Chapter 4: Day 1 α Part 4

The jangling of the lunch bell felt like a starter pistol.

After the disorienting but illuminating rooftop experiments with [Pocket Dimension S], practicalities asserted themselves. The Geiger counter and its tiny, whiskered companion, now secured in Layer 02 (Room mode), needed to be returned to the science prep room.

Near the prep room, a shadowed alcove offered temporary concealment. I ducked inside, affecting the casual air of a student merely pausing.

The real operation was entirely internal.

Activating [Third Eye A], the lab wall dissolved into translucence; shelves, beakers, but blessedly, no staff. A wider mental sweep confirmed the coast was clear.

My focus narrowed. Layer 02 of my [Pocket Dimension S] was active.

Using [Third Eye A] like a psychic periscope, I pinpointed the mouse’s usual cage on a low shelf and the Geiger counter's designated spot on a higher one, both well within the ten-meter operational range from my alcove.

With a surgeon’s precision, I willed Layer 02 to "Open External Access." This was not a portal for me, but a minuscule spatial tear directly inside the wire mesh of the mouse’s cage.

From my mental interface with the Pocket Dimension, as if reaching from within its grey void, I gently deposited the small creature onto its familiar sawdust bedding.

The mouse, momentarily bewildered, immediately began sniffing its surroundings.

Portal closed.

The Geiger counter's return was even simpler.

Items restored, Layer 02 vacant.

Deactivating [Third Eye A], I stepped from the alcove, a quiet thrill thrumming through me.

The synergy of [Third Eye A] for reconnaissance and pinpoint targeting, [Pocket Dimension S] for precise, ranged manipulation. It was like wielding psychic lockpicks against the fabric of reality.

So clean.

No trace.

If these two, used in concert, could achieve such elegant effects, what other combinations can I make?

The thought resonated deeply with me.

Later, in Chemistry, the air hung thick with the promise of acrid fumes. Ms. Albright, all brisk efficiency, adjusted her apparatus.

“Goggles on, people! We’re observing the reaction between sulfuric acid and a strong base. Expect a vigorous reaction.”

As I fumbled with my goggles, a flicker of movement near the demonstration table made my stomach clench.

"Leo," I hissed, heart suddenly hammering. "Is that… is that the lab mouse?"

He squinted. "Holy crap, it is! What's it doing out?"

Rose, beside him, gasped audibly. "Oh no, it's going to get hurt!"

My mouse.

The cage latch... of course. When I'd taken him out earlier, I must have failed to re-secure it properly after opening it by hand. My focus then had been entirely on getting him into the Pocket Dimension for the experiment, not on the mundane detail of the cage door. Now, it scurried dangerously close to the array of beakers.

Ms. Albright, oblivious, began her monologue. “Now, I’m going to carefully add the sodium hydroxide solution…” She reached for the beaker of base.

"Look out!" a student near the front whispered urgently.

"The mouse!" another exclaimed, louder.

Startled by the sudden attention, the creature darted, impossibly, closer to the beaker Ms. Albright now held aloft.

A collective intake of breath. Rose winced, turning away. Leo leaned forward, concern etched on his face.

Time seemed to stretch, to crawl.

No!

My powers were the only option.

[Third Eye A]. Bullet Time Vision.

The world warped into hyper-slow motion. Each micro-second became a vast, traversable landscape for my perception.

Ms. Albright’s hand, poising the beaker of base, crept forward with glacial slowness. I could see individual droplets of the clear liquid swelling at the lip, surface tension battling gravity, each one a miniature, caustic bomb.

Below, the sulfuric acid in its own beaker seemed to shimmer with a malevolent anticipation.

The mouse, a tiny brown blur mere moments ago, was now a perfect, frozen sculpture of terror, its whiskers quivering in imperceptible slow motion, its beady eyes wide, directly in the projected path of the chemical geyser I knew was about to erupt.

No room for error.

My mind, unnaturally clear in this dilated timeframe, raced.

Pocket Dimension.

Storage mode.

My will became a laser.

Mentally selecting Layer 03 of my [Pocket Dimension S], already empty and primed, I switched its mode to Storage. Then, pouring every ounce of concentration into the command, I thought, “[Pocket Dimension S] Store!”

My focus locked onto the precise interface: those individual, swelling droplets of base at the lip of Ms. Albright's beaker and the surface of the sulfuric acid directly beneath them. This was the flashpoint, the exact zone where the chemical war was about to erupt. I didn’t visualize the entire beaker's contents vanishing. Instead, I willed the initial, explosive interaction, the tiny, almost-formed geyser of reacting chemicals just as it began to overflow and erupt, the very essence of its nascent violent outburst, to be instantaneously snatched from this reality and shunted into the time-frozen, absolute-volume safety of Layer 03.

Time snapped back to normal.

No violent spray, no chemical geyser.

Just a loud, anticlimactic WHOOSH as air rushed to fill the space where the acid had been. The liquid in Ms. Albright's beaker roiled slightly, then settled, a few wisps of vapor curling from its surface.

The mouse, unharmed, streaked for cover.

Ms. Albright stared at her beakers, utterly perplexed. “Well, that was… anticlimactic. I’ve never seen that. Perhaps a contaminant in one of the reagents? Or simply old chemicals. Highly unusual.”

Her eye then caught the small brown blur under the bench. With an exasperated sigh, she quickly retrieved it.

"Right," she muttered, briefly securing the creature to be returned to its cage later, "another thing to deal with."

A ripple of confused murmurs went through the class.

“What happened?”

“That was weird.”

“Lucky mouse!” someone muttered.

Ms. Albright sighed, pushing her glasses up. "Well, class, it appears today's demonstration is a dud. We’ll try again next week. Please begin cleaning up your workstations."

A quiet, profound satisfaction settled within me.

And one very, very lucky mouse.

Last period, Mr. Evans attempted to shepherd us through the allegorical fields of Animal Farm, but my thoughts were consumed by Iris.

The morning’s strained farewell, the Dune book clutched in her trembling hand, the gnawing need to talk to her properly, to apologize, to understand. It all coalesced into a firm, unshakeable resolve.

Tonight.

I had to make it right tonight.

The classroom clock ticked with agonizing slowness.

Ash, now occupying Iris’s old role as Student Council President, sat a few desks away, his quiet, analytical presence a subtle reminder of the changes already afoot. His focused style was a stark contrast to Iris’s earnest, sometimes flustered, leadership.

The final bell shrieked its liberation.

As I began to pack my bag, a nervous-looking freshman aide approached my desk.

“Rey Amaranth?”

“Yeah?”

“Principal Thompson requests your presence in his office. Immediately.”

Before the aide could elaborate, Ash, who had been efficiently packing his own satchel nearby, interjected smoothly. His voice was calm, yet it carried an inherent authority that made the aide visibly relax.

"I'll accompany him."

He offered a brief, knowing glance at the aide, then a subtle half-smile played on his lips as he looked at me.

"Given the likely subject matter, cafeteria business I presume, it would be prudent for the Student Council President to be present. To ensure all perspectives are considered and due process is observed."

The aide practically sagged with relief. “Oh, uh, yes, Mr. Ashworth. Of course. Thank you.”

Perfect, I thought, a small measure of my own tension easing.

Ash, choosing to involve himself. This promised to be… educational.

Due process, Ash-style, was likely a masterclass in controlled demolition.

The door to Principal Thompson’s office was slightly ajar, and even before we entered, the strained timbre of an angry male voice, tight with indignation, spilled into the hallway.

Ash pushed the door open further, and we stepped inside.

The atmosphere was thick enough to chew.

Kevin, the freshman bully from the cafeteria, was hunched in a chair, sniffling miserably, his face blotchy. Standing over him, red-faced and practically vibrating with fury, was a man jabbing an accusatory finger towards a visibly flustered Principal Thompson, who was wrestling with his tie as if it were a sentient serpent.

“…and I expect consequences, Thompson!” the man, Mr. Davies presumably, was snarling, his voice echoing in the wood-paneled office. “This isn't some back-alley brawl; this is a reputable educational institution! My son was assaulted!”

Principal Thompson, looking like he’d rather be facing a firing squad, spotted us. “Ah, Rey. Mr. Ashworth. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

I nodded calmly, taking a chair, keeping my expression carefully neutral. I made brief eye contact with the Principal before letting my gaze drift to Mr. Davies, then to Kevin.

Standard procedure, I thought, recalling Ash’s oft-repeated advice from past, albeit less formal, mediations. Let the accuser expend their initial energy. Don’t volunteer information. Never be the first to show your hand. Observe the terrain.

Ash cleared his throat softly, a quiet sound that nonetheless sliced through Mr. Davies' bluster with surprising authority.

“Principal Thompson, Mr. Davies, if I may?”

His voice was calm, measured, carrying an immediate, almost academic weight.

“As Student Council President, I believe it falls within my purview to help mediate student conflicts and ensure all perspectives are fairly considered. I was also a direct witness to the events in the cafeteria.”

Mr. Davies scoffed, his glare swiveling to Ash, dismissing him with an impatient wave of his hand. “Student Council President? What's a kid going to do? My son was attacked by that… that delinquent!” He gestured aggressively towards me. “Are you here to defend him?”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Ash’s lips. The kind I recognized as him taking the measure of an opponent, cataloging weaknesses with cold precision.

“My objective, Mr. Davies, is to seek clarity, not to defend or prosecute.” Ash’s tone was impeccably reasonable. “What I observed was a young man, Kevin, who seemed… somewhat overwhelmed. Perhaps struggling to navigate the social complexities of a new school environment, and making a regrettable choice in how he interacted with another student.”

Benevolent Reframing, I mentally noted. Making the aggressor sound like a victim of circumstance, lowering the parent’s defenses.

Principal Thompson, clearly grasping at the lifeline Ash had thrown him, nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Ashworth, please. Your observations would be most helpful.”

“Certainly,” Ash continued, his voice a model of meticulous neutrality. “Kevin approached another student who was seated alone. There was an unsolicited physical interaction, a shove I believe, which resulted in the other student's lunch tray being knocked to the floor. This was followed by Kevin directing some rather… disparaging remarks towards that student, before Mr. Amaranth approached the scene.”

Neutral Fact Delivery with a Delayed Payload, I recognized. Calm sequence, then the critical detail of Kevin’s verbal aggression before my involvement.

Mr. Davies’ face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson. “A shove? Boys will be boys! He probably just stumbled! And words? Since when is that an excuse for physical assault? My Kevin is a sensitive boy! This Amaranth character has a reputation, I hear!”

Ash turned his full attention to Mr. Davies, his grey eyes steady, his gaze almost uncomfortably penetrating. I saw Ash subtly mirror Davies’ aggressive forward lean for a mere fraction of a second before consciously relaxing his own posture, an almost predatory calibration.

“Mr. Davies, you strike me as a man of keen perception. Someone who values fairness and integrity above all. A father who would, quite rightly, be incensed if his son were unjustly accused, or if the full truth of a situation were being obscured.”

Affirmative Mirroring and Value Association. Ash validated Davies' projected self-image, making him more vulnerable, implying someone might be obscuring truth.

Mr. Davies puffed up slightly, momentarily placated but still bristling. “Damn right I am! And I won’t stand for my boy being made a scapegoat!”

“No one here desires a scapegoat, Mr. Davies,” Ash said, his tone becoming more thoughtful. “We all want what's best for the students, and for Kevin.”

He paused.

“Tell me, when Kevin faces challenges, or feels he's been wronged at school, how do you generally advise him to assert himself? To ensure his peers respect him?”

Indirect Inquiry into Modeled Behavior. Shifting accountability subtly.

“I tell him to stand up for himself!” Mr. Davies said gruffly. “Not to be a pushover! A man has to command respect!”

“Command respect. An understandable ambition.” Ash’s voice dropped slightly, becoming more confidential, his gaze locking onto Davies with an intensity that seemed to make the air crackle. “And when a man feels his own… personal efforts are perhaps not receiving the recognition they deserve, or when he witnesses others benefiting from attention he feels is unmerited… that can be a significant source of frustration, can't it? It might even lead one to… overcompensate in other areas, to assert dominance quite forcefully, sometimes in very public settings."

Ash let that hang in the air for a moment, his expression unreadable, as if he were sifting through a catalogue of such instances.

He continued, his voice almost a murmur now, yet every word landed with chilling precision, "For instance, one might observe how such underlying frustrations could manifest... perhaps during a mundane part of the day, like a commute. A perceived slight, a feeling of being overlooked by strangers even, could provoke a rather… conspicuous display. A possessiveness, a flash of unwarranted jealousy, even. A man might not even be fully aware of how transparent such moments make his internal struggles."

My mind flashed back with sudden, shocking clarity. The man on the train this morning. Ash hadn't just been dissecting a type; he'd seen Davies. But Ash wasn't explicitly stating that. He was painting a picture, a psychological profile, and letting Davies connect the dots to his own behavior, his own morning.

Mr. Davies’ face drained of color. His eyes widened, a flicker of raw panic in them. He visibly recoiled, as if struck. The description was general enough, yet the timing, the nuance Ash injected, combined with Davies's own fresh memory of his actions on the train, made it feel intensely personal. Ash hadn't said "I saw you." He'd described a universal failing in a way that Davies knew applied directly to him, making him suddenly fear what else this unnervingly perceptive young man might have gleaned, what other vulnerabilities he might have exposed without realizing.

Holy crap, I thought, stunned. The Dagger of Implied Known Truth. Ash was leveraging the train incident, yes, but he was doing it by making Davies assume the depth of Ash's insight. He hadn't accused; he'd diagnosed, and the accuracy, hitting so close to home, was terrifying Davies into believing Ash knew more, perhaps far more, than just a moment of public pique. He was making Davies confront his own insecurities by suggesting Ash already understood them intimately.

Principal Thompson looked completely lost. "A train, Mr. Ashworth? I’m afraid I don’t quite see the connection to the cafeteria incident..."

Ash waved a hand dismissively, his expression smoothing into one of polite academic interest, though his eyes still held a cold light when he glanced at Davies. "Merely a hypothetical illustration, Principal, of how external pressures and internal anxieties can manifest in unexpected behaviors. The core issue here, I believe, is that young Kevin, perhaps feeling certain pressures or echoing sentiments he's encountered..." (He let his gaze rest on the now visibly sweating Mr. Davies) "...reacted in a manner that, while unfortunate, might be understandable given a wider context."

Plausible Deniability for the Kill Shot. He’d shown Davies he holds the knife, and now he’s sheathing it in academic language.

Mr. Davies’ voice was barely a whisper, all belligerence gone, replaced by a shaky fear. "He... Kevin... he's been under a lot of stress. Things at home... they haven't been easy." He didn't look at the Principal; he looked at Ash, a desperate plea for clemency in his eyes.

Ash nodded slowly, his expression now carefully neutral, almost magnanimous. I saw the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth, a predator’s barely concealed satisfaction.

Calculated Concession leading to Capitulation. Davies offered vulnerability born of fear; Ash accepted it as a term of surrender.

Kevin, tears now streaming down his face, whispered, "Dad, I just... they were making fun of me... you and Mom fighting all the time..." He sobbed, looking utterly wretched.

Ash turned to Kevin, his voice becoming surprisingly gentle, though the analytical coldness never quite left his eyes when he glanced back at Mr. Davies. "That's a very heavy burden for a young man to carry, Kevin. And when people are hurting, they sometimes lash out, trying to make the pain stop, even if it ends up causing more problems."

Then, addressing Principal Thompson with brisk, presidential efficiency, Ash stated, "Principal Thompson, considering Mr. Davies’ candor regarding the extenuating family circumstances, and Kevin's evident distress, this appears to be less a case of willful aggression and more a manifestation of underlying issues. Mr. Amaranth’s intervention, while direct, seems to have been a reaction to an already escalating situation initiated by Kevin."

Principal Thompson nodded eagerly, visibly relieved. "Yes, yes, I concur, Mr. Ashworth. Your insights are invaluable. So, what would you recommend?"

“I would propose a referral to the school counselor for Kevin,” Ash said, “to provide him with support. For Mr. Amaranth, a formal reminder of the school's preferred protocol for reporting incidents. This approach addresses the behavior, offers support, and upholds policy without punitive measures that overlook root causes.” His gaze briefly met Mr. Davies', who nodded almost imperceptibly, utterly defeated.

“An excellent proposal, Mr. Ashworth,” Principal Thompson declared. “Mr. Davies, is this agreeable?”

Mr. Davies mumbled, avoiding Ash's eye, "Yes. Counseling. Fine." He quickly ushered a still-sniffling Kevin out.

Once they were gone, Principal Thompson gave me my "formal reminder" and thanked Ash profusely.

As we left, a small, cool, analytical smile touched Ash’s lips.

"Fascinating, wasn't it?" he commented. "People are remarkably transparent once you identify their primary emotional drivers. His bluster shielded profound insecurity. Pierce that shield by demonstrating not necessarily full knowledge, but the capacity to possess it, and the entire offensive collapses."

Exploit the Core Fear. Ash didn't win an argument; he won a psychological battle.

"You didn't just clarify, Ash," I said, still processing. "You dismantled him, without anyone but him and me realizing how deeply you'd seen into him."

Ash shrugged. "The most elegant solutions are often the least overt. The most effective control is the one the subject willingly accepts, believing it their path of least resistance. A principle with broad applications. Remember that."

The final school bell chimed, a shrill announcement of liberation. The usual chaotic flood of students poured into the hallways.

I navigated the throng, heading towards the main gates where I knew the Sterlings' sleek, obsidian-black sedan would be idling, Mr. Henderson, their long-time chauffeur, a picture of discreet professionalism beside it.

Even after all these years, a faint ripple of awareness of the difference between my comfortable life and the Sterlings' quiet, immense luxury always touched me.

As I neared the designated spot, I saw Arya and Rose already there, finishing a quiet conversation, their heads bent close. Rose’s expression was earnest, almost vulnerable; Arya listened with focused intensity.

The Sterling sedan waited.

Slowing my approach, I caught just a snippet of Arya’s low voice, something about "...deserves to know the whole picture, when you're ready, no pressure, but..."

Then, Arya did something I rarely saw her do so openly: she pulled Rose into a brief, firm hug.

When they separated, Rose's eyes were suspiciously bright. She offered Arya a watery, grateful smile.

"Thank you, Arya," Rose whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Really. For... everything."

"Anytime, Rose," Arya replied softly, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. "Take care. See you tomorrow."

"You too," Rose murmured, giving me a quick, almost shy nod as I finally reached them, before turning and heading towards the student pick-up area, seemingly lost in thought.

I watched her go, a question about their intense discussion forming, but before I could voice it, Leo materialized at my side, his usual boisterous energy noticeably subdued.

"Hey," Leo said, his gaze also following Rose for a second. He kicked at an imaginary pebble, a rare thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

"Look, man," he began, his voice unusually serious, "about... you know. Everything. Rose. The accident. You."

I tensed slightly.

Leo sighed, running a hand through his sandy-blond hair. "It’s just… it’s been a while. And I miss my friend, you know? The one who wasn't always carrying the weight of the world, or... whatever this invisible wall is."

He met my eyes, his own usually bright blue ones clouded with sincere concern. "I just want things to go back to how they were. For you. For Rose. For all of us. Just... try to find your way back, okay? We're here."

The unexpected gravity hung in the air.

Before I could fully process it, he clapped me on the shoulder, his usual grin snapping back. "Anyway! Enough heavy stuff! My fists are vibrating with the need to rearrange your perfectly stoic face in the dojo! Last one to the car is a rotten egg!"

He then sprinted towards the sedan, laughing.

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips, and followed. As we settled into the plush leather seats, Arya joined us, looking thoughtful.

"I'll be at the dojo too," she announced. "New client. Child actor, prop sword, usual drill."

Knowing Arya often parlayed her martial arts skills into teaching actors, I grinned. This was too good an opportunity.

I adopted a deeply reverent bow towards Arya. "Ah, Profound Master! Your wisdom guides us! This unworthy student awaits your peerless instruction!"

I flicked a glance at Leo.

Leo caught on, drawing himself up, crossing his arms with rigid formality, staring haughtily out the window. "Hmph! This… training," he declared theatrically, "is a triviality for one of my… innate caliber! My power already vanquishes common curs! I merely condescend to partake to prevent… limb atrophy!"

Arrogant prince vibe.

Nice.

Arya slowly turned, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. She clasped her hands behind her back, puffed out her chest slightly, and began to stroke an imaginary, flowing white beard. Her voice dropped an octave, taking on a gravelly, wise-old-master tone.

"Hmmm. The young sapling knows not the heavens above, nor the roots deep within the earth."

Her voice continued, "The Sterling Dragon Fist is elusive as wind, or mist on a dawn pond. Only by cultivating inner stillness, and harmonizing one's vital qi with the cosmic breath, can the true essence of the Way be perceived!"

I gasped dramatically. "Profound, Master! Your words, like jade!"

Leo glared. "Silence, fool! Your fawning is… irritating! Innate talent requires no such sycophancy!" (His ears were conspicuously red.)

Arya nodded sagely, still stroking her phantom beard. "Indeed. Dedication to the fundamentals is paramount."

She drew herself up. "As the last true inheritor of the Iron Crane technique, I have seen many eager young talents."

A pause.

"Too many, alas, were so eager to grasp the 'Sky-Piercing Talon,' yet they scorned the 'Turtle's Embrace of Stillness' breathing forms. Such impatience... often leads to a very abrupt conclusion to one's training." She fixed us both with a knowing, slightly mournful look.

Leo and I exchanged a sudden, wide-eyed glance. The playful charade evaporated.

"Wait a second," Leo blurted, arrogant persona vanishing. "Are you seriously referencing that old flick where the entire first batch of students gets wiped out by the bad guys before the opening credits even finish?"

My eyes narrowed at Arya, a laugh bubbling up. "Are you trying to tell us we're basically the tutorial level enemies who exist only to show how tough the bad guys are?"

Arya's lips twitched, amusement undeniable. "Ah, you got me!" she conceded, grinning.

Leo and I burst into laughter. Even Mr. Henderson, from the driver's seat, let out a more audible chuckle, his eyes crinkling in the rearview mirror.

The playful atmosphere restored, the rest of the drive passed quickly.

The Sterling family's private dojo was less a room and more a sanctuary. Sacred ground. Polished wooden floors gleamed under soft, indirect lighting. One wall, a silent, mirrored sentinel, stood ready. The air, thick with the faint scent of cedar, hummed not just with pre-fight tension, but with the recent echoes of focused training.

We'd arrived a while ago. Leo had been pummelling a heavy bag with relentless energy, while I'd focused on stretching and form drills. Across the dojo, Arya had been patiently guiding her new client, a small, bright-eyed boy of about ten named Ethan, through the basics of sword handling.

As I finished my final set of kata, I saw Arya give Ethan a concluding nod and a word of praise. He bowed, a look of earnest accomplishment on his face.

At the same moment, Leo stepped away from the now-swinging heavy bag, wiping sweat from his brow but with an undiminished fire in his eyes.

“Alright, slowpoke!” he called over to me, his voice bouncing off the walls. He was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, energy crackling around him. “Done with your warm-up? Those 389 wins of yours are about to become ancient history!”

Arya, overhearing, smiled. "Looks like you timed that perfectly, Ethan," she said to the boy, who was now looking from Leo to me with rapt attention. "My brother and Rey are about to have one of their usual battles. You wanted to see a proper spar, right?"

Ethan nodded so vigorously his hair flopped. "Yes, Miss Arya! Are they really good?"

"They push each other," Arya replied, her gaze flicking between us. "You'll learn a lot by watching. Pay attention to their footwork."

Leo and I faced each other in the center of the mat.

We bowed.

Not a mere formality, but a declaration. The playful banter from the car evaporated like morning mist under a harsh sun, replaced by the crackling energy of focused intent.

The unspoken tally hung heavy between us: 389 for me. 388 for him. 254 draws. Each number a story of sweat, impact, and grudging respect.

No powers, I reminded myself, a familiar, stern internal command. This is about skill. Discipline. The pure contest.

The bell, an imaginary gong, sounded in our minds.

ROUND START!

We circled, a dance of predators. The silence was taut, broken only by the whisper of our bare feet on the polished wood and the soft hiss of our controlled breaths. Leo, usually a whirlwind of aggressive Muay Thai kicks and Taekwondo snap, was… different. His guard was tighter, his stance subtly shifted. Wing Chun. He was testing those new hand traps, his fingers twitching, feeling for an opening, trying to lure me into his web.

He’s trying to draw me in, I thought, my senses sharpening. Close the distance, negate my reach advantage. My own mixed style, built on adaptability, was on high alert. Don’t be predictable. Flow.

“Why are they just… walking around, Miss Arya?” Ethan’s hushed voice, filled with a child’s honest confusion, cut through the quiet.

Arya smiled, her gaze unwavering from the unfolding chess match. “Testing, Ethan. Probing. Like two swordsmen tapping blades. Leo’s laying a bait, trying to see how Rey reacts to his new guard. Rey’s looking for a chink in that armor, an opening to exploit.”

The air crackled with unspoken questions.

Then, the first spark.

Leo launched a jab, not a feeler, but a sharp, stinging piston. THWIP! It snapped out, aimed for my nose. I swayed back, just enough for it to whistle past my ear. But it was a setup. Before the echo of the jab faded, a storm of leather erupted. Rapid-fire chain punches, pat-pat-pat-PAK! The Wing Chun trapping hands alive, seeking to overwhelm, to smother.

He’s fast!

My Pak Sau hand became a whirlwind, deflecting, redirecting, the sharp slap of palm against forearm a percussive beat. I stepped offline, pivoting, using his forward momentum against him, and unleashed a low, sweeping kick aimed at his lead ankle. Disrupt his base!

He saw it coming! A grunt of effort, and he checked it expertly, his shin meeting mine with a dull THUD. Solid. Rooted. He’d been drilling.

“Wow, fast!” Ethan exclaimed, clutching Arya’s arm.

“Rey blocked the initial flurry,” Arya explained, her voice calm but intense. “Then he countered, attacking Leo’s balance. Defense and attack, almost in the same breath. That’s the flow, Ethan.”

The distance closed. We crashed into a clinch, a brief, explosive struggle of muscle and will. THOOM! Bodies collided. Leo, sensing an opportunity, tried to drive a sharp elbow, a short, vicious arc aimed at my temple. He means to end it! I smothered it, my forearm intercepting his, feeling the raw power behind the blow. I twisted, trying to hook his leg for a takedown, to change the battlefield to my advantage.

But he was too strong, too quick. He broke free with a grunt, shoving me back, creating space.

“It looks like they know what the other person is going to do!” Ethan observed, his awe palpable.

“In a way, they do,” Arya agreed, a faint smile on her lips. “They’ve fought hundreds of rounds, Ethan. They recognize each other’s habits, the tells, the feints. But the trick is, they’re always trying to add something new, to surprise the other. It’s a dance of familiar steps, but the song is always changing.”

But as the spar wore on, as the rhythm of strike and counter, feint and block, established itself, my mind, despite every ounce of will I poured into focusing, began to drift.

Iris.

Her face, etched with that morning’s strain. Her voice, tight with unspoken emotions. The Dune book, a symbol of everything crumbling.

What if she’s already packing the last of her things? The thought, a cold spike, pierced through my concentration. What if I miss my chance to make it right?

The efficiency of my power usage earlier, the clean execution, the thrill of discovery… it all felt distant, irrelevant, a childish game compared to the knot of emotional turmoil tightening in my chest.

The weight of it settled, a leaden anchor dragging at my spirit.

My focus, usually a laser, fractured.

A flicker of distraction. A momentary lapse in the fortress of my concentration.

My eyes, just for a microsecond, lost that razor edge.

Leo, ever attuned, a predator sensing a shift in the wind, saw it. His own eyes, which had been narrowed in fierce concentration, sharpened further, a predatory glint igniting within them. He knew.

I committed to a spinning backfist, a powerful move I’d landed countless times. But this time… it was a fraction too slow. My preoccupation had telegraphed it. My weight shifted predictably.

The opening was there. Microscopic. But for Leo, it was a gaping chasm.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t go for a flashy counter-strike. He exploded forward, not with a punch, but with devastating, fundamental precision.

A blur of motion. He shot in low, his hand snaking out, a viper striking, and hooked my lead ankle.

A perfectly timed ankle pick.

NO!

My balance, my world, vanished. The mat, the polished wood floor, rushed up to meet me with sickening speed. The world tilted, a disorienting, stomach-churning lurch.

“Oh!” Ethan gasped, a small, sharp sound.

“Rey telegraphed his move,” Arya’s voice cut through the roaring in my ears, as sharp and analytical as a scalpel. “He showed Leo what he was going to do. That infinitesimal pause… divided attention is critical in a fight, Ethan. Leo saw it, read it, and capitalized. Textbook. Excellent takedown.”

THUD!

I hit the mat. Hard. The air whooshed from my lungs. Before I could even think to scramble, to recover, Leo was on me, flowing like water, a relentless pressure. He transitioned, smooth as silk, no wasted motion.

An armbar. Tight. Locked.

Immediate, undeniable pressure surged through my elbow joint. A white-hot lance of pain. Agony shooting up my arm, screaming for release.

There was no escape.

I slapped the mat. Twice.

TAP. TAP.

The sound, sharp and final in the suddenly quiet dojo. The sound of defeat. But also, the sound of respect.

Leo released the pressure instantly, the mark of a true martial artist. He scrambled back, grinning triumphantly, though his chest heaved with the effort of the bout. He offered a hand and pulled me up.

“Yes! 389-389! EVEN AGAIN!” he crowed, his voice a mixture of elation and the warrior’s respect. He clapped my shoulder, his grin softening slightly. “You were distracted, weren’t you? Seriously, man, what’s eating you?”

I forced a smile, rubbing the throbbing ache in my arm. The sting of the loss was there, a familiar burn. “Yeah, just… lot on my mind. Good fight, Leo. You earned that one. Clean.”

Arya nodded from the sidelines, her expression one of quiet approval. “Excellent work, both of you. Ethan, did you see? See how a single lapse in focus, even for a moment, can change everything?”

Ethan nodded vigorously, his eyes still wide, the lesson sinking in far deeper than any lecture could have managed.

The frustration at the loss, at letting my inner turmoil dictate the outcome of a pure contest of skill, was sharp. But it was quickly, overwhelmingly, overshadowed by the pressing, gnawing concern for Iris.

The spar, instead of clearing my head as it so often did, had only served to amplify the anxieties thrumming beneath the surface. The physical exertion had burned away some nervous energy, but the core worry for Iris now blazed even brighter.

The post-spar cooldown felt more like a wind-up. Leo, still buzzing, was planning their next "epic rematch," while Arya patiently fielded Ethan’s questions.

I excused myself, the need to see Iris pressing down urgently.

“Thanks for the spar,” I said, voice calmer, the exertion having burned off some agitation, but the core anxiety heightened. “Gonna head home. Want to catch Iris, talk to her properly.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?” Leo offered.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I need the walk. Figure out what to say. Want to make things right.”

The walk felt necessary, a buffer to arrange my thoughts. The familiar route unfolded under the late afternoon sun: distant lawnmowers, a dog yelping playfully, sprinklers hissing.

Ordinary sounds, mundane sights.

My mind, however, was wholly occupied with Iris. I replayed our morning, cringing at my petulant words, my possessive resentment. The Dune book, a symbol of so much shared history, felt like a lead weight.

A simple, direct apology.

No excuses.

Iris, I’m so sorry about this morning.

Too weak.

Look, I was an idiot.

Better.

I know you have to do this, and I get it. I really do. I just… I’m going to miss you.

With each step, the plan solidified. Nervousness receded, replaced by hopeful anticipation.

I could fix this.

I turned onto my street. Our house, at the end of the block, looked normal, peaceful. A few houses down, the usually boisterous golden retriever that lived there was uncharacteristically silent. The curtains of the house known for its meticulously displayed ship models, normally open to showcase them, were drawn closed.

Tiny, insignificant details.

My focus was entirely on the front door, on Iris, on the conversation to come. A cautious optimism settled over me.

I could make this right.

My footsteps quickened up our driveway, rehearsed words of apology and support ready.

The front door was slightly ajar.

Odd.

Mom and Dad were meticulous about locking up.

Maybe Iris was just stepping out.

“Iris?” I called, pushing the door open. “You here?”

The scent hit me first. Coppery, metallic, sickeningly sweet.

It clawed at my throat.

My heart lurched, hope curdling into cold, sharp dread.

And then I saw her.

Sprawled in the entryway, a grotesque parody of repose.

Her silvery hair, matted and dark against the pale wood floor.

Her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, reflecting nothing.

And the blood.

Crimson.

Everywhere.

Soaking her clothes, pooling beneath her, a horrific, glistening stain swallowing the light.

On the walls, too, in terrible, arcing splatters.

For a frozen second, my mind refused.

Not real.

A nightmare.

She’ll blink, sit up, complain about mud on the floor.

Then the world slammed back with brutal clarity.

“Iris!”

A choked sob.

I stumbled forward, dropping to my knees beside her, apologies dissolving into raw, primal terror.

My shaking hands fumbled for her wrist, desperate for a pulse.

Her skin was cool, too cool.

Nothing.

I pressed my ear to her chest.

Silence.

The absolute, deafening silence of death.

The sheer volume of blood screamed the truth.

She was gone.

Already gone.

CPR, first aid. Pathetically, agonizingly useless.

Nausea ripped through me. I doubled over, retching, bile burning my throat, my stomach emptying onto the pristine welcome mat.

Then, something shifted.

Inside me.

Not a choice, but an instinctual recoil from the precipice of unbearable agony.

A glacial wave surged upwards from the pit of my stomach, unbidden, a desperate defense mechanism from [Alter Ego EX]:

<ACTIVE - SUB-SKILL: [MIND OF STEEL C]>

The cold was absolute, leeching the tremors from my limbs, silencing the roaring panic in my ears. Grief, horror, the gut-wrenching nausea. They didn't vanish, but were encased in thick, numbing ice.

My mind, a prisoner to this frigid calm, began to process the scene with a grotesque, detached clarity. Fragments of morbid details, the kind Ash had an unnerving knack for pointing out during our occasional forays into darker fiction, surfaced with cold precision.

Six stab wounds, chest dominant.

Defensive lacerations… ulna and radius. The anatomical terms, almost alien to my usual thoughts, presented themselves.

Overturned furniture indicates struggle.

Estimated time since exsanguination…

I watched myself make these clinical observations, cataloging the horror of Iris’s end with the cold precision of a machine. And a separate, trapped part of me screamed in revulsion at this internal betrayal. At the monstrous coldness the skill was forcing upon me, turning my grief to a detached, clinical assessment.

Beneath this chilling veneer, however, something else stirred. The image of Iris. Her laughter, her exasperated sighs, her fierce loyalty. It burned like a defiant ember under the ice.

My fists clenched, fingernails biting into flesh, drawing blood. The sting was a distant thing, but the meaning of it, the raw, visceral proof of my own living pain, began to war against the sub-skill's suffocating composure.

This cold efficiency was an obscenity when Iris lay…

Headlights swept across the entryway.

Our family car.

Doors slammed.

Footsteps crunched on gravel.

“Rey? Iris? We’re home!” Mom’s cheerful voice.

Dad’s deeper tones.

They appeared in the doorway, laden with groceries. Their smiles froze, groceries thudding to the floor, oranges and tins scattering like fallen hopes.

Mom saw me first, a kneeling silhouette. Then her gaze found Iris.

A sound ripped from her throat. Not a word, but a raw, primal wail of such pure devastation it momentarily cracked the icy shell around my heart. She rushed to me, her body wracked with sobs, arms clinging with desperate, trembling force, her tears a scalding rain on my shoulder.

Dad, his face a mask of ashen disbelief, tears carving paths down his cheeks, stumbled towards Iris's body, his grief a palpable, crushing force in the room.

Their unshielded agony was a physical blow. The contrast between their shattering sorrow and my enforced, monstrous calm was unbearable.

As my parents reeled, the familiar, translucent notification of the [Save & load S] skill shimmered into existence, a beacon in the darkness.

Sub Skill Menu
[Save & load S]
Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33]
Slot 02: [2025-04-04-08:15]
Slot 03: [empty]
Slot 04: [empty]
Slot 05: [empty]

The sight of their pain, the memory of Iris’s vibrant life so brutally extinguished, ignited the simmering rage within me into a conflagration.

It wasn't a bypass; it was a siege.

The inferno of my grief and fury slammed against the icy walls of [Mind of Steel C].

I turned to my parents, my voice emerging thin, brittle, still bearing the unnatural chill of the skill, yet cracking under the strain.

“I… I will save Iris,” I managed, the words a hollow echo of the inferno battling within.

This coldness, this thing that held me, it was a cage, not a shield. It was dulling the edge of the fury I needed, the righteous fire that would fuel what had to be done.

A war raged within. The sub-skill, a C-rank bulwark, fought to maintain its grip, whispering of logic, of the need for dispassionate action.

But the image of Iris’s lifeless eyes, Mom’s broken cries, Dad’s silent despair. These were truths more potent than any cold calculation.

No! I roared internally, clawing at the mental construct. I need to FEEL this!

With a violent wrenching, as if tearing something vital from my own psyche, I focused all my will, all my burning love for Iris, all my nascent, murderous rage, against the sub-skill.

The coldness didn't recede; it shattered.

Painfully.

The full, agonizing weight of Iris’s death, the unspeakable horror, slammed back with redoubled physical force, knocking the breath from my lungs in a ragged gasp.

Tears, hot and furious, finally broke free.

“And whoever did this,” my voice began, a raw tremor, then rose, thick with unspeakable grief and a terrifying, burgeoning resolve that burned hotter than any sun, “WILL PAY THE PRICE! I WILL MAKE THEM PAY!”

With that vow seared into my soul, my tear-blurred gaze fixed on the shimmering menu.

Slot 01 : [2025-04-04-07:33]. Load.

Day 1 α. The End.