Chapter One: The Ghost Walks the Halls
"Back to this place."
The words slipped from Kiel's lips like smoke, low enough that only the empty stretch of hallway heard him. The building smelled faintly of polish and old paper, the way schools always did on the first morning of a new year. Kearny High stood as the proud sentinel of the town, not merely a school but a landmark. Parents spoke of it with reverence, as though its reputation alone carried a promise for their children's future. To the residents of Kearny, the school was not just an institution; it was a pedestal, a stage, a place where the town's hopes were measured year after year.
The wide brick walls rose around him, solid and worn by decades of footsteps and laughter and whispered secrets. Banners hung proudly in the main hall, some faded, some fresh, boasting of football victories, academic excellence, theater productions that had once brought parents to standing ovations. To a casual eye, the school seemed alive, a hub of possibility. To Kiel, it was simply another arena.
The chatter of new beginnings filled the air. Students drifted in clumps; returning friends clasping hands, exchanging stories of summer vacations, promises of plans that would never leave notebooks. Freshmen, shorter and wide-eyed, tried to disguise their nervousness with bravado. Seniors leaned against lockers with the casual arrogance of those who felt they had conquered the mountain. The hallways thrummed with voices, excited, nervous, boastful, careless.
Kiel walked through them as if through mist.
At sixteen, he already stood taller than most of his peers. Six feet even, with a build honed by three years of grueling training no one here could ever imagine. Every line of his physique bore testimony to his father's merciless discipline: shoulders squared, muscles corded beneath the plain black shirt that stretched across his chest, the calm gait of someone trained not to hurry but to always arrive. His hair, thick and black, caught the hallway lights in subtle ripples. His eyes, charcoal grey were colder, sharper than any boy his age should have carried.
Heads turned. They always did.
A group of girls near the lockers fell into silence as he passed, their giggles breaking out only after he had walked by. One of them, cheeks flushed, whispered, "He's even taller this year." Another stifled a laugh, nudging her friend as though daring her to speak to him. None of them did. They never did.
The boys weren't much different. Some looked at him with envy, others with grudging respect. But no one approached. He had been at this school long enough for his reputation to calcify into the enigmatic kid, the lone wolf. He avoided clubs, never played sports despite his obvious athleticism, and kept to himself. He had no circle, no friends, no confidants. To them, he was untouchable.
And that was exactly how he needed it.
Kiel adjusted the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder and headed toward the row of lockers. Metal clanged and rattled around him as other students wrestled with combinations, voices echoing in the narrow corridor. His locker was unremarkable, mid-row, painted the same dull beige as the rest. He spun the lock with precise fingers.
click, click, click…
…and pulled the door open. Inside, nothing but emptiness greeted him. He placed his backpack carefully, methodically, as though it were a ritual. Books for the day in one neat stack, notebooks aligned. He kept only what he needed in hand: a single notebook, a pen.
The rest stayed locked away. Hidden. Just like him.
"Ensure that you work with only what's needed,"
The thought surfaced again, unbidden. His father's words. Advice drilled into him not just in combat, but in life. It echoed now as he made his way toward his new classroom.
The hallways were still thick with bodies. Seniors barking jokes at one another. A teacher with frazzled hair scolding two boys for running. The rhythmic slam of lockers closing, the squeak of sneakers on polished tile floors. Everywhere, motion. Everywhere, noise.
But in the noise, Kiel found silence.
He moved with measured steps, not hurried, not slow, but controlled. Eyes forward, shoulders squared. The crowd shifted unconsciously around him, like a stream parting around a stone. He did not meet eyes, did not return greetings. He belonged and yet he didn't. He was here, but untouchable.
His classroom was already unlocked, the rows of desks gleaming faintly under the fluorescent lights. No one else had arrived yet. As usual. Kiel preferred it that way. Being early meant being invisible. It meant avoiding the gawking eyes, the curious stares, the whispered conversations.
He scanned the room. Rows upon rows of desks, neat and identical, the smell of chalk faintly clinging to the air. His choice was immediate - second row from the back, beside the window. From there, he could see the school's front entrance clearly, and watch the flow of students in and out. A strategic seat. Always.
He slid into the chair, setting his notebook on the desk, his fingers tapping lightly against its cover. He turned his head toward the window, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the view. Students streamed across the lawn outside, laughter echoing faintly through the glass. Yellow buses rumbled away. The September sun stretched across the sky, indifferent to the lives beginning and ending beneath it.
"Always aim to have the best view"
Yet another unbidden thought careened through his mind causing hs lips curve into a small smile, not of joy, but of irony. A smile born of pain carefully buried. For a moment, the world blurred, his vision shimmering with the sting of tears he refused to let fall. His father's face flashed in memory, stern, ruthless, unyielding; the last image of him standing his ground, holding the line as blood spilled into the night.
Kiel blinked hard, swallowing the knot in his throat.
No one here knew who he truly was. To them, he was just a boy. Just another student. But behind that mask, behind the silence and the cold eyes, lived a truth heavier than anyone in this building could fathom.
The bell had not yet rung. The class was still empty. Kiel opened his notebook, flipping to a blank page. His pen hovered, then pressed down. The first word he scrawled was not a class note, not a doodle, not the name of the subject.
It was a name.
Nunca-Caer.
The vow burned in him, etched deeper than ink.