"Dude… you're seriously telling me you'd rather date a masculine girl than a feminine guy?"
The words barely left his mouth before both of them erupted into laughter. Their chuckles echoed softly against the lockers, a sound punctuated by the quiet of the empty cloakroom. Jax, with his dark, messy hair and shadowed eyes, had the faintest traces of fatigue etched beneath them. Beside him, Mark, black-haired and framed by smudged glasses, looked equally worn, yet the two shared a rare moment of levity. Both were itching for the end of the school day, a small escape from the monotony of lessons.
Jax had always been slightly shorter than Mark—though this year, a growth spurt had leveled the difference. The two were inseparable at school, a fact everyone noticed, whether it was during class or their occasional, haphazard hangouts.
The sun streamed through the narrow window, warm and unyielding, making the air in the cloakroom stifling. Mark glanced at Jax, leaning against the lockers.
"Well… I've got one, then."
"Yeeeah?" Jax responded, curiosity piqued.
They shared a glance, mirrored expressions of mischief, before Mark continued.
"Or… well, this isn't really a 'would you rather'…"
"Just spit it out, buddy."
Mark's lips curved into a small smirk. "Fine… fine. You know the janitor?"
Jax nodded without a word.
"Don't you think he's… weird? Like, he's hiding something."
Jax raised an eyebrow. "Weird? How?"
The laughter faded. Their casual banter had given way to a strange seriousness.
"Firstly… I overheard him say he was a surgeon in the past," Mark said quietly. "Secondly… he always acts—"
The door creaked open slowly, cutting him off. There he stood—the janitor. His presence carried a peculiar weight. Dark, slicked-back hair with streaks of gray, greasy and unkempt, framed a face etched by years of grueling labor. The eyes—dark, sharp, and impossibly unsettling—locked on them briefly. His uniform was standard: navy overalls, gloves stained in rust-colored blotches. Yet there was something undeniably off, something about him that could unsettle even the bravest of teenagers.
Jax whispered, barely audible, "Look at that hairline…"
A suppressed laugh escaped him, and Mark chuckled softly in return.
"Quiet," Mark hissed. "Let's not get him suspicious."
Jax feigned seriousness, loudly glancing at his watch. "Class starts now."
Mark groaned, gathering his textbook and laptop. "Mmngh… alright… let's survive this day."
They left the cloakroom, the janitor's gaze seemingly oblivious. Outside, Jax grinned.
"Yo… I think you were right."
"About what?"
"Just… he's a freak."
Their eyes stayed cast to the ground as they walked, the conversation fading into silence until the bell finally rang.
"Jax… what's your take on characasts?" Mark asked once the classroom emptied.
Jax touched his chin thoughtfully, as if channeling some philosopher's ritual. "If I had to pick one word… I can't." He gave a sheepish smile. "But… those who use their power for selfless deeds? That's good. The opposite? Evil. Me? I'd probably hide mine. Don't want the Cordelian officers recruiting me."
Mark tilted his head, expression blank. "I… don't get it. Explain more."
"Fine. Let's go somewhere else. I can't stand school any longer."
They gathered their bags and left. By the bus stop, with no one around, Jax finally explained.
"Characasts… they're rare. People awaken powers through trauma, near-death adrenaline, intense necessity. Maybe one in four hundred chance. Powers fuse personality, hobbies, desires, hidden sides… say someone loves owls and is a blacksmith—they might create iron owls that act automatically. That's just an example."
Mark nodded slowly. "I think I get it… wonder what mine would be."
They rode the bus silently, dropped off, and parted ways. Rain poured, heavy and relentless. Mark walked briskly home, stopping only to buy noodles and onions from a convenience store.
The road stretched long and empty ahead. Then—a sudden thud. His pulse spiked. Something wasn't right.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Eyes. He knew those eyes. And then he remembered… the janitor.
"You recognize me, don't you?" the man hissed. The mask of normalcy peeled away, revealing his true self—Victor Kreel.
Before Mark could react, a puppet erupted into motion, knife flashing. Pain erupted in his chest. Blood surged. He tried to fight, but his body betrayed him.
Victor's laughter rang sharp in the night. "Kreel… Victor Kreel. Not… the janitor."
Repeated blows drove Mark to the ground. Just as the puppet prepared to crush him from above, something awakened.
A shadow of Mark emerged—twisted, uncanny, yet undeniably him. It multiplied, surrounding Kreel, choking and restraining him. The battle waged in silence, brutal and unrelenting, until Kreel vanished in a scream.
Mark awoke to the dark, spinning remnants of the world. Only one shadow remained, still staring.
"Ghh… haa… HAAAA! What the hell?" he gasped. Pain surged through his chest—blood, yet no wound.
The shadow remained silent.
"Obviously… I'm talking to you too, clone," Mark muttered with a nervous laugh. A hint of hope flickered in him. "So… I'm a characast… and I regenerate…"
His nervous smile was tempered by curiosity. "Shadow powers… is that… me? Am I that gloomy?"
The shadow said nothing.
"Alright… time to stop talking before I look insane. Tomorrow… I'll test you at school… on Jax."
The shadow spiraled back into his hand. Mark exhaled sharply. He didn't yet know the limits of his newfound powers, but something inside had changed. He would discover them tomorrow. For now… sleep beckoned.