August 7th, 2031
Behind the main building of the high school, far from the sight of teachers and conveniently out of reach of the security cameras that never seemed to work anyway, something ugly was unfolding.
Bodies were strewn across the cracked concrete like discarded trash.
Groans. Whimpers. Wet coughing.
A handful of teenagers lay crumpled in various states of ruin—faces swollen, uniforms torn, blood staining the ground beneath them.
Some clutched broken ribs, others held their mouths in vain attempts to keep loose teeth from falling out. One boy didn't move at all, though his faint breathing suggested he wasn't dead. Yet.
At the center of it all, violence was still ongoing.
A fist came down.
A dull, sickening crack followed.
"P-Please—! Stop! I'm sorry—!"
The boy on the ground barely resembled a human anymore. His face was a mess of blood and tears, his voice broken by sobs and desperation. He tried to crawl away, dragging himself across the pavement, but a foot pressed down on his back, pinning him in place.
Another punch.
This time, several teeth were scattered across the ground.
Standing over him was a boy who looked no older than the others.
Lanky. Tall. Tanned skin. Black hair that fell carelessly over dull, lifeless eyes. He wore a black-and-red outfit—nothing flashy, but it carried an odd sense of intent, like it belonged to someone who didn't care about fitting in.
Or didn't need to.
His expression didn't change.
Not when the boy screamed.
Not when he begged.
Not even when his fist came away slick with blood.
There was no anger in his movements. No excitement. No cruelty, even.
Just… routine.
Then, suddenly—
He stopped.
The silence that followed was almost as disturbing as the violence.
His head tilted slightly, gaze shifting toward the far corner of the alley.
Two figures.
A boy and a girl.
The boy stood frozen, glasses slightly askew, his entire body trembling as if one wrong breath would shatter him completely. His hands twitched nervously at his sides, unsure of where to go, what to do, or whether he should even exist in that moment.
Beside him, the girl had already collapsed.
She sat on the ground, shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face. A dark wet patch spread beneath her, the smell faint but unmistakable.
The lanky boy didn't even glance at the girl.
Instead, he stepped forward.
Each footstep echoed too loudly in the heavy air.
The boy with glasses instinctively took a step back.
Then another.
"Are you satisfied?"
The question came out flat. Emotionless. As if he were asking about the weather.
The boy froze.
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
His mind raced.
Satisfied?
What was the right answer?
If he said no—would this monster keep going? Would he turn that violence on him next?
If he said yes—would that be enough?
Would anything ever be enough?
"I— I—"
His voice cracked. His throat tightened. He couldn't think.
The black-haired boy stared at him for a moment longer before repeating, slightly slower this time:
"Are...you...satisfied?"
The boy nodded. Rapidly. Desperately.
"Yes—yes, I am! I'm satisfied!"
The words tumbled out of him like they were escaping a burning building.
As if on cue, he fumbled into his pocket and pulled out a thick bundle of cash—wrapped, slightly crumpled, but very real. His hands shook so badly it looked like he might drop it.
The black-haired boy glanced at the money.
Then, after a brief pause, he nodded once.
Payment received.
Transaction complete.
But then—
His gaze shifted.
This time, toward the girl.
"Should I deal with her too?"
The question landed like a death sentence.
The girl's reaction was immediate.
"N-No! Please—please don't—!"
She scrambled forward on her knees, grabbing onto the boy with glasses, clutching his legs like they were the only thing anchoring her to life.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I won't do it again, I swear! Please, I'll— I'll do anything! I'll stay with you! I'll never look at another guy again. I'll sleep with you whenever you want, just please don't let him—!"
Her words came out in a frantic, broken stream, each one more desperate than the last.
"W-We're childhood friends… right? You remember that… please… please…"
The boy with glasses looked down at her.
His expression twisted.
Pain. Anger. Confusion. A lingering, pathetic hope.
All of it fought for dominance in his eyes.
For a moment, it looked like he might say yes.
That he might let the violence continue.
But in the end—
"…Let her go."
The words were quiet. Uncertain.
The black-haired boy stared at him.
Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
"Don't fall for the same nonsense twice."
It didn't sound like mockery.
It sounded like advice.
Unwanted. Unheeded.
But genuine, in its own detached way.
He turned away.
The matter, as far as he was concerned, was settled.
As he walked past the bodies littering the ground, he paused just once, glancing down at them with the same dull eyes.
"If any of you even think about revenge," he said calmly, "be ready to see the gates of hell."
A brief pause.
"Maybe I'll send your families after you as well."
No one laughed.
No one dared.
Because everyone there knew—
This wasn't a bluff.
If anyone else had said it, it would've sounded like edgy nonsense.
But this was him.
Alexander.
And promises like that had a way of coming true.
He continued walking, hands in his pockets, as if he had just finished a minor chore.
Behind him, the girl broke into loud, grateful sobs.
"Thank you! Thank you so much! I swear I'll change—I won't ever do anything like that again!"
Her voice clung to the boy with glasses, wrapping around him in chains disguised as affection.
Alexander didn't look back.
Didn't care.
If anything, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him.
If he had known this would be the outcome, he might've just let the kid jump.
The memory surfaced uninvited.
The school rooftop, a figure standing too close to the edge.
Alexander had been there for a smoke break, nothing more.
He could've ignored it.
Should've ignored it.
But timing had been inconvenient.
He had only just gotten out of trouble—another murder charge, another accusation. The police already had their eyes on him, itching for a reason to pin something on him again. A suicide happening on school grounds while he was nearby?
That would've been enough.
So he intervened.
Talked the kid down.
Listened.
And that was when he heard the story.
A pathetic one, really.
A boy confesses to his childhood friend. They start dating. Things go well—for a while. Then she changes. New friends. New style. Bad influences. Grades drop. Attitude shifts.
Still, the boy holds on.
Because she's still his.
Until she isn't.
Cheating.
Not just anyone, either.
The school's second most notorious delinquent.
Second only to Alexander himself.
When the boy confronted them, it ended exactly how you'd expect—beaten, humiliated, broken further.
Then rumors spread like wildfire. Disgusting ones.
That he was a perverted creep. Sneakily taking pictures of girls in private. Even the much younger ones, and many more.
Enough to turn the entire school against him.
And so, naturally—
He decided to die.
Pathetic.
And yet…
Alexander had seen something in it.
Something familiar.
So instead, he offered a solution.
Revenge, for a small price.
And now—
Here they were.
As Alexander stepped out of the alley and into the open air, the noise of the school faintly returning in the distance, he pulled out his phone.
Old. Scratched. Barely holding together.
He checked the time.
"…Tch."
He'd skipped most of his classes.
Not that it mattered.
There was only one left.
Gym.
Normally, he wouldn't bother.
But today was different.
After what happened last week—the school shooter incident—they'd moved activities outdoors. The Gymnasium was still in disrepair.
Pointless, in his opinion.
But attendance might keep unnecessary attention off his back.
And that was reason enough.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and started walking.
As for why he helped the boy in the first place…
He already knew the answer.
It wasn't kindness.
It wasn't morality.
Just a faint echo of something long dead.
A memory of a time when someone like him might've needed help too.
But that didn't matter anymore.
Alexander had long since stopped caring about things like that.
The world was already rotting.
He was just learning how to live in it.—or maybe— how to survive it.
By the time Alexander reached the field, the class had already started gathering.
The outdoor grounds stretched wide under the harsh afternoon sun, the air thick with heat and a faint unease that hadn't quite faded since last week's incident.
Students clustered together in small groups, talking in low voices—some laughing, others restless, all trying to pretend things were normal.
It wasn't working.
Nothing about this place felt normal anymore.
And then— he arrived.
It wasn't loud. There was no dramatic entrance.
But the effect was immediate.
Voices died mid-sentence.
Postures stiffened.
A subtle ripple of discomfort spread through the students as their gazes flickered toward him—then quickly away, as if even looking too long might invite trouble.
Fear had a presence.
And Alexander carried it like a shadow.
He ignored them all.
As usual.
Hands in his pockets, expression blank, he walked past the clustered groups and moved toward the far edge of the field—his usual spot. Isolated. Detached. A place where no one would come near unless they had a death wish or a very bad sense of judgment.
He stopped there and waited.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
"Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
The voice was thick with sarcasm.
Alexander didn't need to look to know who it was.
The gym teacher stood a short distance away, arms crossed, his expression already twisted into a scowl. There was always something about the way he looked at Alexander—something personal.
Something petty.
"I was beginning to think you were too cool for class," the man continued, his tone dripping with condescension. "Or maybe you just thought rules don't apply to you."
Alexander glanced at him.
Just once.
Then reached into his pocket.
The faint flick of a lighter broke the silence.
A cigarette found its place between his lips.
A small inhale.
Smoke curled lazily into the air.
The teacher's scowl deepened.
"Put that out," he snapped. "Smoking is not allowed on school premises. I could have you thrown out for that."
Alexander exhaled slowly.
Then spoke.
"Like how you were thrown out of your house?"
A pause.
"…after your wife caught you cheating on her with Becca?"
Silence.
A few students nearby immediately looked away, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. Others covered their mouths. No one dared laugh out loud—but the reaction was there, thinly veiled and barely contained.
The teacher's face darkened.
For a moment, it looked like he might actually lose control.
His fists clenched.
His jaw tightened.
But in the end he said nothing.
Because he knew.
Pushing further wasn't worth it.
Not with Alexander.
"…Everyone," the teacher barked suddenly, voice sharper than before, "line up! We're starting with laps. Ten around the field. No breaks!"
Groans rippled through the students.
"And after that," he added coldly, "we'll be doing endurance drills."
The complaints died instantly.
The punishment was clear.
Collective.
Petty.
And entirely intentional.
Alexander didn't react.
Didn't even acknowledge the exchange.
He simply took another drag from his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it under his shoe before moving.
While the others struggled through the laps, pushing their already tired bodies under the unforgiving sun, Alexander moved at his own pace.
A few stretches.
A light jog.
Nothing more.
No urgency. No effort to keep up or fall behind.
Just enough to not draw further attention.
His body moved.
But his mind—
Drifted.
Back.
Farther than he cared to admit.
To a time he didn't like thinking about.
A time that explained everything.
Or maybe nothing at all.
…
One could say Alexander's life had always been bad.
That would've been an understatement.
He was born the older twin in what people liked to call a "decent" middle-class family. From the outside, it probably looked normal. Stable, even.
It wasn't.
His childhood wasn't filled with laughter or careless days.
It was responsibility.
Endless, suffocating responsibility.
While other kids played, Alexander stayed home—watching over his younger twin and their little sister. Feeding them. Cleaning up after them. Making sure they didn't hurt themselves.
Because no one else would.
His mother was always out.
Parties. Nights out. "Friends."
His father was always working.
Late nights. Overtime. Exhaustion.
There was no one else.
So it fell on him.
It always fell on him.
And just when it felt like things couldn't get worse—
He turned ten.
That was the year everything broke.
His father lost his job.
Replaced.
Not by another man.
But by something better.
A machine.
A supercomputer android—efficient, tireless, flawless.
Everything his father wasn't.
Depression followed quickly.
Heavy. Suffocating.
And his mother—
Didn't even try to hide it anymore.
She cheated.
Blatantly.
Right in front of him.
Men coming and going like it was nothing.
Sometimes more than one at a time.
And his father…
Stayed.
Pathetically.
As if clinging to something that had already rotted away.
It didn't last.
It never does.
One day, she found someone better.
A rich tech tycoon.
Power. Money. Status.
Everything she wanted.
And so—
She left.
But not alone.
She took his siblings.
His twin.
His little sister.
"…They're talented," she had said, her voice casual. Dismissive. "Unlike you."
She knew why he wasn't.
She knew what he had sacrificed.
And she didn't care.
Alexander was left behind.
With a broken man.
And things only got worse.
His father turned to alcohol.
Then to worse things.
Bad crowds. Worse decisions.
And eventually—
A babysitter.
A solution, apparently.
A mistake.
Alexander's pace slowed slightly as the memory sharpened.
That woman had smiled too much.
Talked too sweetly.
But there was something behind it.
Something wrong.
It didn't take long for it to show.
At first, it was just her.
Then—
Others.
Men. Women.
Strangers.
They came.
Paid.
Used him.
Over.
And over again.
Alexander's expression didn't change.
Not then.
Not now.
Even when he tried to tell his father—
Nothing. Ignored. Dismissed.
Like his words had no value.
Like he didn't exist.
Until one day—
He fought back.
When he was thirteen years old.
Desperate. Angry.
For once— Alive.
And it ended with a man dead on the floor.
A heart attack.
But that didn't matter.
Not really. Because somehow—
It became his fault.
Framed. Twisted.
Packaged neatly into something the system could process.
His father didn't defend him.
Didn't even show up to court.
Didn't care.
And so Alexander was sent away.
Juvenile detention.
Two years.
Two long, empty years.
And then—
She came.
His mother.
After all that time.
He remembered the feeling.
Hope.
Small. Fragile. Stupid.
Maybe she'd apologize.
Maybe she'd fix things.
Maybe—
She didn't.
She smiled.
Spoke proudly about his siblings.
Their achievements. Their brilliance. Their future.
Then looked at him.
"…You were always a disappointment."
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No regret.
And when she left—
Something inside him went with her.
Not broken.
Not shattered.
Just… Gone.
The realization settled in quietly.
Life wasn't fair.
It never had been.
And it never would be.
What surprised him most—
Was that he didn't feel angry.
Not really.
It was like something had already died.
And whatever was left…
Didn't care enough to rage.
The years after that weren't any better.
If anything, they were worse.
When he got out— there was nothing waiting for him.
No school wanted him.
No job would take him.
Even the foster system turned him away.
He was marked.
And the mark stuck.
The only place that accepted him was this school.
A place rotten enough to tolerate someone like him.
He returned home.
If you could call it that.
His father—
Still alive back then—
Did nothing but curse him out.
Blame him. For everything.
That was the final straw.
One day, Alexander made a choice.
He switched the medication.
He watched.
As his father convulsed, collapsed, and died.
And he felt—
Nothing.
No guilt.
No satisfaction.
Just emptiness.
Afterward, he reported it.
Played his part.
Waited.
In the end, he inherited what was left.
A broken house.
Worthless scraps.
His mother didn't contest it.
Didn't want anything tied to her "worthless" ex-husband near her or 'her' kids.
Alexander sold it all.
Kept just enough to survive.
And continued on.
Day by day.
Incident by incident.
Crime after crime—some his, most not.
Always watched. Always blamed.
Always existing in a space just outside the law.
And now— here he was.
Running laps under a dead sky.
Feared by students.
Despised by adults.
Alive—
But not really living.
"…Heh."
A faint, humorless sound escaped him.
Was this life even worth anything?
At best— barely.
His thoughts were abruptly cut off.
A shift.
Subtle at first.
Then impossible to ignore.
The light changed.
The sky—
Flickered.
Alexander slowed to a stop.
Around him, the other students began murmuring, confusion rising as shadows stretched unnaturally across the ground.
Then—
It appeared.
A massive projection.
Spanning the sky itself.
A panel.
Dozens of figures.
Well-dressed. Composed. Powerful.
World leaders.
Every single one of them.
About to speak.
For the first time in a long while—
Alexander's eyes sharpened.
Something was coming.
And somehow—
He knew.
It would be a load of shit.