Anna sat quietly in her chair in the teacher's office, her fingers tracing the edges of a few scattered papers as she turned them over again and again, studying each one with meticulous care.
"Silas Frost…?" she murmured softly, the name lingering in her mind as though tasting its weight.
She closed the papers with a faint sigh, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and a puzzled, almost incredulous expression settled across her face.
A boy like Silas… what could possibly bring him to our school? To leave behind a top-tier, elite institution, one that most students would dream of attending… it didn't make sense. It was unsettling, even thought-provoking.
Silas was different. He intrigued her in a way no one else did. Among the students she found interesting, he was now one of only five people she truly wanted to know more about. But these informational sheets—so clinical, so bare-boned—revealed almost nothing.
Her gaze lingered on Silas's sheet. It was frustratingly vague: it said nothing about why he had left his previous school, or the circumstances of his departure. It merely offered a cold, impersonal note: "The school was not suitable."
Not suitable? She frowned. Not suitable?
For an elite school? That was impossible.
The idea alone felt absurd to her.
Anna leaned back in her chair, the wheels creaking slightly, and ran a hand through her hair. Her mind raced with questions she couldn't yet answer. That a student like Silas would ever find an elite school inadequate… it felt almost like a personal challenge. Something about that idea sparked a flicker of curiosity deep inside her—a spark that refused to be ignored.
No. It simply couldn't be.
Anna let out a quiet breath, her eyes falling on Silas's books, still lying on the desk exactly as he had left them.
Victor, who had gone on an errand earlier, hadn't yet returned.
Why was it taking so long for him to bring the test papers?
Anna rose from her chair, her movements deliberate, almost hesitant. Silas had already left, and by now, his class had probably started. She didn't want him to see or hear anything unpleasant on his very first day. The moment she had glimpsed him, something about him had struck her—a sense of quiet goodness, a gentle, innocent curiosity that seemed to shine from within him.
I guess I'll have to take these books.
With a careful hand, she picked up the remaining books from the desk. They weren't heavy, but there was a strange weight in the moment—the weight of responsibility. Holding them, she began to make her way out of the teacher's office, her steps measured, as if each one carried a thought she wasn't ready to speak aloud.
Anna was making her way down the hallway, books clutched carefully in her arms, when she noticed someone running toward her from behind. As the figure drew nearer, she saw his face—it was none other than Victor.
Victor slowed to a casual walk once he reached her side, keeping pace as if he had all the time in the world.
"Miss Anna, I've brought the test papers," he said.
Hearing his voice, Anna turned around and came to a stop, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Oh, Victor, you brought them! That must have been difficult—fetching test papers from a class full of those rowdy troublemakers," she said, her tone light, teasing, yet warm.
Victor's eyes fell on the books in her hands, and he froze for a moment, surprised. He had never seen Anna carry books herself for a student. Who was this lucky student that warranted her attention?
"It was… a bit of a challenge—" he began.
"Miss Anna, you're taking these books yourself? If you like, I can carry them for you," Victor offered, noticing the weight in her arms.
"Oh, thank you, Victor. You always help me," Anna said with a smile, handing the books over to him. She then picked up the test papers herself, adjusting them carefully in her hands.
"Give these to the new student, Silas, in Class Eleven," she instructed.
"Got it, Miss Anna," Victor replied, a hint of admiration in his voice
Just as Anna was about to walk away, a sharp, commanding shout echoed through the hallway from a distance. The sound was so abrupt, so intense, that it immediately drew her attention toward the source.
"Did that come from this classroom?" Anna murmured, pointing in the direction of the sound.
"Seems like it, Miss Anna," Victor replied, following her gaze.
Anna's eyes narrowed slightly as she understood the situation. This wasn't just any classroom—it was Silas's class. And if that shout was any indication, it could only mean that Asher, the notorious troublemaker, was involved.
"Asher…?" she whispered under her breath, almost in disbelief.
"Let's go, Victor," Anna said, determination threading through her voice.
Victor, obedient as ever, fell into step behind her. Anna quickened her pace, her steps echoing lightly against the hallway walls. Every moment counted. If they were late, if they didn't reach the class in time, who knew what could happen? That classroom was like a ticking bomb—and Asher was the fuse, unpredictable and ready to ignite at any moment.
With her heart pounding, Anna pushed forward, her focus sharp. Finally, they reached the classroom door.
Peering inside, Anna froze, her breath catching in her throat.
What—what on earth was happening here?
The scene inside was chaotic, alive with tension. Students were scattered across the room, some standing rigid in surprise, others trying to duck under the sudden outburst. And in the center of it all, Asher loomed—a storm in human form, moving like a predator, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
Anna's pulse quickened. The hallway suddenly felt far away, irrelevant. All that mattered was what was happening in that classroom—and whether anyone could control it before it spiraled completely out of hand.
...
Droplets of food splattered across Silas's crisp white shirt, falling like tiny, unwelcome rain. The entire cafeteria seemed to turn its gaze toward him, the air thick with a strange mixture of curiosity and discomfort. Something in the atmosphere felt off, almost electric.
Silas's ears caught a voice—a sound he recognized instinctively, though he couldn't place exactly where he had heard it before. It was familiar, calm, deliberate… and it was not Asher's voice.
Behind him, the person held a handkerchief, intent on cleaning the white shirt that had somehow become the canvas of chaos. But silas, ever brazen, twisted around sharply, his voice cold, pointed, yet composed:
"Take your filthy hands off me."
There was a brief pause. The words barely reached the other person—spoken softly, almost too quietly to hear—but the stranger continued,And while continuously wiping her back with the handkerchief, he reached down to her buttocks and began wiping it with the handkerchief.
The cafeteria erupted. Not into chaos, not into alarm, but into laughter—a ripple of amusement that seemed to bounce off the walls, settling over the entire room. The students weren't organized in some prank; there was no joke or staged spectacle. And yet, to them, it was hilarious.
The sound of laughter filled the air, overwhelming and relentless, wrapping around Silas like a storm. He stood rigid, upright, expressionless, silent, feeling every pair of eyes in the cafeteria on him, all laughing, pointing, whispering, gasping. The voices swelled in his ears, a strange, deafening cacophony.
Silas remained motionless, staring straight ahead, as the laughter rumbled over him like waves. He could feel the weight of their amusement pressing down on his chest, an invisible force, yet he did not move, did not flinch. His body was still, but his mind was alert, measuring, observing, cataloging everything with quiet, piercing intensity.
It was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever—the world condensed to the sound of laughter, the feel of food on his shirt, and the subtle tension of a stranger's hands trying to help, while a thousand curious eyes bore into him.
The oppressive atmosphere pressed down on Silas like a physical weight, and suddenly, an eerie sense of déjà vu washed over him. This had happened before—something he had buried deep in his memories, a painful shock he had tried desperately not to recall. And now, it was unfolding before his eyes again, hauntingly, mercilessly.
A dizzying pressure began to mount in his mind, like a storm cloud compressing everything inside him. The cafeteria's laughter and the stares of those around him twisted into something heavier, darker. He could feel their eyes upon him—eyes filled with scorn, mockery, and disdain.
His body tensed involuntarily. The air seemed thick, every breath a struggle. He wanted to escape—from the cruel laughter, the harsh, judgmental stares, the pity that stung more than words. He wanted to be anywhere but here, away from the world's eyes fixated on his humiliation.
Silas pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the room spin slightly, his legs unsteady. Each step he took was a fight against the dizziness, each movement a battle to remain upright. He limped away, slow and deliberate, every fiber of his being screaming for distance from this torment.
Behind him, the person who had been attempting to clean his shirt hesitated for a moment, concern in their eyes.
"Are you… alright? Because of me—your shirt—"
But Silas had reached the limit of his endurance. Years of buried shame, the relentless sting of humiliation, and now this intrusive, unwanted help had collided in an instant. He whirled around, his movements sharp and commanding, his voice slicing through the room like a blade:
"I said—keep your FILTHY HANFS AWAY FROM ME!!!!!!!!!"
The words were raw, weighted, dangerous, charged with an intensity that seemed almost tangible. Something primal, buried deep in his memory, resonated with the sound of his own voice.
And then it happened. The tension he carried, the force of his words, the sudden surge of energy—something seemed to ripple outward. The glass windows lining the cafeteria shuddered violently, cracking under an invisible weight before shattering completely. Panes of glass exploded into fragments, scattering across the floor with a deafening crash.
A collective gasp erupted from the students. Some stumbled backward in fear. Others froze mid-step, eyes wide, mouths open in shock.
"Oh my…"
"Gasp!"
"Eek!"
The room was transformed in an instant. What had been a place of mockery, of ridicule, was now suspended in stunned silence, fear radiating from every corner. And Silas—centered, rigid, unyielding—stood there, a silent storm at the heart of the chaos he had unconsciously summoned.
A few students seated near the windows were affected by the shattered glass, flinching and instinctively drawing back. The cafeteria fell into a heavy, almost suffocating silence. The laughter, the mockery, the chatter—it all vanished in an instant, replaced by a tense stillness.
People whispered nervously to each other, unsure of what had just happened. What was that? What had they just witnessed? Had it been some miracle, some impossible phenomenon? No one could comprehend the event—they were frozen in disbelief.
Silas himself felt a tremor of fear. His mind spun, trying to grasp what had occurred. Had he done this? Or had it happened on its own? His gaze fell on the person who had accidentally spilled food on him. The student lay on the floor, propped slightly on his hands, staring at Silas with wide, fearful eyes.
"Ahh!"
A strange, almost surreal sensation prickled at Silas's eye. Something wet had gathered there, obscuring his vision. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, and the wetness fell to the floor—a small, glimmering drop of blood.
Blood.
Silas froze. His eyes widened in disbelief. Where had it come from? Panic and confusion intertwined, tightening around his chest.
He brought a hand to his cheek and rubbed it instinctively, only to find that the blood was on his fingers. Heart hammering, he quickly pressed his shoe to the drop on the floor, trying to blot it, then used his hand to wipe the blood from his face. His movements were fast, precise, mechanical, as if to erase the proof of the inexplicable moment.
For a moment, lost in the action of cleaning himself, Silas looked up—and froze again.
The person on the floor… it wasn't the student who had spilled the food after all. It was Dylan, the same student who had disrupted his sleep that very morning. The one who had invaded his quiet, the one who had intruded into the calm of his world. And now, here he was, sprawled before him,
Red marks burned across Dylan's cheeks, deep, angry streaks that looked as if someone had struck him with deliberate force. His skin glistened with the heat of pain, a raw, almost violent red against the pale of his face.
Behind Dylan, a few other boys lingered, shadows of menace moving just beyond the immediate chaos. One of them stepped forward, his expression cold, cruel, and precise. With a slow, deliberate kick, he nudged Dylan and spat the words like venom:
"You couldn't even do the one thing I gave you."
Before Dylan could fully process it, the boy delivered another sharp kick. Dylan instinctively curled forward, covering himself with his hands, a soft, pained groan escaping him.
Silas's mind froze for a moment.
What…? What do you mean, "gave him a task"?!
For a single heartbeat, Silas's perception locked. Time slowed. His gaze sharpened, the edges of his vision cutting through the cafeteria in crisp detail: the red marks on Dylan's face, the cruel lines of the boys standing behind him, the subtle, fearful tremor in Dylan's body.
Is this.....all connected to–
A flicker of fury ignited in Silas's chest, small at first, then spreading like wildfire. He turned slowly, jaw tight, and bit down on his lower lip with enough force that it hurt, a sharp, grounding reminder of his presence, his control. His eyes, dark and intense, burned toward the cafeteria's entrance.
He was no longer merely observing. Every sense was heightened. Every detail etched itself into his awareness. The laughter, the fear, the cruelty, the red streaks of pain—all of it converged into a single, fiery resolve.
Silas's gaze flamed like coals, directed straight at the cafeteria doors, silent yet charged with a warning that seemed to vibrate through the room itself.
Connected to Asher!
.....
Silas stood before the mirror in the empty restroom, his shirt peeled off, clutched tightly in his hands as he scrubbed at it under the stream of water. He rubbed and rubbed, but the stubborn stains from the cafeteria incident refused to budge.
"Come on… get out of here," he muttered under his breath, frustration tightening his jaw.
The restroom was silent, completely empty, offering him a rare moment of solitude. With a deep sigh, he turned on the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. He rubbed at his cheeks and forehead, feeling the sting of both the water and the lingering tension of the day. When he finally turned off the tap, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror.
Silas ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it up and back, revealing the full breadth of his forehead that had been hidden beneath the strands. He studied himself carefully. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed to bore into his reflection. His lips, naturally a pale orange, were now marked with a hint of red—raw, slightly bruised, evidence of the morning's turmoil.
What happened today… did I really do this?
Silas's eyes lingered on the mirror, searching, questioning, desperate for answers. His mind raced, piecing together the moments in the cafeteria. Could he have caused the glass to shatter? He knew he had the ability—he had broken glass before—but only when his mind and attention were entirely focused on it. In the cafeteria, his attention had been elsewhere, nowhere near the windows. And yet… the glass had shattered.
There was no one else who could have done it.
His pulse quickened. His gaze sharpened, searching for some explanation that would make sense, but none came. The questions swirled in his mind like a storm: Did I do it? Was it some involuntary reaction? How can this happen?
Silas pressed a hand to his temple, taking a slow, deep breath.
I must… control my emotions. I must keep myself in check.
The thought was firm, almost like a lifeline. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to regain the calm that had been so violently disrupted. His reflection stared back at him, a mixture of intensity, fear, and raw awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.
Silas understood. If it hadn't been his mind or his conscious focus that caused the chaos, then there was no doubt—it had been his emotions. The sadness, the anger, the frustration—they had erupted from within him, raw and uncontrollable. And yet, even as he recognized this, he was stunned. This was the first time in his life he had ever witnessed objects breaking as a direct result of his emotions. For most, it might have been fascinating, even thrilling—but for Silas, it was anything but entertaining.
He lifted his hand slowly toward the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, pale and tense, a faint line of anxiety already etched across his face. He placed his fingers lightly on his cheek, aligning his full attention on the glass before him. Every ounce of his focus concentrated on one purpose: to see, to test, to understand. His thoughts locked on the surface of the mirror, visualizing a crack forming, imagining the reflection shattering.
To Be Continued...