinning him down, rage barely contained.
Michael stood.
Quietly.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, dropped it gently on the tray, and stepped forward.
"You just had to ruin my day," he said softly. His voice wasn't loud. But it silenced everything.
He turned to Leo. "Take him to the Dukaan."
The boy froze. "What? Where? Wait—"
Michael looked at no one in particular. "Make sure he understands why no one sits here."
"No—hey! Let me go! Somebody help!"
But the cafeteria remained still. Watching.
No teachers. No students. Just silence.
Leo and Ray dragged the boy out the door, his protests echoing down the hall.
Michael sat down again. The others followed. Nero wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
And just like that, the noise returned. Slowly. Hesitantly.
But no one looked their way again.