The sun never seemed to shine here anymore.
Not really.
The academy was a mausoleum disguised as a school—its windows staring like hollow eyes, cold and uninviting.
Even the air felt heavy, thick with unspoken truths and broken promises.
I walked the corridors with a new wariness—each step echoing in a place that felt more like a labyrinth of the mind than a building of brick and mortar.
That morning, I wasn't called to Class Zero.
Instead, a slip of paper was shoved into my hand, unsigned, unmarked—just a single word:
"Interrogation."
The word gnawed at me.
Was this another test? Another twisted lesson?
Or worse—something far beyond what I had imagined?
I found the interrogation room easily enough.
Its door was steel-gray, scarred from years of whatever secrets it had swallowed.
No windows. No nameplate.
Just a small rectangular slot, too narrow for the light to escape.
Inside, the air was colder than the winter chill outside.
A single chair sat in the center under a harsh overhead light that made the shadows on the walls bleed like ink stains.
No one was there—yet the silence screamed.
I sat, waiting, heart hammering.
The door creaked open.
Two figures entered.
One was the faceless psychologist—his absence of features more terrifying than any face I'd ever seen.
The other was a woman, draped in black, her eyes sharp as knives, and her smile colder than a tomb.
They sat across from me, like predators circling prey.
The psychologist's voice was a low rasp, echoing in the sterile room:
"You've seen the surface, Ayaan.
But this school is not just a place to learn.
It's a crucible."
The woman's voice followed, soft but cutting:
"We strip away illusions here.
You don't survive by what you know, but by what you accept."
They started with questions, but not the typical ones:
No "What's your name?" or "Where are you from?"
They asked things meant to unravel me:
"When was the last time you lied to yourself?"
"What parts of your mind have you locked away, and why?"
"Do you trust your own thoughts, or are they just echoes of your fears?"
The questions burrowed deep.
They made me relive moments I'd hidden even from myself—moments of doubt, shame, and rage.
Memories I didn't want to confront.
But the worst part was how they didn't just want answers—they wanted confessions.
Confessions of weakness.
Of failure.
Of brokenness.
And yet, somewhere between the tearing down and the exposing,
a strange clarity emerged.
They weren't just breaking me—they were building me.
Because this school wasn't just about survival.
It was about transformation.
When the session ended, I stumbled out, clutching my diary like a lifeline.
The faceless psychologist's parting words rang in my ears:
"Your mind is a cage, Ayaan.
The question is: Will you be the prisoner... or the warden?"
Outside, the world seemed darker than before.
Not because of the sky,
but because the truth inside me had changed.
I was beginning to understand:
The darkest battles are fought in silence.
And the deepest prisons... are the ones you build yourself.
CHAPTER SIX — Part 2
Behind the Mask: The Weight of Silent Truths
The hallways felt longer now.
Not because the school had grown—
but because my mind stretched alongside them, warped by everything I was forced to confront.
Every step echoed, but the sound wasn't my own—it was the echo of every doubt, every scar, every secret buried beneath my skin.
Back in my room, I flipped open my diary—the pages trembling under my fingers, heavy with unspoken fears.
I wrote, but not the usual stuff.
This time, my words clawed at the darkness:
"What am I hiding from?
Is it the school… or myself?"
The silence of the room pressed in.
And then the truth hit me like a cold wave:
The worst lies are the ones you tell yourself.
The masks you wear aren't just to fool others—
they're to fool you.
I looked in the cracked mirror on my desk.
The reflection was familiar, but not me.
It was a stranger—eyes tired, haunted by shadows no one else saw.
How much of me is real?
And how much is just a mask shaped by fear and expectation?
The next day, the school felt different.
The other students moved like ghosts, their smiles hollow, their eyes distant.
I caught a glimpse of one—Saanvi, the girl who sat two rows ahead in Class Nine's math class.
Her laughter was brittle, forced—like it was hiding a scream.
That night, I scribbled again:
"We're all prisoners here. Not because of rules or walls, but because of the cages we build inside."
And for the first time, I wondered—
Is it possible to break free without tearing everything apart?
The bell rang—cold and relentless.
Time to face the next lesson.
Time to dive deeper into the darkness.