Three boys were inside the room. Two boys stood, one with blond hair and the other with black hair. The other with red hair lay on the floor.
"Pfft, you actually got punched in the chin, Adrian?" Dickson mocked.
"It was just a lucky punch, that's all. Plus, you got hit too, Dickson," Adrian shot back.
Before Dickson could retort, a sound stopped him. A low, sputtering laugh.
"Pfft—" Bradley, still lying on his back on the cold floor, began to tremble, his shoulders shaking as he tried and failed to suppress his laughter.
"What's so funny, you fucker?" Dickson demanded, his irritation spiking.
"Ah, I'm sorry, guys, you can continue your little chat," Bradley coughed, then suddenly burst into full, unrestrained laughter. It wasn't a happy sound; it was sharp, cynical, and it echoed mockingly in the empty room. "Hahahahaha! How could your parents name you 'Dickson'? I can't take your name seriously! What kind of people name their child after a dick?"
He laughed and laughed, the sound bordering on hysterical. "Your parents must have really disliked you. Fucking hell, I'd honestly kill myself if I were named that, pfft. Nah, man, British people and their names." He slowly pushed himself up onto his feet, his body aching but his smirk triumphant.
Dickson was so angry his pale skin turned a blotchy, furious red. A vein throbbed at his temple.
"Man, you look like a volcano about to erupt right now," Bradley taunted.
"Let's break one of his legs, Adrian," Dickson seethed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Teach him a real lesson."
"W-what?! No way! Breaking a leg is too much! If the school finds out—we'll be expelled!" Adrian's eyes widened in panic.
"Don't be a pussy. There are no cameras in here. Even if he tells anyone, who's going to believe him? Look at his reputation. Are you in, or are you chickening out?" Dickson pressed, his eyes wild.
Adrian hesitated, then clicked his tongue. "Fine!"
They both advanced, their shadows merging into one large, threatening shape on the floor. "You're so cooked, you motherfucker," Dickson spat.
"AHH, I'm so scareeeed," Bradley wailed, throwing his hands up in a dramatic, theatrical display of fear.
As they moved, Bradley's eyes flickered to his right. There, perched casually on a dusty teacher's desk, his doppelganger sat, legs crossed, watching the scene with an expression of profound boredom.
[Are you going to actually fight back, or take a beating as always because you think that's your punishment for your sins?] the other Bradley asked, his voice a direct line into Bradley's mind. [Because if you don't, they're actually going to break your leg. Look at the spirit beside him. They are already under its influence.]
His other self pointed a translucent finger toward Dickson. And there, clinging to the senior's shoulder like a grotesque parasite, was a thing that should not exist. It had a humanoid shape, but its face was a nightmare—eyes upside down in their sockets, skin a sickly, pus-yellow, swollen and covered in pulsing spores that popped and oozed thick, greenish fluid. The stench of rot and decay, a smell only Bradley could perceive, filled his nostrils, making his stomach churn. Fuck, such spirits always smell the worst.
It was whispering into Dickson's ear, its voice a sibilant hiss. "Break him. Kill him. No one will know."
It was invisible to the other boys, but to Bradley, it was as clear as day. Ever since the "other Bradley" had appeared, his vision had been cursed—or gifted—with the ability to see the spirits and souls that clung to the living world. At first, he thought he was losing his mind, but he soon realized it was a terrible, supernatural power. How he got it, he had no idea. Now, he and his other self sometimes worked in a twisted partnership to eliminate threatening spirits, partly for survival, partly for something to do.
[That's a manipulative anger spirit. It feeds on anger and strong emotions, manipulating its victims to commit atrocities, slowly devouring their souls. It's a lower rank, though.]
Tsk, I always wonder how you know so much, but you don't know a single thing about where you came from, Bradley mentally clicked his tongue.
[Don't blame me. I genuinely do not know if I am a spirit or something. Perhaps a dead soul.]
A dead soul? Nah, no way. I'm still alive. It's probably something else.
[Maybe I'm your future self or something. You may have died in the future,] his other self suggested, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
That would be amazing, for real. If that's true, then I know I will eventually die at an early age. A genuine, hopeful smile touched Bradley's lips.
He had always taken their beatings, viewing them as a form of penance for the dark deeds of his past, not because he was weak. In truth, he was far from it. He had been a national-level champion, a black belt in both judo and karate. But grief and self-loathing had made him slack off, and his habit of starving himself had left his body a weaker, slower version of its former self. Still, it was more than enough to handle a couple of thugs.
Fine, he conceded. Let's do it.
[Yessir,] his other self grinned, a mischievous and predatory light in his eyes.
The spectral figure stood up from the desk. His feet didn't touch the floor; he glided through the air like smoke, moving toward Bradley and then melting into his body in a seamless, silent fusion.
A sudden, profound change came over Bradley. His eyes, which had been alive with anger and mockery, went completely blank, like two polished stones.
Adrian and Dickson, who had been poised to attack, froze in their tracks.
"W-what is this feeling?" Adrian stammered, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.
A chilling aura spilled out from Bradley, spreading through the room like an invisible frost. The very air grew heavy and cold, making it hard to breathe. Even the anger spirit clinging to Dickson began to quiver.
[N-no, it's impossible!] the spirit shrieked, its voice filled with terror. [Why would there be a higher-ranked spirit other than my lady in my hunting grounds?!]
Bradley's large jacket began to sway, as if caught in a wind that blew only for him.
[Come on, kill him!] the spirit screamed at Dickson, its voice desperate. [He's dangerous! He'll kill us instead if you don't!]
"N-no way, I'm not scared of some brat," Dickson refuted, but his voice was a shaky whisper, and his legs wobbled beneath him. How could he not be terrified? The boy in front of him now radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated menace—he reeked of death. It was a primal, gut-level fear that bypassed all thought.
"Fuck this!" Dickson yelled, trying to channel his fear into rage. He lunged forward, throwing a desperate punch at Bradley's face.
Thwack!
The sound was clean, final. Bradley had caught the fist in his open palm, stopping it dead with an effortless, inhuman strength. The impact didn't even jar his arm.
"W-what?" Dickson gasped, his bravado shattering. He tried to pull his hand back, but it was trapped, as if in a steel vice.
Bradley slowly lifted his head, and his eyes met Dickson's.
Dickson felt his blood run cold. He was frozen, paralyzed. Bradley's eyes were no longer blank or their original warm brown. They were pools of endless, pitch-black nothingness. They swirled slowly, like oil on water, deep and hypnotic and utterly cold. There was no emotion in them, no anger, no malice—just a void that seemed to stare straight through his flesh and into the very core of his soul.
Humans, when faced with mortal danger, are driven by the primal instincts to fight or flee. But Dickson and Adrian felt neither. They were gripped by a third, more paralyzing instinct: the absolute certainty that any movement, any resistance, would mean instant and terrible oblivion. They were prey caught in the gaze of a predator they couldn't comprehend.
Dickson felt a warm, wet sensation spread through his trousers, the sharp smell of urine rising in the air. A moment later, a similar dark patch bloomed on Adrian's pants. Tears of sheer, unadulterated terror began to stream down Dickson's face, cutting through the grime on his cheeks.
Bradley took a slow, deep breath, and a plume of hot, white steam billowed from his mouth and nostrils, condensing in the frigid air of the room.
"Pathetic," the voice that came from Bradley was distorted, layered with something raw and ancient that was not his own. "Look at yourselves now, pissing yourselves from fear... where did all that confidence from earlier go?"
He laughed, a sound that was like grinding stones.
"You said that I couldn't run away? Who decided that?"
"You said you'd break my leg? Who decided that?"
"You said I was locked in here with you? Who decided that?"
He took a step forward, and the two bullies flinched as one.
"You didn't lock me in here with you guys." His pitch-black eyes narrowed. "You are the ones locked in here with *me*. Because you are not the danger." A terrifying smile stretched his lips. "I am the danger."
Dickson, Adrian, and the evil spirit trembled in unison, their legs turning to jelly.
"I-I'm s-sor—" Dickson tried to choke out an apology.
"Too late for that." Bradley's smile was a ghastly thing. He clenched his left hand into a fist, and with a motion that was almost casual, he drove it into the left side of Dickson's ribs.
BAM!
The sound was sickening, a wet crunch of fist meeting bone. Dickson didn't just fall; he was launched off his feet as if hit by a truck. He flew backward, crashing through a row of wooden desks and chairs, sending splinters and textbooks flying, before landing in a broken heap against the far wall.
"Oops," Bradley said, tilting his head. "I think I punched a bit too hard—not that I care, though."
He then turned his void-like gaze behind Adrian and pointed directly at the evil spirit, which was trying to slink toward the locked door.
"You there," Bradley's distorted voice commanded. "Wait patiently. I'll get to you shortly."
The spirit froze mid-creep. [Y-you can see me?] it squeaked, its voice trembling with disbelief and terror.
"Of course, dumbass. So wait your turn."
Is he nuts? Adrian thought wildly, his mind reeling as he watched Bradley talk to empty air.
Bradley shifted his attention back to Adrian. He took a slow, deliberate step forward. The sound of his shoe on the dusty floor was unnaturally loud. Another step. Each one was a hammer blow to Adrian's crumbling courage.
With a strangled, fear-fueled battle cry, Adrian launched himself forward in a last, desperate jump-kick.
"Hoh? You dare to attack after seeing what happened to your friend? That's... impressive," Bradley mused, his tone conversational. "But your kicks really hurt earlier. How about I give you a taste of mine?"
He sidestepped the kick with an almost lazy grace. Then, in a blur of motion, he spun on his heel, his body a perfect pivot. His leg rose in a high arc, a flawless, impossible 180-degree kick that connected with Adrian's chin while the boy was still suspended in mid-air.
THWACK!
The impact was brutal and precise. Adrian's head snapped back with a sharp crack. The force of the kick launched him upward. His head smashed through one of the ceiling tiles, which shattered around his neck, and for a surreal moment, his body hung there, limp, from the ceiling. Then, with a groan of broken plaster, he dropped back down, landing on the floor with a heavy, final thud. His face was a bloody, unrecognizable mask.
"That's what you get," Bradley said flatly.
Finally, he turned his full attention to the anger spirit. It was no longer trying to escape. It was on its knees, its grotesque head pressed to the dusty floor in a frantic kowtow.
[I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!] it wailed, green, pus-like tears leaking from its inverted eyes. [I didn't know there was a high-ranked spirit in this school! Please, forgive me! Spare me!]
"Hmm..." Bradley scanned the cowering creature, his black eyes unreadable.
The spirit trembled violently under his gaze. Fuck, I can't believe I'm begging to this bastard, it thought, a sliver of its old malice returning. Just give me a chance, and I'll kill him for this humiliation.
Bradley seemed to consider for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"Okay, fine. Since you're being so respectful, I'll let it slide this one time. But there won't be a next time."
[T-thank you for your mercy, sir! Thank you!] the spirit cried, bowing repeatedly.
"Yeah, yeah," Bradley waved a dismissive hand. "Now shoo. I don't want to see your ugly face anymore."
He turned his back on the spirit, his attention shifting to the two unconscious bodies littering the classroom.
This is my chance! the spirit thought, its fear instantly replaced by treacherous rage. It sprang from the floor, its form elongating, its fingers extending into long, razor-sharp talons aimed at Bradley's unprotected back. [Hahah, you fucker!] it screeched. [Haven't they told you to never turn your back on your enemies?!]
The talons were inches from piercing his jacket when Bradley moved. He didn't turn; he simply sidestepped with a speed that was a blur, the movement so fluid it seemed impossible. The spirit lunged through empty air.
"Haven't people told you," Bradley's voice was calm, almost bored, "to never announce your surprise attacks? This isn't an anime."
[H-How—?] the spirit began, confusion and terror dawning on its twisted face.
Spurt!
Bradley's arm, moving like a piston, shot forward and pierced straight through the spirit's chest. His hand emerged from its back, clenched tightly around its still-beating heart, which glowed with a sickly green light. Thick, green blood poured from the wound, sizzling as it hit the floor before vanishing into smoke.
The spirit looked down at the arm protruding from its chest, then back at Bradley's cold, black eyes. It coughed, a gurgling spray of green blood.
[Y-you... are a monster...] it whispered.
"Yeah," Bradley replied, his voice back to its normal tone, though laced with disgust. "I know."
He clenched his fist. The green heart burst apart with a wet, squelching sound, turning into a pulp of light and smoke. The spirit's body went limp, its form dissolving from the feet up into thick, black smoke that quickly dissipated, leaving behind only the faint, fading stench of rot.
"Tsk, disgusting shit," Bradley cursed, looking at the green residue on his hand that was already evaporating into nothingness.
He stood alone in the wrecked classroom, the dust slowly settling. His gaze swept over the splintered desks, the broken ceiling tile, and the two motionless forms of his seniors. The chilling aura was gone, the oppressive cold lifting. His eyes had returned to their normal brown, though they were weary and shadowed.
He shoved his hands back into his pockets, the familiar weight of his own misery settling back onto his shoulders.
"Now," he murmured to the silent room, "what should I do with them?"
The question echoed in the room.