The morning after felt unreal.
Aiden woke with the sun cutting through the curtains like sharp blades. His body, which should have been broken and bruised, moved as if the night's violence had been a dream. He touched his ribs, his jaw, the place where fists had landed—only faint traces remained, yellow echoes instead of purple storms.
On his desk lay the note. DON'T QUIT. The stain of dried blood circled the letters like a seal. He lifted it carefully, as if it might crumble, and pressed it to his chest.
A whisper curled through the quiet. It wasn't his mother's voice, nor his brother's. It slid beneath his skin like ink through water.
Shadow recognized. Candidate accepted.
He froze, eyes scanning the room. Nothing moved but dust in the sunlight. His throat tightened.
Trial one: Endure. Trial two: Restrain. Trial three... Speak.
The words came layered, as if a hundred voices spoke in unison—low, high, male, female—all merging into something that was not meant to be human.
Aiden swallowed hard. He tried to force a sound, but the attempt scraped his throat raw. Only air escaped, ragged and sharp.
Breakfast
His brother's voice broke the spell. "Aiden! Breakfast!"
He shoved the note into his pocket and steadied himself. At the kitchen table, the world seemed unchanged. Father spread butter over bread. Mother asked about homework. His brother chattered about tryouts, energy overflowing.
But every sound felt doubled—ordinary noise above, whispered syllables beneath, pressing like a second reality. The whisper didn't fade, even as he forced a smile and nodded when spoken to.
When he reached for the salt, his shadow lagged behind. Just for a moment. His fingers curled—and a fraction later, the shadow curled too.
He froze, pulse hammering. No one else noticed. His father only said, "Eat before it gets cold."
Aiden's hand drifted to the pocket where the note burned like a pulse. Endure, the whisper breathed.
Hallway Tension
At school, the hallway roared with noise. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. Flyers fluttered in a draft.
Aiden walked through it all, shoulders squared differently than before. He didn't notice it, but others did. The boys who had pushed him yesterday looked his way and—hesitated. They stepped aside. One muttered something, but the words lacked teeth.
Aiden kept walking. He did not look up, but inside, something stretched, taller than his body, broader than his frame.
And then—eyes. The girl's. From halfway down the hall. Calm, steady, a quiet acknowledgement.
He opened his mouth. "Th—" The sound cracked, more pain than voice. He winced, ashamed.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, as if to say: not yet. Then she disappeared into the crowd.
The whisper returned: Endure.
The First Trial
The day bled into dusk. Aiden found himself beneath the same overpass where he trained. The sandbag swayed in the cold wind, patched, bleeding sand in slow drips.
He taped his knuckles. The rain returned, steady, almost ritual.
When he struck, the sound exploded louder than it should have. The bag swung wildly. His bones screamed, but the shadow steadied him, its tendrils tightening his stance, grounding him.
He hit again. And again. Until his arms shook and his lungs begged for rest.
The whisper wrapped around him, colder than the rain.
Endure.
He dropped to the ground—push-ups. Mud pressed against his chest. He counted not with numbers, but with breaths. One. Another. Another.
When his arms buckled, he forced them straight. When his body collapsed, he clawed back to his knees. His fingers tore at the dirt, nails bleeding.
The world narrowed to pain and rain.
A glyph flickered beneath him—violet light etched in water and shadow.
Endure.
Collapse
At last, he fell flat. Breath ripped through him like fire. The rain soaked him until he could not tell water from sweat, blood from mud.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the underbelly of the bridge. Rust dripped in thin lines. Somewhere above, traffic thundered, but here in the hollow, only his pulse mattered.
The glyph faded. His shadow spread thin, like spilled ink returning to ground.
The whisper softened.
Trial one... passed.
He closed his eyes, trembling. A laugh bubbled up, silent, shoulders shaking. He had not spoken—but he had endured.
Dinner Table
That night, at dinner, he was quieter than usual. His brother noticed the tremble in his hands but said nothing. Instead, he told another story about the team, about how the coach said quick feet were everything.
Aiden smiled, tired but true. His ribs hurt, his arms screamed, but inside, something had shifted. Pain was no longer an enemy. It was a language. And he had learned to answer it.
When the meal ended, he slipped away, the note still warm in his pocket.
Closing Scene
Later, alone in his room, he placed the note on his desk. The bloodstain was dull now, but the words burned clear. He traced the letters with a fingertip.
From the corner of his vision, the shadow of his hand twitched a half-second too late. He lifted his palm slowly. The shadow followed.
"Endure," he whispered, hoarse and broken.
The sound was not pretty. But it was real.
And the whisper replied, softer than before, almost approving:
Two trials remain.