The sun rose over the horizon like a slow wound, bleeding pale light onto the cracked walls of the academy. But the daylight felt hollow—an empty promise that could never reach the darkness festering beneath the surface.
I woke with a weight pressing down on my chest, a familiar ache that no sleep could erase. My reflection in the mirror was sharper now, not just broken glass but fractured soul. The cracks were deeper, weaving patterns like scars mapped across my skin.
School was no longer just a place. It was a battlefield, every lesson a war zone where the enemy wasn't just the curriculum, but the whispers, the hidden glances, the unspoken rules etched into every corner.
They watched me now. Not with curiosity, but caution. Like I was a secret waiting to explode.
In class, the teacher's words blurred, the letters melting into shadows as I sank deeper into my own mind. I could feel the eyes — cold, calculating, dissecting — not just seeing me, but peeling me apart piece by piece.
Saanvi sat a few seats away, her face unreadable, her eyes a fortress. I wondered what battles she fought behind that mask.
Between classes, the hallways stretched like endless tunnels, echoes of footsteps following me like ghosts. I caught snippets of conversation, fragments of rumors that gnawed at my thoughts.
"Did you hear about the new rules?"
"They say someone tried to disappear last week."
"If you cross the wrong person, you might not come back."
Fear was a currency here — and everyone was bankrupt.
Yet beneath it all, I sensed something more dangerous — not just fear, but hunger. Hunger for power, for control, for survival at any cost.
That night, I wandered to the edge of the forbidden woods, where shadows danced with the wind and silence screamed louder than any voice.
I wasn't just searching for answers. I was searching for myself.
Beneath the surface, something stirred. Something dark and wild and ancient.
And I was ready to dive in headfirst.
CHAPTER EIGHT — Part 2
The Quiet Hunt
The school after dark was a different beast — quieter, colder, and far more dangerous. Shadows stretched like claws across the cracked walls, and the faint hum of forgotten whispers crept through the empty halls.
I moved silently, a ghost slipping through the labyrinth of my own fears. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in the silence, every breath a reminder that I was still alive — for now.
I had heard stories about the nights here. How the school seemed to shift, to twist itself into something darker when no one was watching. How secrets spilled like poison in the shadows.
Tonight, I wanted to see it for myself. To hunt down the truth hidden beneath layers of lies and fear.
The classrooms were empty, desks overturned, papers scattered like fallen leaves. The air smelled stale, thick with forgotten dreams and broken promises.
I felt eyes on me — unseen, but heavy. The weight of a thousand silent judgments pressing down, waiting to pounce.
In the distance, a faint light flickered behind the old library door, a place long sealed off and whispered about in trembling tones.
I hesitated.
But the pull was stronger than the fear.
With trembling hands, I pushed the door open.
The room was drenched in darkness, broken only by the flicker of a single candle on a dusty table. Around it lay scattered pages — journals, notes, sketches — fragments of lives erased from memory.
I picked up a tattered notebook, the ink faded but the words sharp and raw:
"They watch. They wait. And they take. The darkness feeds on those who stray."
A chill ran down my spine.
This was no ordinary school. It was a hunting ground.
And I was both the prey and the hunter.
CHAPTER EIGHT — Part 3
Echoes in the Dark
The candle's flicker cast grotesque shadows that crawled along the walls like living things, twisting and writhing with a life of their own. I sat there, breathing in the stale air thick with secrets long buried beneath the school's cold stone bones.
The notebook's pages whispered to me — not with kindness, but with warning. Names scratched out, cryptic symbols, desperate pleas inked in trembling script.
I traced a line of text with shaking fingers:
"They feed on fear. They don't just hunt bodies — they devour minds."
My heart pounded loud enough to drown out the silence. What kind of monsters thrived here? Not creatures of flesh and claw, but of thought and shadow — invisible, relentless, merciless.
I realized then the true horror wasn't what lurked outside, but what hid within.
Suddenly, the candle flickered wildly, the shadows convulsing into shapes that resembled faces — twisted, screaming, pleading. My breath caught. I wasn't alone.
From the corner of the room, a cold presence slid closer, unseen but undeniable.
I could feel it in my bones — the weight of eyes that didn't blink, waiting for me to break.
I forced myself to stand, clutching the notebook like a shield.
The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening until every breath was a struggle. But something deep inside snapped — a dark resolve igniting in the abyss.
If the school was a trap, then I would learn its rules. If it was a game, I would become the player no one dared challenge.
I whispered into the darkness, voice low but fierce:
"I'm not afraid."
The silence that answered was heavy, waiting. But I was done running.
Tonight, the hunter would become the hunted.
CHAPTER EIGHT — Part 4
Into the Abyss
The moment I spoke, the silence shattered — not with noise, but with a shift so subtle it unsettled the very air around me. The shadows seemed to pulse, as if breathing, alive and hungry for something beyond my understanding.
I gripped the notebook tighter, knuckles white, heart hammering like a war drum inside my chest. The room no longer felt like a refuge but a trap closing in, walls tightening, shadows crawling closer with each flicker of the dying candle.
Footsteps echoed in the darkness outside the library door — slow, deliberate, as if someone knew I was here. Fear screamed to run, but a darker voice whispered to stay.
I was no longer the scared boy who stumbled through the halls at dawn. This darkness, this abyss, was a part of me now.
The candle's flame guttered, casting my own distorted shadow on the cracked walls — a monstrous silhouette that stretched and twisted, merging with the blackness creeping toward me.
I took a breath, steadying myself, and stepped deeper into the room's shadows, following the faint outline of a hidden doorway I hadn't noticed before.
Behind it, cold air rushed out — like the breath of something long dead but never truly gone.
As I crossed the threshold, the world fell silent. No light, no sound, only the cold press of the void. My fingers brushed against something — a wall covered in faded, cryptic symbols carved deep into the stone.
The marks weren't just graffiti; they were a language of pain and power, written by those who had come before me — those who had faced the abyss and lost.
I pressed my palm against the cold stone, feeling a pulse — not my own, but something ancient, alive beneath the surface.
The darkness wasn't just outside. It was beneath the school, beneath the ground, beneath everything I thought I knew.
And now, I was standing at its edge.