The school theater was a relic of a bygone era—
Wooden seats that groaned louder than an old man with a bad back, faded crimson curtains that looked like they'd been through a tornado.
And a stage so creaky you'd think it was auditioning for a role in a horror movie. The air smelled like a mix of dust, stale popcorn, and a faint hint of desperation.
Mr. Rick, our drama teacher and also home room teacher, was reclining on one of the ancient chairs at the side of the stage, sunglasses perched on his nose like he was about to star in a blockbuster.
He looked like he'd just stepped out of a 90s action film—swagger intact, but clearly in need of a serious chill pill.
Meanwhile, the six of us stood on stage, trying to look serious but mostly just confused.
Posture straight, chests puffed out—like we'd all suddenly become professional actors.
Honestly, who wouldn't be confused? Mr. Rick probably needed a vacation, or at least a timeout.
He slowly pushed himself up, walking toward us with the kind of exaggerated swagger Hands clasped behind his back, he strutted forward like he was about to give a motivational speech before a championship game.
"This competition," he declared dramatically.
"Means everything to me!" His voice echoed around the theater, making us all wonder if he'd just declared war or announced the new national anthem.
"And my students are supposed to be doing it."
He paused, eyes narrowing behind his shades like he was sizing us up for a secret mission.
"I want it to be so perfect," he repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper that still somehow boomed in our heads. Then, with a flourish, he clapped his hands loudly.
"Let me all give you a partner," Mr. Rick announced, sliding his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose with the flair of a magician revealing his final trick.
"It's time for some serious teamwork!"
He studied us all with a look that was somewhere between Sherlock Holmes and a hawk eyeing prey.
After a moment, he smirked—a smirk that looked suspiciously like he'd just remembered a hilarious meme.
"Alright… I've made my mind," he said, voice dripping with authority and a hint of mischief.
"Emma and Liam, Regina and Mark, and… Ayana and Ethan."
My eyes widened so much I thought they might jump out of my head.
Really? Regina gets Mark? Wow, I've never been so annoyed.
Regina, the girl who looked like she'd just stepped out of a Vogue magazine, was already staring dreamily at Mark, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—probably under a blanket with a bag of chips.
Meanwhile, I glanced at Emma and Liam. Honestly? I was kind of happy.
Emma seemed to like Liam a lot—way more than Liam liked her back, but hey, it's the drama that makes life interesting.
Liam, was not really pleased, but who is he to argue with Mr. Rick?.
'' Mr. Rick is so bad at choosing the great pair, he should have paired me with Ayana why Regina though?'' Mark thought eyeing Regina who was trying to act cute.
Then my gaze landed on Ethan.
The guy was standing there with that same deadpan expression—like he'd just been told he was forced to eat a lemon, then asked to smile.
It almost hurt to see how blank he looked, like he was auditioning for a role in a horror film called The Emotionless.
I nudged him. "Hey, Ethan. Aren't you gonna say something? Or are you planning to just stare at us forever?"
Ethan slowly turned his head, eyes blank but somehow piercing, like he was contemplating the meaning of life, death, and why he was stuck with me.
"I don't do small talk," he finally said, voice flat as a pancake.
I blinked and thought. "Wow. This guy's a lot of fun."
I crossed my arms and looked at him. "Really? No witty comeback? No 'I'm ready to slay this'?"
He shrugged. "I only do what's necessary. Witty doesn't count as necessary."
I snorted. "Great. So I'm paired with the guy who'd rather be napping. Fabulous."
He looked at me again, expressionless but with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "If you want me to care, I'll care. But I prefer conserving energy for the actual performance."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Wow, Ethan. You're a lot of fun, I swear."
Mr. Rick clapped his hands again, snapping us back to the moment like a conductor finishing a symphony.
"Alright, team assignments are set! Now, go practice your… whatever it is you're supposed to practice. And remember—perfection is everything!"
As the six of us settled, Regina kept sneaking glances at Mark like he was a snack she was desperate to steal.
Mark, meanwhile, looked like he was trying to disappear into the wall behind him.
Liam whispered to Emma, "So, Emma, do you think we're gonna crush this or what? I hope the judges are ready for some fire."
Emma rolled her eyes but whispered back, "Just don't forget your lines or I'll never let you live it down."
I looked at Ethan again, who was staring at the ceiling as if contemplating the meaning of the universe.
I sighed.
This is going to be interesting.
I turned to him and asked, "Hey, Ethan, you're awfully quiet. Should I start worrying that you're secretly a mime?"
He finally looked at me, deadpan. "I don't speak unless necessary."
I smirked. "Well, I guess I better prepare for a silent horror show, then."
He nodded, expression unreadable. "That might be best."
Then, as we all got ready to start rehearsing, I thought to myself: This is going to be the most dramatic, hilarious, and utterly confusing performance of my high school life.
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The room was shrouded in darkness, thick shadows clinging to every corner like silent predators.
A faint, flickering candle cast a weak, trembling glow, barely illuminating the grim surroundings—walls stained with the ghostly marks of past conflicts, peeling paint, and the faint outline of old, rusted tools hanging like forgotten relics.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood, stale smoke, and a hint of something metallic—perhaps blood long dried.
In the center of this gloom stood a man.
He was about thirty years old, with sharp features carved by hardship—a lean face, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes that shone with a cold, calculating glint.
His jet-black hair was slicked back, and a faint scar ran down his jawline, a silent testament to past battles.
Dressed in dark, fitted clothes that blended into the shadows, he exuded an aura of quiet menace.
His hands were crossed tightly over his chest, face devoid of emotion, serious as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Hands clasped behind him, he spoke with a voice deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together.
"Sir… those boys are going out of control," he said, voice steady but laced with undeniable concern.
"They've killed ten of our men those in Blackthorn Alley. They are slowly becoming a threat—to our drug business. They're killing every man of ours."
He paused, the silence stretching like an ominous cloud hanging overhead. ]
Then, from the shadows, a voice emerged—resonant, cold, and calculating.
"I know..." it said slowly, deliberately.
"There is one person those boys will protect for their entire lives. And that is that girl—Ayana. I will send one of our men to her. Then, if we catch her, we will lure them all to us, and then… we end them."
A faint, sinister smile flickered across the young man's face as he nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper but heavy with resolve.
Without another word, he turned and quietly slipped out of the room.
The door closed with a soft click, sealing him into the darkness.
Inside, the silence was broken by a sudden, raspy laugh—a low, evil chuckle that echoed off the walls.
The raspy laugh echoed once more, colder and more menacing than before.
"Those boys think they are heroes…," the voice sneered, dripping with contempt. "We will finally end them. Our drug business must continue—if not, they all die."
In the shadows, a figure remained hidden—only a vague silhouette visible beneath a thick sweater, the hood pulled low over the face, obscuring any hint of identity.
The air around him was heavy with a sinister calm, as if the darkness itself was waiting for his command.
He reached into a nearby drawer, pulling out a photograph.
The image was clear, crisp—my photograph.
His gloved fingers hovered over it for a moment as he studied it with cold, calculating eyes.
Then, slowly, he glanced back at the picture, tilting his head as if weighing a precious secret.
"And she will be the reason they all die," he whispered, voice low and deadly, a cruel smile curling beneath the covering.
His grip tightened on the photo, as if holding onto a dangerous truth. "Ayana… she's the key. Without her, they have nothing to fight for. And with her… they are doomed."
A flicker of menace danced behind his eyes as the darkness cloaked his figure once more, leaving only the faint glint of a cruel, knowing smile in the shadows.