Chapter 40 – A Journey to enlightment…….like hell it is…

Morning.

Bright sunlight peeks through the gaps in the wooden window. The distant crow of a rooster. Birds chirping. Clear blue sky. The air smells of fresh dew and homemade breakfast from downstairs.

A good day…
A beautiful day, even.
A day full of… potential.

I slowly open my eyes, stretch my arms, and take a deep breath.

“Ahh… this is peace.”
“Maybe… just maybe… this is the start of something good.”

I smile.

I actually smile.

I should feel grateful, right?

But no.

Nope.

Not when I wake up with my neck tied like a damn stray dog…
Not when my back is aching like I got body-slammed by a sumo wrestler…
Not when my ears are still ringing from last night’s triple lecture combo—Sylvia, Mom, and Dad, each taking turns like it was some kind of emotional tag-team championship.

“What did I do to deserve this…?” I mutter, staring at the beautiful morning sunrise

And then there’s Priscilla.

She’s been unusually aggressive lately. Like even more seductive than ever…

And as if summoned by the Devil himself…

“Faiz…” I whisper, clenching my fist.

I drop to my knees, fists trembling like a character in a badly dubbed tokusatsu series.

“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU SEND ME THAT, YOU BASTARD!?” I scream dramatically to the heavens.

“What the hell were you two planning, huh? Some divine prank? Are you guys prophets or cursed fortune tellers!?”

Flashbacks of the VHS play in my head. That cursed tape titled “Best Gal” still haunts me. And Faiz’s voice, recorded with the same smug tone he used when we used to steal snacks from the teacher’s lounge—

“Nice right? I know deep down, you wanted to see Nat like that…”

I facepalm so hard my brain trembles.

“Curse you, Faiz... You damn pervy clairvoyant…”

Suddenly, a voice breaks the silence of my internal meltdown.

“Hurry up, darling~ Breakfast’s ready~” ☺️😇

I glance to the side.

Sylvia.

Wearing a pastel apron. Smiling sweetly like a literal housewife. But behind that smile… the shadow of yandere judgement lingers.

I force a chuckle, barely hiding the tremble in my spine.

“uh…..fine…..okay…..as you wish……”

I shuffle toward the door, neck still slightly sore from the damn “Sylvia special punishment collar”.

And then… last night’s memory hits me again like a truck.

Amin, leaning against the doorframe with a stupid grin.

“Bro… you’re the man. I never knew you were into that kind of stuff…”

Cue suplex.

I didn’t even hesitate. Grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him in with a smile, and sent him flying with a clean German suplex. Finished it off with a chokehold until he started apologizing in three different languages.

💢 "I AM NOT INTO THAT STUFF, DAMMIT!"

But no.

It gets worse.

Mariam.

With her damn timing.

She called Natalie.

Natalie. Felicity. Hawk.

The high queen of danger herself.

“Mar, Syl. Make sure Alex behaves. Put him on a leash if you have to. No exceptions.”

And now…

Sylvia actually did it.

I glance down at my waist.

Yep. A leash.

Tied to Sylvia’s wrist like I’m some misbehaving puppy in training.

“...Astaghfirullah.” I sigh.

After Subuh prayers, I was hoping for peace. Enlightenment, even.

But no.

The world won’t let me.

Because now my greatest trial… isn’t school.

It isn’t Sylvia’s watchful gaze.

It isn’t even the trauma of Faiz’s cursed VHS tape.

It’s…

Getting through the day without being humiliated further.

But knowing my luck?

There’s still more incoming.

And I can feel it.

Cue ominous wind blowing through the window.

Across the table, Hana, my beloved little sister, glares at me with the kind of look usually reserved for bugs on her shoe.

“Ew…” she mutters. “You’re seriously disgusting…”

“Wha—?!”

Before I can even defend myself, Maya bursts out laughing, almost choking on her drink.

“Hey, pervy big bro!” she says with a smirk, pointing at me like I’m some wanted degenerate from a late-night drama.

I slam my face onto the table.

Yep.

That’s my title now.

The Pervy Brother.

What even happened last night? Oh right. That cursed thing I found… that weird magazine lodged between the old furniture in the attic. It was vintage. Like, dad’s era vintage. I didn’t even open it fully before Sylvia barged in like some FBI agent and confiscated it like it was a nuclear device.

As I chew quietly, trying to preserve what remains of my dignity, Dad eyes me with his usual half-amused, half-disappointed expression.

“Better keep that away… that thing,” he warns.

“I plan to,” I reply flatly, stirring my drink.

“I’ve already buried it,” I mutter solemnly. “No one will ever find it again.”

Across the table, Sylvia flashes me a smile so sweet it could give someone a stroke—except her eyes are burning holes through my soul.

“Really?” she purrs. “You sure you buried all of it, Alex~?”

Chills. Literal chills.

“Son,” Mom adds, her tone dry, “I know young boys are curious, but don’t openly admit that kind of thing.”

“AS IF I WANTED TO!” I snap, banging the table. “It was an accident!”

Of course, no one believes me.

The constant banter goes on and on. My only escape? The school.

I stand up, hoping to take the bike and get the hell out of this house before my soul takes more damage. But when I walk out to the porch…

“…Who the hell took the battery out?!”

The bike stands there like a lifeless corpse. And next to it, Mom and Sylvia share the same creepy, innocent smile.

😇

“Alex,” Mom says, “you’re going with Sylvia today. On the bus. And I expect you to come home on time.”

“Huh? But—”

“No buts.”

Sylvia twirls something in her hand.

Is that… a whip?!

“Hurry up, dear~,” she says in a singsong voice.

“…Fine.”

We make our way to the bus stop, and I can feel Sylvia practically glued to my side. Seriously, personal space, woman. As we step inside the crowded bus, Jackson spots me from the back and waves like he’s seeing an old war buddy.

“Yo, bro!! When you coming back to the court?”

“Huh? Court?”

“You know! The game this weekend. We’ve been holding it down, but we need our ace.”

“…You mean me?”

“Yeah! You’re the only one who can score when the girls are watching!”

“Oi—!”

I glance to my right. Sylvia’s smirking. Dangerously close.

Jackson leans forward and whispers, “Bro, I know we’re all a bunch of useless singles… but don’t rub it in our faces by bringing your girlfriend around.”

“HUH?! She’s not—!”

Pinch.

My whole body stiffens as Sylvia’s fingers latch onto the sensitive skin of my side like a vice grip.

“Ahhgh—!!”

Yep. Her pinches hurt just like Natalie’s. Maybe worse.

“We’re up against SMK Bahang this time,” Jackson says. “Try not to miss it.”

“Yeah… sure…” I mutter, still recovering from the trauma.

We finally reach school.

The usual morning buzz.

Students rushing to classes. Teachers waving down sleepy kids. Mariam flipping through her textbooks while chewing toast. Amin balancing his bag on his head like a village grandpa.

I sigh in relief.

Maybe today won’t be so bad.

And then—

“SEMPAIIIIII!!!”

A familiar voice tears through the crowd.

Shinji.

This dude dashes across the courtyard and bows sharply in front of me like I’m some grandmaster sensei from an old martial arts flick.

“…uh…”

What the actual—!?

Stomp.

“BOW.”

Sylvia’s heel smashes my foot.

My body moves on instinct—or maybe just to avoid further pain—and suddenly, I’m bowing back.

“W-What the hell am I doing?!”

Everyone watching:
😨😱😳🤯😅

Mariam and Amin:
🤣😂 rolling on the floor like they’re in a comedy sketch show.

Great.

Just great.

Now I’m Pervy Bowing Sempai Brother.

…Can this day be over already?

Shinji is following me again.

Like a puppy.

No.
Worse.

Like a puppy who thinks I'm his spiritual guru and we’ve just had a destined encounter.
His wide, googly eyes are staring holes through the back of my head.

“Sempai…” he whispers, voice trembling like he’s seconds away from tears of joy.

Why… why is this my life…

I slow down, trying to shake him.
“Uhh… it’s okay, Shinji. You can go now.”

He stops—but instead of turning around like a normal human being, he clasps his hands dramatically to his chest.

“Don’t worry, sempai… my path is the same as yours.”

I swear to God you better mean the hallway path to your classroom.

But no.

He follows me straight into my class.

I sit.
He stands.
At my side.

Looming.

Like a loyal knight waiting for royal orders.

From me.

Great. Now I look like some arrogant warlord in a teen drama…

And right on cue, the door creaks open.

Mr. Rahim—a.k.a. our class teacher, a.k.a. the Pirate Captain—marches in, dragging his faded batik jacket like a tattered cloak. His eyes sweep across the room like he’s ready to launch a cannon barrage.

His gaze lands on me. Then Shinji.

He squints.

“Mr. Alex…” his voice rumbles like thunder on open waters.
“And Shinji…” his lips twitch. “It would be best if you… return to your actual class.”

Shinji doesn’t move.

“Sempai… do you need anything?”

I start sweating. No—drenched in panic. I can feel it.
That burning aura.

The Pirate Captain has set his sights on me.

I’m gonna die.

On the other side of the classroom, I see from a far….
I glance.

It’s Sylvia.

Sitting primly with her hands folded, in her junior class uniform, expression unreadable.

But her eyes are slightly narrowed. She tilts her head.

Elegant. Cold.
Like a guillotine in disguise.

Oh crap. She’s watching.

One wrong move and I’m either getting detention or junior girl wrath. Possibly both.

Then from the back—

“Kukuku~”

I turn my head slowly.

Mariam.

Leaning on her elbow with a grin that screams evil strategist, she tosses her braids back and mocks:

“Well, at least my darling Amin won’t be cannon fodder anymore.”

I glance at Amin.

He’s already sitting Buddha-style, eyes half-closed like he's transcending this mortal plane.

“Peace… finally…”

“Amin, what the hell are you talking abou—”

“EYAAAHH!!!”

Too late.

Mr. Rahim’s voice EXPLODES like a thunderclap…if anything closer he is like Godzilla.
I flinch. The whole class flinches.

He’s pointing at me.

“MR. ALEX! I suggest you stop assembling a cult during my class!”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I-I’m not! He followed me!! I swear!!”

Shinji is still beside me.
Smiling.
Like a devoted apostle.

Mr. Rahim narrows his eyes. “Explain why a junior is clinging to you like a barnacle on a sinking ship.”

“NO WORDS!!” I cry out, slumping dramatically over my desk.

No words… just pain…

After class…
Which, ironically, means I finally get a moment to breathe…

Or so I thought.

Because Captain Rahim—our history teacher-turned-full-blown pirate roleplayer—is out for blood. And I was his prized prey this morning.
The so-called “history adventure class” turned into a full-blown manhunt, and I barely escaped being “forced to swab the deck” while reciting 18th-century pirate dialects.

But it’s over now. I’ve survived.
Even convinced Shinji to stop sulking like some cursed samurai spirit and return to class. That alone deserves a freaking medal.

And now…
Now I can finally walk in peace.
To Phylis’s Culture Studies class—my only real safe zone.
No Sylvia. No Priscilla nor even Amin and Mariam.
Just...culture, theories, and quiet.

Finally. A class I can enjoy without someone trying to kill me, flirt with me, or interrogate my childhood trauma.

Phylis is already writing something on the blackboard when I arrive. She’s calm as ever, her flowy beige skirt swaying gently, glasses resting on her nose like she’s just stepped out of some indie history documentary.

Her voice carries across the room like the opening to an arcane ritual.
“We begin today’s exploration with a topic… long misunderstood… feared… and yet, deeply embedded in all our civilizations.”
She turns to the class.
“Witches.”

That… gets my attention.

She begins the lecture like a story—
“Witches have existed for thousands of years,” she says, “once honored as wise women, healers, spiritual guides. But during the Middle Ages… the narrative shifted. Magic became heresy. Fear became fuel. The witch hunts began…”

Her words are sharp, clear—but something about them sends a chill down my spine.

On the board, she writes:
Neo-paganism, Wicca, Trials, Miracles vs. Sorcery

Then, just for a moment…
My breath hitches.
A sudden flash behind my eyes.

Blood. Fire. Screams.

"Les suiveurs de Jeanne d'Arc doivent estre sorciers… et doivent estre exécutés!!"
That voice echoes in my skull like a curse from another life.

I blink hard. Shake my head.

What the hell was that?

I raise my hand.
“Ms. Phylis… may I ask something?”

She looks over her glasses, nodding politely. “Yes, Alex?”

My voice is calm, but my chest feels tight.
“Why were witches… branded heretics? Especially by dominant religions like Christianity, Islam… and Judaism? Was it just fear?”

The class grows quiet.

Phylis pauses. Her expression softens, thoughtful.
“That’s a very good question,” she says. “Let’s open this up. What do you all think? Let’s help Mr. Alex here.”

Fariq—one of the four Catsys—raises his hand first. “In Islam, it’s considered shirk—associating others with God’s power. Sorcery is forbidden.”

“Christianity, too,” Daisy from the 4 Patriots says. “Anything that contradicts God’s word is considered blasphemy.”

Peter, my teammate from basketball and a secret history nerd, chimes in, “In Judaism, there’s mention of magic in the times of Prophet Solomon. But it was sealed and forbidden.”

Phylis nods to each of them. “Very good. You’re all correct, doctrinally. But let’s dig deeper.”

She walks to the board again, drawing two simple figures: a man and a woman.
“This… is the real root of fear.”
She circles the woman.

“In ancient pagan cultures, women weren’t just caregivers. They were priestesses. Midwives. Leaders. The backbone of the tribe. Symbols of both creation… and destruction.”
Her chalk taps the woman figure again.
“To monotheistic patriarchies, that power was threatening.”

Silence again.

“The witch… wasn’t just a woman with herbs or spells. She was a challenge to systems that elevated male dominance. She had knowledge. She had voice. That’s why she had to be silenced.”

Something cold creeps under my skin.

I glance at the board again.
“Wait… So witch hunts weren’t just about magic… it was about control?”

“Exactly,” she replies, smiling faintly. “Socrates once said, ‘Poets are only the interpreters of the gods.’ But who interprets the interpreters?”

That line hits harder than I expect.

She walks slowly across the room.
“Even now, the illusion of gender equality persists. But in history, the moment a woman showed brilliance, authority, or influence beyond the ‘expected’…”
She lets the silence speak for itself.

“Tell me… why is a miracle from a prophet considered divine… but when a woman performs the same, she’s a witch?”

I sit back, arms folded. Something stirs in me.

It’s not just academic anymore.

It’s personal.

That flashback earlier…
That French voice…
The fire…

Why did it feel like I knew that place?

Am I just imagining things?

Phylis finishes with a final note, her chalk underlining it on the board:

“Magic = Demon? / Miracle = Divine?
—Who decides?”

Ms. Phylis stood before the class like a calm oracle—her arms folded, expression unreadable, voice smooth yet heavy with history. The late morning sun slipped through the half-open blinds, casting broken shadows over our desks.

She continued with a sharp glint in her eyes,
“Well, that is something even today… We still cling to the belief that witches are evil itself. It’s no longer truth—it’s narrative. If you dig deeper, it’s always been about one thing: power.”
Then, her piercing gaze turned toward me.
“Does that answer your question, Mr. Alex?”

I nod slowly, feeling the cogs in my mind turn. Something about what she said—it wasn't just a history lesson. It feltpersonal.

I raise my hand again, hesitating just for a second.
“Okay, that makes sense… But I just wanted to add something. Maybe… Joan of Arc? She’s remembered as a hero of France, but in her final moments, they burned her—called her a witch. Is that what you meant?”

For a second, the classroom falls into silence. A few classmates glance my way. Some surprised I even talked. Others, mildly interested. Then—

Ms. Phylis smirks. The kind that isn’t mocking—but the kind teachers give when they’re impressed.
“You know your history well, Mr. Alex.”
She walks forward slowly, chalk in hand, drawing a jagged line across the board.
“Yes… Politics. Power. It always starts when someone becomes a threat to the status quo. Especially if they’re just a small group.”

A few students lean in.

Ms. Phylis continues, voice dropping into a softer, darker tone.

“And don’t forget the most ancient motivator of all…” She pauses. “…Taxes.”
The class lets out a confused murmur.
“Taxes?” I repeat, blinking.

She spins around dramatically and nods.
“Yes. A contribution. A demand. In modern times, it’s how governments earn. In the past… it was no different. If witches offered miraculous cures, why go to the royal physician? Why pay temple tributes? If a woman could heal the sick or speak truth to power, why should she not be feared?”

The words hang in the air like mist. Her tone—gentle yet poetic—sinks into the atmosphere. But I could feel it… not many in the room could truly grasp her meaning.

Still, I mutter,
“…So basically, they were cutting into someone else’s rice bowl.”

That makes her pause. Then—she laughs. A genuine, surprised chuckle escapes her lips as she nods in approval.

“Exactly. That’s the perfect way to put it, Mr. Alex.”

Ms. Phylis stands at the front, her arms gently crossed, elegant as ever with that usual calm—but sharp—glare in her eyes. A chalkboard behind her is filled with scribbles from the previous discussion: symbols, words, fragments of forgotten history.

Then Peter raises his hand, his brow slightly furrowed, clearly thinking deeper than most of us expected from him.

“Ms. Phylis… this topic, even though it’s about witches… I feel like we’re touching something bigger, right?” he says with genuine curiosity. “It’s not just about curses and cauldrons… It feels like a cultural cipher, something that’s been twisted over time.”

Phylis smiles. It’s a knowing smile, the kind teachers only give when a student catches a glimpse of the bigger picture.

“Well, now that sounds like the beginning of a plot twist,” she says, voice smooth like silk. “Go on, Mr. Peter. Elaborate for us.”

Peter steps up, surprisingly bold for someone who usually hides behind the seats and sarcasm. He grabs a piece of chalk and starts sketching something on the board.

“Look. When people think of witches, they think of dark magic, rebellion, anti-establishment… right?” he begins, drawing the modern-day gender symbols for male and female—circle with an arrow, circle with a cross.

“But in ancient symbology… the male was often depicted with triangles and squares—solid, angular, rigid. The female… was always the circle. Soft. Eternal. Encompassing.”

He draws the ancient versions. Slowly, methodically, like it means something more. When he combines them, it forms a strange but compelling image—almost mystical in its symmetry.

“This… is what I believe represents ancient enlightenment,” Peter says, stepping back. “A balance. A union. And maybe… witches weren’t feared because they were evil—but because they embodied something powerful and whole. Too whole.”

The class goes silent.

Ms. Phylis tilts her head, visibly intrigued. “That… symbol,” she murmurs, walking toward the board. “It’s almost… alchemical. It resembles something from the Hellenistic era. A synthesis of masculine and feminine… intellect and intuition. A symbol of true understanding.”

Something stirs inside me. My chest tightens. I don’t know why—but a phrase suddenly echoes in my mind, like it isn’t mine but something… remembered.

“hē alēthḗ gnōsis…”

The voice is soft—female. Frederica (my inner voice talking to me).

My eyes widen. I murmur it without thinking. “Hē alēthḗ gnōsis…”

Ms. Phylis turns sharply. “You… can read Ancient Greek?”

I blink, caught off-guard. “It just came to me.”

“It means true knowledge,” she says, her voice almost a whisper now. “A phrase found in early esoteric teachings… Gnostic scriptures, even. You just spoke something that hasn't been said in this classroom for… perhaps ever.”

I swallow, unsure whether I’ve just unlocked something… or opened a door that should have remained closed.

Peter gives me a quick look—half impressed, half confused.

The bell rings, ending the class, but nobody moves right away. There’s a kind of hush in the air. Like we all just brushed against something ancient. Something forgotten.

As the others start packing up, I linger to close my notebook.

That’s when Ms. Phylis approaches me, her tone softer now, with a hint of curiosity burning behind her usual composed expression.

“Thank you, Mr. Alex,” she says, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve been a most… interesting participant today.”

I offer a small smile, but inside… I can still hear that voice. Hē alēthḗ gnōsis...

And something tells me… this isn’t the end of it.

“Hey… Phylis.” I asked her

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look at me. “Yep?”

“I just wanted to ask you something. It’s been… bothering me lately.”

She finally turns, her mocha brown curls swaying softly as the wind brushes past. “What is it?”

I hesitate, then mutter, “Nous serons ensemble derechief…”

Phylis freezes. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“That’s… old French,” she says slowly, her voice softening with intrigue.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve been hearing it… in my dreams. Over and over again.”

Her expression grows unreadable. She glances toward the horizon before crossing her arms, like she’s mentally digging through a dusty archive.

“Are these dreams happening constantly?” she asks, tone serious now.

“Almost every night,” I admit.

She looks away again, troubled. Her usual teasing aura dims. “Did you… talk to my dad about it?”

“I did. He didn’t say much. Just… sent me his old dreamcatcher,” I shrug.

She exhales sharply through her nose. “Uh huh… typical. He’s been mum about that stuff lately.”

Then her eyes bore into me. “Alex, just to confirm something…”

“Yeah?”

“…Do you believe in reincarnation?”

I pause. “I don’t. Not really. But… I know what it is. I’ve read about it. And I’m not the kind to dismiss things I don’t understand.”

She nods slowly. “Good answer. Because I have a feeling it’s all connected… the dreams, the symbols, even that phrase.” She glances at her phone. “Dad once told me that dreams are like echoes. Sometimes they come from far beyond our own lives.”

“Echoes, huh…” I mutter.

“Anyway, just—keep track of the dreams. Write them down if they change. The patterns matter.”

She starts walking away… then suddenly stops and turns back.

“Oh! One more thing, Alex.”

“Hm?”

A wicked grin spreads across her lips as she pulls up a photo and shoves it toward me. “Look what I found while organizing…”

“What the hell—?!”

My eyes widen.

It’s Natalie—blushing, clearly younger, caught mid-pose in a white lace lingerie set. There’s a little sticker on the photo that says ‘Don’t judge, it was a dare’.

My nose spontaneously bleeds.

“Ack—!”

Phylis throws her head back laughing, photo already back in her pocket. “Aaaand there it is! The legendary Alex reaction!”

“WHY THE HELL DO YOU HAVE THAT?!”

She keeps giggling. “Relax. It’s not that bad. I just needed to make sure my future brother-in-law is… shall we say, appropriately invested.”

“I’M GOING TO PASS OUT!!”

“You’ll live. Besides,” she winks, then walks off like a smug specter of mischief, “if you keep hearing that French phrase again… maybe something older, deeper… eternal.”

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, heart pounding—and not from the photo.

“Nous serons ensemble derechief…”

We will be together once more…

I still remember it vividly—
The burning horizon…
The acrid smoke curling against twilight skies…
And her—standing proud in silver armor, flames licking the hem of her tattered flag.
Joan of Arc?

No… it felt real.
I wasn’t myself.
I was… someone else.
A girl.
Beside another woman I didn't know—but my soul remembered her.

That dream has haunted me ever since.
No, not a dream.
A memory?
A fragment of something forgotten?

I rub my temples as the final bell rings, jolting me back to reality.
The last class ends, but I’m in no rush. I feel like walking today, letting my thoughts drift with the wind. I just need to breathe.

But fate has other plans.

A red shadow flits across the hallway.

I stop.

No way…

Her again—the red-haired little girl.
That strange presence. That clone.
Frederica... no, not her. But someone eerily similar.

She plants herself in my path with arms folded like she’s been waiting all day. Her voice is direct, sharp.

“Mr. Alex. I need to talk to you. Urgently.”

I blink. “You again…?”

Still, I nod and gesture. “Follow me.”

I guide her through the abandoned hallways, then past the old storage room, and finally into a hidden passageway near the school grounds—a place no one knows. Only a few of us even dare to use it.

Eventually, we arrive at the underground bunker—our makeshift hideout.

But this time…
Someone’s already there.

Soro.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, silent and still like a ghost waiting in the dark.

“Thanks for coming,” he says without looking at either of us. “Both of you.”

The red-haired girl steps forward, her tone hushed but urgent.
“Mr. Alex… I found something. A lead. I believe my sister is still alive. But… she’s trapped.”

“Where?” Soro finally speaks, but his voice carries the sharpness of a blade unsheathed.

She places an old photo and a crumpled map on the table.
“A facility… known as the Red House.”

I freeze. “That’s—”
The refugee complex. The one everyone avoids.
Locals whisper it’s haunted. Others say it’s just abandoned.

“She escaped from Papua New Guinea,” the girl explains. “One of my sisters made contact. She was badly injured… but before collapsing, she spoke of Alpha… and Omega.”

At the mention of those names, Soro’s eyes narrow.

“Targets,” he mutters. “High-value ones. What’s the clone’s name?”

“Zeta.”

Soro nods grimly. “Then it’s a trap. She’s ranked. They want us.”

He turns to me. “Slick, you stay here. I’ll go alone.”

“No way—”

“It’s not a debate.”

“But—”

Soro cuts in, his voice low and intense. “I’ve got a hunch, kid. They’re not after me. They’re after you.”

The red-haired girl clenches her fists. “Then what should I do?”

Soro pulls out a map, spreading it on the dusty table.

“Dig here. Escape through this passage. It leads to another safehouse I found. Abandoned, but clean. Reinforced walls. Old military-grade. Perfect for you and your kind.”

She looks stunned. “You planned this far ahead?”

“I plan for everything. Now move.”

He tosses me something. I catch it on reflex.
A sleek, cold piece of metal—
A Five-seveN pistol.

Soro’s voice drops low. “This gun will pierce armor, bone, and silence. Make sure anyone chasing you never gets up again.”

My grip tightens. “What the hell is going on, Soro?”

“Hell’s already started. Just make sure them get out of here.”

Then—like smoke—he disappears into the shadows.

And I’m left with her.

“Let’s move them,” I tell her. “Now.”

We start the relocation. Quietly. Carefully.

Children. Women. Injured clones. They follow us through the tunnel system Soro had marked. I can’t believe this place existed beneath the old orchard.

But then we emerge—

Into a hidden compound, veiled in moss and vines.
An old house sits quietly in the jungle clearing.
Inside, it’s like time stood still—
Polished floors. Stocked shelves. Even emergency rations.

Soro really did prepare for everything.

The girl turns to me, tears in her eyes—not from sadness, but maybe relief.

“Thank you…”

But I know this is just the beginning.

Because in the back of my mind…
The image of Joan of Arc still burns.
And I wonder—

The question echoes in my head as we slip into the narrow pathway, shadows stretching long and crooked beneath the flickering streetlights.

Soro is gone.

Which means this part is on me.

“Stay close,” I whisper, my voice low but steady, even though my chest feels tight. “The place he mentioned should be just ahead.”

The air feels wrong—too still. No wind. No insects. Like the world itself is holding its breath.

We move forward, footsteps soft against cracked concrete.

That’s when I feel it.

Eyes.

Not hostile.
Not exactly friendly either.

I stop.

The clones are already there.

They stand scattered along the path, leaning against walls, sitting on railings—too casual, too calm. Their gazes lock onto me at the same time, like synchronized puppets turning their heads.

One of them steps forward.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me the way a scientist examines a specimen.

Then she smiles.

“I can feel it,” she says softly. “You have something…”

My fingers twitch.

“…Like we are alike.”

The words hit harder than any punch.

For a split second, my breath catches.

Alike?

My brain scrambles for a response, instinct kicking in—deflection mode.

“Uh…” I scratch the back of my head, forcing a dumb grin. “I’m a guy, you know? Pretty sure whatever you’re sensing is just… uh… bad vibes or something. Maybe you’re still not feeling well?”

A few of the clones exchange glances.

One of them giggles.

But the girl doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she steps closer.

Too close.

“No,” she says calmly. “Not like that.”

Her eyes bore into mine—deep, searching, unsettling.

“I mean connections,” she continues. “Threads. Fire. Loss.”
A pause.
“…And choice.”

My smile fades.

Behind me, I can feel my friends tense up. I raise a hand slightly, signaling them to stay back.

“You talk like you know me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even.

Her lips curve upward again—this time, there’s no warmth in it.

“We know of you,” she replies. “But the question is…”

She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear.

“Do you know whether you were the one who lit the fire… or just the one left standing in the ashes?”

Silence crashes down around us.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

For a brief, terrifying moment, memories flicker—flames, screams, acid smoke, the weight of a choice I never wanted to make.

I clench my fists.

“…Yeah,” I mutter, meeting her gaze. “That’s a bad pickup line.”

Her eyebrow twitches.

Then—she laughs.

Sharp. Sudden.

Unnatural.

And I know it.

Whatever this is—
Whatever they are—

This encounter isn’t ending peacefully.

We move.

The forest thickens around us, branches clawing at my sleeves like they’re trying to pull me back. My boots crunch softly against gravel and damp leaves—

BZZZT.

My phone vibrates.

Shit.

The sound is deafening in my head. I freeze for half a heartbeat before forcing myself to keep walking.

I glance at the screen.

Sylvia.

Double calling.

Fuck— I forgot to silence it.

My chest tightens.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep moving, subtly changing pace, guiding the clones deeper into the trees. I pray—no, hope—that Sylvia isn’t panicking. That she’s just annoyed. That she thinks I’m ditching class again.

Yeah…
I ditch school for this damn thing.

Great priorities, Alex.

The terrain slopes downward, the air colder now. Concrete peeks through roots and moss.

We reach it.

The bunker.

Half-buried, rust-stained steel doors hidden beneath vines—exactly where Soro said it would be.

One of the clones turns to me.

“Thank you, sister.”

That word.

It crawls under my skin.

“…Don’t call me that,” I mutter.

She only smiles.

And then—

A violent jolt slams into my skull.

I stagger.

“THEY ARE HERE!!!!”

Frederica’s voice detonates inside my head like a siren.

I gasp, clutching my temple.

“Move!” I shout. “Hurry to the location—now!”

They sprint.

But something’s wrong.

As they run, their silhouettes shift.

The clones blur—
and when my vision clears—

They’re not clones.

They’re something else entirely.

Black-clad figures emerge from the treeline like ghosts.

Full tactical uniforms.
Covered faces.
No insignia.
No identity.

Professionals.

One of them raises a rifle.

“Surrender now,” his voice booms through a modulator. “There is no escape. You will all die here.”

My instincts tear me apart.

You have to take them down.
There’s no way to keep them alive.

Another voice—quieter, crueler—whispers:

Are you going to let this happen again?
And this time… someone else dies.

“Fuck…” I breathe.

My hand moves on its own.

The Five-seveN slides into my grip.

Soro’s message echoes in my skull, sharp and merciless:

“…Make sure anyone chasing you never gets up again.”

“Shut up… shut the fuck up…” I hiss.

My vision locks onto them.

Twenty.

They fan out, surrounding us.

The only entrance—

—is where I’m standing.

“Surrend—”

BANG.

I fire.

The bullet slams into his shoulder, spinning him off his feet. He screams as he hits the dirt.

Silence.

Then chaos.

“…Yeah,” I mutter darkly. “Shove that surrender up your ass.”

They advance.

Soro isn’t here.

My friends aren’t here.

No cavalry.
No backup.
No miracles.

Just—

Me.

Sorry, Nat.
Sorry, Sylvia.
Sorry, Frederica.

I rip the insignia from my school uniform.

Fabric tears.

“Starting now,” I whisper, breath shaking, “I’m not a normal kid anymore.”

I close my eyes.

And let it out.

Somewhere in UCLA.

Natalie freezes mid-sentence.

Her mug slips from her fingers and shatters on the floor.

“…Alex?”

Her heart is pounding—too fast.

She presses a hand to her chest.

“Why does it feel like you just did something stupid…?”

BORNEO–SIGMA Institution.

Sylvia stares at her phone.

No response.

“Dumbass…” she mutters. “Where the hell are you now?!”

Mariam laughs lightly. “Kukuku… probably causing trouble again.”

Amin shrugs. “Or sleeping somewhere. Typical.”

Sylvia tries to laugh—

But something cracks.

A sharp sound.

She looks down.

The pearl necklace Alex made for her—

—is split straight through.

Her knees hit the floor.

“…No.”

Her vision spins.

“Alex…” she whispers.

Hidden forest. Unknown coordinates.

Soro stands over the last clone—still breathing.

Gun raised.

“You’re too late…” the black-haired clone wheezes. “…too… late…”

Soro smirks.

“Really?” he says calmly. “Good.”

“What…?”

“Because—”

A scream rips through the forest.

BOOM.

The bunker entrance erupts in fire.

Me.

My mind fractures.

Something seals shut inside me.

Rage floods everything.

One of them aims—

I’m already there.

My elbow smashes into his skull—

CRACK.

Bone gives way.

A gunshot tears through my side.

I barely feel it.

Pain doesn’t matter anymore.

Only regret.

Marina.
Faiz.

Their blood on my hands—again.

I roar.

I don’t shoot.

I destroy.

Bodies fall.

My magazine empties.

I keep going.

Hands. Elbows. Knees.

The forest becomes a graveyard.

I stare at my reflection in a shattered visor.

Left eye glowing yellow.

Right eye burning red.

“…Not again,” I whisper.

One survivor groans.

I lift him by the collar.

“Who sent you?”

He spits blood.

“…Fuck… you…”

I punch his gut and slam him into the dirt.

Then—

“Still sloppy.”

Soro.

I turn.

“Fuck you.”

We lock eyes.

This time—

It’s personal.