The sun had barely dipped when the Academy's corridors began to empty, the warm gold of dusk bleeding into the cold steel of the evening lamps.
Nex stood at the far end of the hall, half-shadowed by the curve of the wall, his gaze fixed on the boy he had handpicked. The desperate student clutched a neatly folded paper in both hands — the bait letter — walking with that stiff, nervous gait of someone trying not to draw attention, even as he stepped directly into the spider's web.
At precisely six, the boy reached Alan's cabin door and knocked.
Inside, Alan had already prepared. His desk was perfectly neat, but the cabinets along the far wall concealed the truth — iron hooks, lengths of mana-reinforced cord, and an array of slender tools whose designs betrayed no mundane purpose. Beneath a folded cloth lay the syringes: fat, glass-bodied injectors filled with a faintly shimmering liquid. Sedatives used to subdue D-rank mana beasts — creatures with hide thick enough to shrug off minor enchantments.
For a human, that dose was something else entirely. Not lethal — not unless you pushed it too far — but cruel. The effects were… vivid. Convulsions that wracked the muscles, breathless nausea, a hollow ringing in the ears that could last for hours. All while the victim remained perfectly conscious, trapped in their own uncooperative body.
Alan adjusted the cuffs of his coat, a faint smile curling at the edges of his mouth. His eyes, however, were cold — the flat, assessing stare of a man who had no intention of wasting an opportunity.
When he opened the door and saw the boy standing there, stammering about grades and the project, Alan's expression softened into something almost warm. A perfect mask.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "Come in. We'll get you… on track."
The boy hesitated only a second before stepping inside.
From the shadowed corner of the hall, Nex's eyes followed every movement. He didn't need to hear what was said; he already knew the script. Alan thought he'd been handed prey. And in a way, he had.
Only, this time, the predator wasn't the one closing the door.
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[: Void Trance — Activated.]
The world bled into sharper lines. Every sound was crisp, every motion magnified. The thud of footsteps in the hall, the faint creak of a chair, even the soft rasp of fabric against wood — all of it layered into Nex's perception with surgical clarity.
His breath slowed, his mind cutting away hesitation, compassion, and distraction until only cold judgement remained. People weren't people in this state. They were pieces — tools, obstacles, threats — to be moved or removed.
Through the half-open window of the corridor corner, he tracked the scene inside Alan's cabin. The shy boy sat stiffly in the front chair, paper in hand, his voice halting as he explained his project. Alan listened with that false warmth of his, a predator's patience wrapped in the guise of a mentor.
Nex's mind registered the boy's vulnerability — the nervous tapping of fingers, the eyes that darted to the floor — and dismissed it. Weakness was dangerous. Weakness was bait.
Alan made him comfortable first, speaking in a low, reassuring tone, going through a "lesson" for nearly half an hour. Pages turned. Pens scratched. A false rhythm lulled the boy into lowering his guard.
Then it happened.
A movement so casual it could have been mistaken for brushing lint from the boy's sleeve — except Nex's trance vision caught it all. The glint of the syringe's glass body, the subtle flex of Alan's fingers pressing the plunger, the faint shimmer of liquid vanishing into the boy's arm. The sedative was in.
The boy flinched, then blinked, his shoulders slumping just slightly. Not enough for someone untrained to notice, but to Nex it was as plain as watching blood spread through water. Alan didn't look at the syringe again; he slid it away with the same practiced ease of a butcher cleaning a blade.
Nex's expression didn't change. The risk was real — he knew it. The boy might convulse, vomit, collapse. But this was the move he had chosen. And in this game, sacrifice was inevitable.
Every piece had its purpose.
And some pieces were meant to be broken.
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The boy's head lolled to the side, his breathing shallow. Alan's smile deepened, faintly twitching at the edges — the kind of smile only predators wore when the prey stopped fighting back.
Nex's gaze sharpened as Alan rose, sliding an arm under the boy's limp body. Not a hint of strain — he carried him as if he'd done it a hundred times. And Nex knew from the novel that he had.
A section of the back wall slid open with a muted hiss. It wasn't a storage room. It wasn't a faculty shortcut. It was a passage carved for one purpose only: Alan's private amusement.
Nex kept his presence razor-thin, shadowing each step like an echo. Alan was dangerous, but not because of his strength. D-rank. Easy enough in a clean fight. But a clean fight was exactly what Nex wasn't here for.
The deeper they went, the colder the air grew. The faint scent of antiseptic gave way to something heavier, metallic, and cloying — the stench of blood that had been left to dry, layered over years.
Alan stopped before a heavy steel door and pressed his hand against a hidden sigil. The lock clicked.
When it swung open, Nex's eyes — even dulled by nothing in this trance — took in everything.
The walls weren't walls anymore. They were canvases painted with blood — thick in some places, faded in others, splattered in violent arcs that told stories without words. Hooks dangled from the ceiling, most empty, but some still swaying gently with their load.
A man — or what was left of one — hung by his wrists, skin flayed from his arms down to his ribs. His legs were gone entirely, the stumps blackened and crusted. Another body lay on the floor, missing its jaw, the hollow of its throat gaping like an open scream.
Glass jars lined one shelf, filled with pale, bloated things that once might have been eyes, fingers, or strips of skin. The smell of rot pushed against Nex's senses, but in Void Trance, disgust didn't exist — only data.
Alan laid the boy on a stained table, fastening straps over his arms and legs with precise, almost affectionate care. His voice, low and coaxing, was meant for the unconscious.
"You're going to make such beautiful sounds for me."
Nex didn't blink. Alan was a piece on the board — one that needed to be removed. The scene wasn't horror to him; it was logistics. Tools. Timing. Exit routes. Disposal methods.
Still, some part of him — the part he refused to name — noted that if he had been even a day later, that boy's screams would have joined the chorus already soaked into these walls.
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