Chapter 5
2299words
I stayed at the back of the line, purposely. My hands were starting to feel cold, and my stomach started churning; I hate this feeling. I kept glancing at his desk... his ID, it's right there. Right, where I saw it earlier. If I was going to do this, it had to be now.
As the line thinned, my gaze shifted in his direction. He was distracted, still saying goodbye to the last few students.
My fingers moved on their own. I reached out, grabbed the ID, and slipped it into my bag in one motion. Smooth. Silent. My heart screamed the whole time. I zipped the bag shut and tried to force myself to breathe. It didn't work.
When it was my turn to walk past him, I tried to act like nothing was wrong. Like I hadn't just betrayed the only decent adult in this place.
"Have a great day, Slyvian," he said.
His voice... always warm, always gentle.
I nodded and tried to smile. It barely came out... I don't really smile anyway. I stepped toward the hallway and nearly made it.
Then his voice called out to me.
"I am curious, though... why did you grab my ID?"
Everything stopped. I froze mid-step, scrambling for an explanation, but nothing came. I turned slowly, trying to keep my expression blank. He was still smiling, but I can see that something shifted in his eyes.
A glint of awareness, of understanding. He hadn't missed a thing. He knew.
For the first time in a long time, I swallowed hard. The weight of the ID in my backpack was unbearable. I have no idea what to say, no lie that could explain away what I have just done. The hallway seemed to close in around me... the air growing thick with tension as Mr. S'dala's gaze remained fixed on me. What is happening?
Am I really that unstable to talk to Mr. S'dala?
I stammered, desperately searching for words, but nothing sounded right in my head.
The silence stretched out longer than it should.
"I... I found it on the desk," I said, forcing my voice to sound casual. "I was going to give it back to you."
I hated how fake it sounded. It was so flimsy. I know he saw right through it.
Mr. S'dala's smile didn't waver, but his eyes seemed to bore into me, seeing straight through what could be my soul. For a moment, I thought he might call me out on it, might demand the truth right then and there, and probably yell at me for how stupid the excuse was.
But instead, he just nodded once, that strange softness never leaving his face. "I see. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. How about you actually hold onto it for me, yes?"
I blinked at him, confused. Why would he say that? Was this a test? A trick?
But I couldn't question him. Couldn't risk it. I just nodded and left.
His eyes followed me the entire time. I felt them burning between my shoulder blades. When I turned the corner, I finally exhaled.
Back in the classroom, the air shifted. The warmth drained from Mr. S'dala's face the moment Slyvian disappeared from view. His smile faded, his expression sharpening into something unreadable. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
"Yeah, it's me," he said into the receiver, his voice low and serious, but then he smiled, cold, unsettling. The kind of smile that could silence a room.
"We've got a little situation. My card was taken."
He stepped back into his classroom, eyes drifting toward the window. His eyes locked straight at Slyvian's back.
"By whom? A little bird," he said, his voice almost amused. "Yes, yes. I'll handle it."
Outside, the air hit me. I kept walking until I reached the gate.
They were waiting.
Nathaniel was leaning casually against the gate, his eyes lighting up as he spotted me approaching. Andrew was beside him, eyes glinting like a predator. Sophia and Olivia looked bored, like they were just here for the entertainment.
I reached into my backpack and handed it to Nathaniel.
He looked pleased. "I'm impressed."
He held the card up to the light, flipping it in his fingers. Checking if it was real.
"It's genuine," he said, almost to himself.
Andrew chuckled. Sophia and Olivia exchanged smug looks.
"You really came through this time, Slyvian," Nathaniel said, smiling. "Maybe there's hope for you after all."
I didn't answer.
"Oh, don't look so worried." He stepped closer. "You did your part. Now, just keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way."
He patted me on the head. It made my skin crawl.
Then they left. Just like that. Laughing.
I watched them go, then turned and headed home.
Despite the uneasy feeling in my stomach and chest, I left the school and walked toward the Underbelly District. Toward home. Of course, it's a long walk.
The farther I got, the more the city began to rot around me. Towers of gleaming glass gave way to rusted scaffolding and chipped alloy siding. Neon signs flickered, some entirely dark, others glitching with half-lit letters that buzzed like broken insects. The ground cracked beneath my shoes, covered in grime and old spell-burns, leftover residue from past fights no one bothered to clean. Above, thick wires drooped like vines between buildings, weighed down by the city's neglect.
The Underbelly didn't hide what it was. It didn't pretend.
Broken drones lay in heaps beside overflowing trach bins, their parts picked over by scavengers long ago. A small part was because of me. Muted gunfire echoed from somewhere in the maze of alleys. I didn't flinch. People screamed. Not far, just out of sight. I kept walking. The smell of cheap mana-stimulants mixed with blood, fried meat, and mildew. The air itself breathed of rot.
My building came into view, slouched in between two other buildings with rotting exteriors, yet a clear sign that people still live inside them. Metal shutters hung crooked over busted-out windows. Bullet holes, acid scorch marks, and gang sigils covered every inch of its surface. Most of them had been repainted, layered over each other, a chaotic tapestry of control battles lost and re-won. One was fresh; it was a symbol of a lady entangled in tree trunks.
Several local villains lounged near the entrance. Some I recognized by name, others by the weapons stitched into their arms or the neon glow behind their masks. They leaned against walls or sat on crates, sharpening blades, charging up gauntlets, murmuring spells under their breath. Waiting for someone to look at them the wrong way. Waiting for a reason to hurt something.
One of them stood apart from the rest. A tall woman with chrome fangs and a smokeweave cloak. Her name is Smoke Angel. Leader of the local villain group known as the Ashteeth. No one crossed her.
I grew up hearing her name crackle from the mouth of the old android newsreader that hovered outside my window. Its voice was always too loud, too calm, listing the day's casualties like weather reports. Her name showed up often, right before words like fatal, targeted, and execution. She has a reputation for hunting down small-time heroes. The fresh ones, idealistic, desperate for recognition. She killed them before they even made it to syndicate registration.
She loves snuffing out the ego and hope from them. One by one. Always clean. Always personal.
She worked with my mother once. Briefly. I never knew the details. I only knew the look in my mother's eyes after the job ended. Angry. Empty. She never spoke about it.
Smoke Angel never spoke to me either.
Only stared.
Like she was waiting for something. Or maybe just measuring how long I'd last. Her eyes dropped to my backpack, lingered, then rose again to meet mine. I stared back. Blank. Unmoved.
She didn't smile. She didn't threaten. Just looked.
Then turned away.
When I finally stepped into the lobby of my building, the overhead light blinked and buzzed in protest. Its flicker threw my shadow long across the cracked tile floor, where dried blood was smeared in patterns that could've been art. Or a warning. The air stank of piss and spoiled takeout. Something was rotting in the wall again.
But I didn't flinch.
This was normal.
This was home.
As I walked through the lobby, my steps faltered. Something caught my eye to the left. Something moved in the left corner, a flicker of motion where there shouldn't be any. A neighbor from the floor below my floor, someone I'd passed more times than I could count. He was hunched over, his arm cutting through the air with clean, mechanical repetition. I didn't need to guess what he was doing. The dull, wet sound confirmed it. He was stabbing a man's body repeatedly, the dull thud of the blade meeting flesh barely audible over the hum of the building's old heating system.
He kept stabbing. Over and over. Not with panic or rage, just... focus.
I didn't scream. Didn't even blink.
Slowly, he looked up. His eyes met mine. For a moment, there was silence, a tense pause in the air. Blood was spattered across his jaw. His expression didn't change.
But I didn't flinch. I just simply stood there, my face expressionless... I feel nothing from this. The man's gaze lingered for a few more seconds. He raised one finger, slick with red, and pressed it to his lips.
I stared and then he looked down and resumed, stabbing the lifeless body with the same cold efficiency as before.
I kept walking.
The metallic smell in the air grew thicker the closer I got to the elevator, the smell... it didn't bother me. I've seen and smelled worse, far worse.
The pipes groaned behind the walls. The buttons on the elevator panel were all sticky with grime. I pressed the button anyway.
Ninth floor.
The raggedy elevator doors creaked open, one panel sticking halfway like it always did. I slipped through sideways.
The hallway was the same as I'd left it this morning, gray, moldy, and cracked. Water stains bled down the walls like bruises. Chipped numbers dangled from doors that didn't always close right. One door had been taped shut with industrial wire; another had burn marks near the handle. The ceiling light flickered like it was trying to die but wasn't allowed to. The stench of mildew and rotted wiring was suffocating, but familiar.
Further down the hall, I passed broken glass scattered across the tile. A busted monitor screen leaned against the wall, its back cover torn off. Someone had taken the parts, probably traded them for credlings or something more.
Two teenage gang members crouched near a utility hatch, drawing with blacklight markers over a grid of power tubing. One of them looked up and gave me a dead-eyed smile. His jacket bore the crest of the Ashteeth, smoke-gray with sharpened molar insignias on the sleeve.
I didn't stop.
I walked past my neighbor, Mr. Or'dara, who sat on his stool again, hunched over a small, delicate sculpture. His gnarled fingers worked the clay... I wonder what he is making this time.
"I'm so sorry, Slyvian," he said, eyes not leaving his work. "I couldn't see the other path happening."
He was referring to when he told me to put the credlings in my notebook this morning. I already knew they were bound to be stolen by Andrew. I already knew his predictions came too late; after all, he's old. I guess I just wanted to see if his predictions would change this time, but it all ended up with the same outcome.
"I can make it up to you," he added quickly. "I can make you some dinner, at least."
"I'm fine," I said. My voice came out flat.
I unlocked the door to the apartment. The hinges creaked, but the sound didn't bother me. As I walked inside, the door shut behind me.
Mr. Or'dara watched as Slyvian disappeared inside, his weathered face etched with sadness. There was something about her that reminded him of his own daughter, who had long since passed away, though he could never quite pinpoint why. He turned back to his table, focusing on the small sculpture in his hands. Beside him was a sculpted figure of a young girl, strikingly similar to Slyvian, standing finished on the table next to him. The girl's tiny form was poised next to a miniature swamp, an eerie and desolate environment.
The old man sighed, feeling that he had betrayed Slyvian yet again; the weight of seeing the future, of seeing fortune, was no longer clear to him. The world had moved on, leaving him behind, and all he had left were his sculptures, frozen moments of people and places that might never be, or perhaps never should have been. He ran a finger over the small swamp, hoping to uncover some hidden meaning from the clay, but... no, sculptures can't talk.
"Slyvian," he mummured.
She didn't hear him of course.
With another slow breath, he set the clay in his hands aside and pulled a new lump of clay. The tremor in his fingers hadn't gone away. But still, they moved, careful, deliberate. A routine he knew better than sleep.
And as the shapes began to form beneath his touch, he didn't dare wonder if it would be another warning too late.
