CHAPTER 1
The Quiet One
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He always sat at the back of the room. Second seat from the window. A place that never changed, even when the teachers rotated seating charts. No one fought for that spot—not because it was bad, but because he was there. And no one wanted to be near him.
He was the quiet one.
The weird one.
The one who looked down when spoken to, who never raised his hand in class, whose voice was barely a whisper even when forced to speak.
His name wasn't important to them.
To them, he was just a shadow.
The morning bell rang, and as usual, no one greeted him. Chairs scraped the floor as students filed in, their laughter and conversations swirling through the classroom like smoke. But around his desk, there was always silence—a pocket of cold, deliberate air.
He unpacked his things quietly, like always: notebook, pencil case, second-hand textbook with peeling corners. His fingers trembled just slightly, but he willed them still. He had learned to control the shaking. Years of practice.
Then came her.
A group entered together, loud and dominant, like they owned the air they breathed. Their presence shifted the atmosphere of the room. People moved. Eyes looked away. One of them wore a face mask, even though the pandemic had ended years ago. No one questioned it anymore. She had always worn it. Like armor. Or a muzzle.
She didn't need to speak. One glance, one tilt of her head, and the others followed.
She walked past him—then paused.
His shoulders stiffened.
She turned slowly, her eyes cold and unreadable above the mask. The group around her chuckled under their breath, sensing what was coming.
"You're slouching again," one of the boys mocked, imitating a hunched posture.
"Maybe he's scared his own spine will abandon him," another laughed.
She said nothing. She never needed to. Her silence gave permission. Like a signal from a queen to her court.
And they started.
Books knocked from his desk. A pencil snapped. Someone whispered something about how he stank. Another flicked a finger against his ear, sharp and sudden.
Still, he said nothing.
His face stayed down. Hands clenched into fists beneath the desk, nails digging into skin. He didn't flinch. He had trained himself not to.
A cigarette burn.
A shove in the hallway.
A shoe to the ribs behind the gym.
Each one carved into him like a secret etching, a message that only he could read. Not all pain bled. Some of it just buried itself deeper. Quietly.
In elementary school, it had been annoying. Petty things—name-calling, cruel dares, isolation. But now… now it was ritual. Systematic. Like it had a purpose. Like he was a target for something they themselves didn't fully understand.
He sometimes asked himself, Why me?
But no answer ever came.
Not from them.
Not from the teachers.
Not even from God.
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That night, he stared at his ceiling in the dark, breath slow and heavy. His body ached in places he didn't want to name. A thin welt burned across his shoulder where a cigarette had touched skin during lunch.
No one saw.
No one cared.
He reached for his old sketchbook—his only sanctuary. Page after page of crooked lines, dark ink, and scratched-out eyes.
But on the last page, he had drawn something new. Twelve shadows. Tall, warped. Looming over a small figure curled on the ground.
And beside it, written with a trembling hand:
"One day, I'll make them disappear."
He
closed the book, eyes open in the dark.
And waited.
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End of Chapter 1