The night was thick with silence, broken only by the wet scrape of metal against stone.
A man knelt before a grave, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he swung the sledgehammer again, and again, like a zealot at a shrine.
His face was twisted, fanatical, eyes bloodshot, lips curling in muttered curses. like a mad priest digging for salvation in the dirt.
"Those Eidolons… Fucks!" His voice cracked in rage, spittle flying as he struck the cracked slab. "How dare they set foot in this school, my school!"
The hammer slammed down with a bone-shaking clang.
Sparks danced.
The stone remained stubborn, as though even the grave itself wanted to keep its secrets buried.
"Fuck!" His scream tore through the cemetery, scattering the crows perched in the skeletal branches above. His shoulders heaved with the effort. "What is this made of? I've hit it more than a hundred times!"
The grave didn't answer. Only the broken statue of an angel stared back, its marble face split and eyeless, like a blind witness to his madness.
Still, he swung. Over and over. Each strike punctuated with a guttural chant. "I'll kill them this time… I'll kill them all…"
At last, the slab gave way with a jagged crack. The man's eyes widened, mania gleaming like a child unwrapping a forbidden candy.
"Finally…" His voice was a trembling laugh, half sob, half victory cry.
He dropped the hammer and clawed at the rubble, tearing stone aside with bleeding fingers until the coffin lid revealed itself. The hinges groaned.
Just as he pried it open, a torrent of black smoke burst forth like the breath of the abyss itself.
The fumes invaded his mouth, nose, ears, every opening. His scream was muffled, swallowed by the night. Only the ravens heard it, and even they took flight in silence, abandoning him to the darkness.
*
Near the greenhouse and the stables, tucked in the shadows where the moonlight barely reached, stood a weather-beaten shed.
(Image)
To most students at Nevermore, it was just another forgotten corner of the estate, wood warped by rain, nails jutting like crooked teeth.
It was the same shed, Xavier had converted into an art studio in the Netflix series.
(Image)
The walls were layered with canvases, some slashed with frantic strokes of black, others drowning in shades of crimson and ash. The air reeked of turpentine, candle wax, and the faint rot of old wood. This was Xavier's sanctuary, an art studio and an asylum.
And tonight, it looked like the latter.
His hand moved with manic speed, brush scraping across canvas as though it were a blade and the paint his blood. His shirt was speckled with dark smears, his hair falling over his eyes. He didn't notice the sweat crawling down his neck, or the way his knuckles whitened around the brush.
The door creaked open.
Xavier turned, eyes wild, paintbrush dripping. "Hey."
The newcomer leaned against the doorframe, moonlight glowing his silhouette.
Valen, casual as ever, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He lifted a hand in greeting. "Yo."
Without waiting for permission, he strolled inside and dropped into a battered chair, glancing at the scattered canvases. His gaze lingered on the distorted shadows that seemed to crawl across them. "So… the dreams again?"
Xavier dragged his sleeve across his forehead, leaving a streak of black paint. "Yeah." His voice was low, strained, as he stared at the canvas in front of him. A dark mass, faceless, with eyes like pale moons staring out of the chaos. "Something's coming. I can feel it."
Valen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying the painting. He didn't speak, he didn't need to. He knew enough about Xavier's gift. Premonitions. Or nightmares that predicted reality.
And whatever you called them, they weren't to be ignored.
Psychics are pretty OP.
As if on cue, the figure in the painting seemed to shimmer under the dim lamplight, the shadows warping. For a split second, the eyes glared back at them, alive.
Xavier shuddered and dropped into the seat beside him. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like… my brain takes screenshots of nightmares and forces me to paint them."
He let out a bitter laugh. "Everyone thinks it's cool, until cops show up asking why I painted a crime scene days before it happens."
Valen tilted his head, strumming invisible chords on his thigh like he often did when thinking. His tone was easy, deliberately light. "Honestly? I still think it's pretty damn cool. Beats algebra."
That earned him a slight smile.
But it didn't last. Xavier's hands fidgeted with the brush, restless. His jaw tightened. "You don't get it. I don't want this. I don't want to see these things."
Valen sat back, stretching his legs out with a careless shrug. "Then learn to aim it. Control it. Imagine if you saw the winning lottery numbers instead of murder scenes." He grinned, teasing, but his eyes searched Xavier's face carefully, testing if the joke landed.
"Ha." Xavier snorted. "Pretty sure my dad's money already bought me out of that problem."
"Oh, right. Vincent Thorpe's golden boy." Valen raised his brows in mock reverence before chuckling.
The tension thinned, just a little.
Valen rose and wandered through the cramped space, brushing his fingers over stacked canvases, the scent of drying oil thick in the air.
He remembered the first time he found this place, when he and Alex had been sneaking around looking for somewhere to turn into a music studio.
And they found Xavier, hunched over a painting like a man possessed.
At first Xavier hadn't trusted them. But day after day, they'd returned. Valen with his guitar, Alex with his endless commentary, both offering genuine praise for Xavier's work. Eventually, the walls cracked, and Xavier let them share the space.
Now, guitars and other instruments rested neatly in one corner, like respectful guests.
"So, you here to practice?" Xavier asked, voice quieter now, more normal.
Valen crouched by the instrument pile and picked up a small ukulele. "Not tonight. Promised Enid a song under the moonlight. Gotta keep my word."
Xavier raised a brow, smirking despite himself. "Damn, man. That serious already? Careful... I hear werewolves bite."
Valen shot him a flat look, then slung the ukulele over his shoulder. "Speaking of bites… when are you going to stop stalking Bianca?"
The brush slipped from Xavier's hand. His head snapped up, color rushing to his cheeks. "W-what? I don't-I'm not-"
Valen sauntered over to a covered pile and yanked the sheet free before Xavier could stop him.
A cascade of paintings spilled into view. Bianca's face, painted over and over, captured in cruel detail, eyes sharp, lips smirking, expressions caught between admiration and obsession.
Valen whistled low. "Holy shit. When the fuck did you paint all these?"
Xavier looked ready to sink through the floorboards. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact. "I… don't know. Sorry, man. I know you and her got bad blood-"
Valen clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him forward. "Relax. Doesn't matter to me. Just… be careful. Obsession's a messy color to paint with."
For once, Xavier didn't argue.
Valen adjusted the strap of the ukulele and headed for the door. "Well, can't keep a girl waiting." He threw Xavier a grin before slipping into the night.
The shed went quiet again, save for the faint buzz of the lamp.
Xavier swallowed hard, then crossed to a painting draped in cloth, one he kept hidden even from Valen. Slowly, as though unwrapping a corpse, he pulled it free.
The canvas revealed Valen, eyes ablaze with madness, mouth twisted in a scream, standing in a sea of blood littered with bodies.
The expression was so raw, so vicious, that even Xavier, its creator, felt his pulse stutter.
He shivered, whispering to himself, "Should I really show it to him…?"
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