Inside, the air was thick—humid, electric, buzzing with the quiet malice of teenagers who needed someone to hate. He kept his eyes on the floor, but the voices followed him.
"Did you hear he killed his parents?"
"Don't get too close. They say he's cursed."
"Poor soul, all alone. I guess that's the fate of a killer."
He brushed past them, their words bouncing off the armor he'd built over years. They didn't sting like they used to.
Now, they were just part of the background noise.
In the classroom, desks sat in neat rows, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The teacher barely looked up, a newspaper covering most of his face as he sprawled behind the desk. The class scratched at test papers, the sound of pencils like a thousand tiny claws.
Caan sat near the back, staring at his blank test sheet.
He tried to focus, tried to remember what he'd studied, but all he saw was rain and blood and the ghosts of things he couldn't change.
His pencil snapped—CRACK—splintering in his fist.
He let out a breath, stood, and approached the teacher.
"Can I grab another pencil from my bag in the hallway?"
"Mmm… Y-yeah," the teacher mumbled, not bothering to move the paper.