Chapter 44 – Unholy Revelation

Alex POV

One month passes after that incident.

April arrives.

Which means only one thing.

Harvest Festival.

A word that already gives me a headache.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, mentally begging the universe to skip this month entirely.

Yeah—
ever since Mariam opened her big mouth and declared—

“Whoever has the most dates with Alex before the festival gets an advantage in the next challenge!”

—my life officially turns into a survival game.

I glare at Mariam across the classroom.

She catches my eye.

She grins.

That evil, smug, I-regret-nothing grin.

I swear she enjoys this.

Because now—

I’m being hunted.

Sylvia plays the house card.

Hard.

She casually acts like we’re already a long-term couple—
walking into my house like it’s normal, helping Mom in the kitchen, fixing my collar before school, sitting way too close.

Every time someone asks, she just smiles and says,

“Oh, Alex and I? We’ve always been close.”

Always.

Yeah.

Sure.

Priscilla?

She escalates.

Straight-up moves into my house.

No warning.

No mercy.

And somehow—

Mom approves.

Dad laughs like he’s watching a comedy show.

Uncle Usman nearly chokes on his tea from laughing too hard.

“Ahh, young love,” Dad says.

I want to disappear.

Hana, meanwhile, is thriving.

She’s growing up way too fast.

Elementary boys follow her around like ducklings.

She’s officially crowned “Cutest Girl” in primary school and one of the top basketball players alongside Maya.

Every time she walks past me, she gives me that judging stare.

Like she knows.

Like she’s disappointed.

That hurts more than anything.

Me?

Basketball.

That’s my escape.

The court is the only place where nobody argues about dates, festivals, or romantic strategies.

Just sweat.

Just motion.

Just silence.

When the ball hits the floor, everything else disappears.

For a while.

And Natalie.

Oh—

Natalie is furious.

Ever since Mariam’s announcement, my inbox becomes a warzone.

Emails.

Every.

Single.

Day.

Subject lines like:

“Really?”
“Explain yourself.”
“You owe me.”

And attached—

😶‍🌫️ photos.

Blurry.

Moody.

Way too intimate.

Is she desperate?

Or—

Does she finally realize how much I matter to her?

Does she know…

That I love her?

I close my laptop and groan.

Somewhere behind me, I hear Mariam laughing.

Like—actually laughing.

Rolling.

Enjoying every second of my suffering.

April is supposed to be peaceful.

Festivals.

Tradition.

Culture.

Instead—

It feels like the calm before something unholy awakens.

And deep down—

I know.

This month won’t end quietly.

Not for me.

Not anymore.

Classroom – History Period

The classroom is unusually calm.

Too calm.

Mr. Rahim stands at the front, chalk in hand, sleeves rolled up, glasses slightly slipping down his nose. The ceiling fan hums lazily above us, pushing warm April air around the room.

History class.

Normally, this is where half the class dozes off.

But not today.

Mariam is focused.

Like—actually focused.

Amin, for once, isn’t whispering nonsense or poking people with his pen. His chin rests on his palm, eyes locked on the board.

Peace.

For them.

For me?

No.

This is revenge time. 😈

Because Mr. Rahim’s topic—

It hooks me instantly.

“The Dark Ages,” Mr. Rahim says, tapping the board, “is often misunderstood.”

He writes the words in big block letters.

THE DARK AGES

“Most people think it’s the fall of Europe. The collapse of civilization. Ignorance.”

He pauses, scanning the class.

“But that’s a European perspective.”

I straighten in my seat.

This—
this I want to hear.

“The so-called Dark Ages,” he continues, “is actually the beginning of rising powers elsewhere. The Middle East. Asia. Parts of Africa. Even South America and the Pacific.”

Murmurs ripple across the room.

George raises his hand.

“I learned that it’s when Christianity started growing rapidly, sir.”

“Correct,” Mr. Rahim nods. “But now—think deeper.”

He turns and starts drawing on the board.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Religion → Education → Power → Wealth → Influence → Dominance

The chalk squeaks.

The room goes quiet.

Everyone stares at the diagram.

Confused.

Uncomfortable.

Like we’re looking at something we’re not supposed to see.

“This,” Mr. Rahim says, tapping each word, “is not history.”

He taps again.

“This is a pattern.”

My chest tightens.

I don’t know why.

But something about the way he says it—

It feels… close.

Too close.

“Now,” he continues, “did you ever notice that Islam and Christianity expanded rapidly—while Judaism remained relatively stable?”

Hazlan raises his hand.

“Because Judaism is more… closed? Conservative?”

Mr. Rahim smiles slightly.

“Close,” he says. “But not quite.”

He erases part of the board.

“The key isn’t belief,” he says calmly.
“It’s conversion.”

The word lands heavy.

“Islam and Christianity actively convert,” he explains.
“They educate. They build institutions. Schools. Law. Structure.”

He circles Education and Power.

“Judaism preserves identity. It focuses inward. Survival.”

He looks straight at us now.

“And here’s the dangerous part.”

The room feels colder.

“When religion becomes structure—
and structure becomes authority—
faith stops being guidance…”

He pauses.

“…and becomes control.”

A chill runs down my spine.

Images flash in my head.

Fire.

Chains.

Red hair.

A girl screaming in flames.

Lilith.

Mr. Rahim doesn’t notice.

Or maybe—

He does.

“During the Dark Ages,” he continues, “people weren’t ignorant. They were managed. Fear was weaponized. Knowledge was filtered. Power was centralized.”

He taps the last word.

Dominance.

“And those who didn’t fit the system?”

He lets the question hang.

No one answers.

I swallow.

My fingers curl slowly into fists.

This isn’t just history.

This feels like a warning.

Mr. Rahim finally turns back to the board.

“We’ll stop here for today,” he says lightly, like nothing heavy just happened.
“Next class, we talk about inquisitions.”

The bell rings.

Chairs scrape.

Noise returns.

But I stay frozen.

Because for the first time—

The Dark Ages don’t feel like the past.

They feel like something that never ended.

And somehow—

I know.

This lesson wasn’t meant just for us.

It was meant for me.

The silence after Mr. Rahim’s lesson feels… heavy.

Like the air itself is waiting.

Then—

Amin raises his hand.

I freeze.

Mistake.

“Captain—” Amin starts, voice loud, confident, and absolutely suicidal,
“about the Dark Ages… if Islam rises and Christianity rises… doesn’t that lead to the next big war?”

The class stiffens.

“The Holy War,” he continues, digging his own grave,
“some left-wing Muslim groups in recent history treated it like jihad, right?”

The room collectively implodes.

🤦🏻 🤦🏽‍♂️ 🙈 🥶 😰 😖 🙄 🤯 😱

EVERYONE knows it.

He’s dead.

But instead of exploding—

Mr. Rahim smiles.

That calm smile.

The one that means pain is coming, but educational.

“This,” Mr. Rahim says gently, “is better answered by Ustaz Hazimi.”

He pats Amin’s shoulder.

“But since you asked…”
“…why do they treat it as jihad?”

That smile sharpens.

I sigh.

This topic—

I know it.

Too well.

So I raise my hand.

And stand.

“When your life is threatened,” I say calmly,
“when culture clashes—especially language—we stop talking about religion first.”

The class turns to me.

“In America,” I continue,
“they call it cultural cleansing. The Native Americans were the first victims.”

Mr. Rahim watches closely now.

“When the first colonies arrived, they brought European culture. They believed they were superior. The rest were labeled barbaric.”

I pause.

“Or worse—unknown.”

Silence.

“Ignorance is bliss,” I finish. “That’s the excuse.”

Mr. Rahim nods slowly.

“Well said.”

Then—

He grabs Amin.

“EH—WAIT—SIR—”

Too late.

Mr. Rahim lifts him like a gym weight.

Mariam goes pale. 🥶
Priscilla covers her mouth.
George looks impressed.
I don’t blink.

“The reason I love teaching history,” Mr. Rahim says casually,
“is because history is not facts.”

Amin is now horizontal.

“It’s information,”
A twist.
“Rumors,”
A lift.
“Myths,”
A crack.
“Legends—”

“GIVE—GIVE—GIVE—” Amin screams.

“—until evidence turns them into fact.”

Mr. Rahim gently places Amin back on his chair.

Amin: 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

“Thank you, Mr. Amin,” Mr. Rahim says politely.
“And remember—Mr. Rahim.”

The class is traumatized.

Priscilla raises her hand.

“Sir… based on what Alex said… history feels like fragments. Facts aren’t always… factual.”

“Correct,” Mr. Rahim replies.
“Ugh.”

He sighs like he just finished a workout.

Then—

He turns to me.

“Alex,” he says, “since you started this… care to elaborate on the Dark Ages?”

My heartbeat slows.

“Fine.”

I stand.

Walk to the board.

I draw a long timeline.

Carefully.

Romans / Europe

Asia

Middle East

South Asia

Pacific

The Americas

Lines overlap.

Shift.

Evolve.

“If you look at this,” I say,
“the world never stopped moving—even when Rome fell.”

Murmurs spread.

“Power didn’t disappear. It relocated.”

Heads nod.

Understanding dawns.

Kamal raises his hand.

“So… religion wasn’t the main thing?”

I turn.

“No,” I say.
“It was never the bigger picture.”

I glance at Mr. Rahim.

“It’s always about dominance.”

Mr. Rahim smiles.

Satisfied.

And suddenly—

I feel it again.

That pull.

That quiet certainty.

This lesson—

This class—

Was never just history.

It’s a warning.

And somehow—

I already know.

The Dark Ages aren’t over.

They just changed masks.

The discussion winds down.

Pens scratch against paper as we jot down the final notes Mr. Rahim leaves on the board.
The classroom buzzes—not loud, just alive, like everyone’s still digesting something heavier than history.

Then—

Riiing—!

The bell slices through the air.

Maths next.

Great.

Chairs scrape, bags zip, everyone starts moving when—

“Alex.”

I stop.

Turn.

“Yeah?” I answer.

Mr. Rahim is standing by his desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know,” he says casually, “you know a lot about history. And general knowledge too.”

I scratch my cheek.
“Yeah… sort of.”

He hums, unconvinced.

“Phylis told me about you.”

That name hits a soft nerve.

“I see,” I say.

“She speaks highly of you,” he continues. “Enough that I’m planning to endorse your recommendation.”

I blink.

“…Recommendation?”

He nods, already pulling out a pen like this is routine.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say quickly. “About university. I haven’t really decided where I want to go.”

Mr. Rahim looks at me—properly this time.

“Really? Because your potential says otherwise.”
He taps the desk.
“Your past results, your analytical thinking… this subject fits you.”

I hesitate.

“I’m thinking… closer to home,” I admit. “But I’ll consider the offer.”

That makes him smile.

“Phylis suggested I push you toward the University of Arizona,” he says.
“Double major—Anthropology and Archaeology.”

My chest tightens.

“…She did?”

“Yes,” he replies simply.
“She says you have a rare talent for seeing patterns others miss.”

I look away.

“Yeah… I know,” I say quietly. “I’ll decide when the time comes.”

Mr. Rahim scribbles something down.

“I’ll forward this to Phylis,” he says. “Consider it… planting a seed.”

“Thanks,” I reply.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking out when—

“Alex.”

I stop again.

He reaches out and grips my shoulder—not hard, but firm.

“Don’t think this means you’re better than anyone else,” he says calmly.

“…Huh?”

He nudges my head with two fingers.

“Your attendance is appalling.”

“Ow—! Wait, what—?”

“Still,” he adds, grinning,
“keep improving, kid.”

I laugh despite myself.

“See you,” I say.
“…Ouch.”

I walk out into the corridor, heart a little heavier—but steadier.

Somewhere between history class and maths…

It feels like my future just tapped me on the shoulder.

And walked away.

Hunting Season

Now I have a problem.

A very serious problem.

Because right now—

It’s hunting season.

And the prey…
Me.

I move carefully, slipping through the side corridors, avoiding the main pathways like a fugitive on the run. My instincts are screaming.

And they’re right.

Priscilla is waiting at the shortcut corridor, leaning against the wall like she planned this.
Sylvia is stationed near the stairs leading to my maths class—of course she checked my timetable.
Siti is scanning the area with sharp eyes, pacing like she’s searching for buried treasure.

Me.

I freeze behind a pillar.

Across the courtyard, I spot Mariam and Amin walking together—way too close, way too lovey-dovey. Other boys are staring at them with pure envy from a distance.

Oh.

Oh, you two are dead.

Then—

Mr. Rahim appears, striding toward them like fate itself.

An idea sparks.

I grin.

Using the maintenance ladder near the storage room, I climb quietly onto the school roof. The tiles are warm, the wind steady. I crawl along the edge until I’m directly above—

Mr. Rahim.

Perfect.

I grab a loose branch wedged near the gutter and—

CRASH!!!

The branch slams down beside him.

Students gasp.

“What the hell happened?!”

Everyone freezes.

Mr. Rahim straightens slowly.

Dangerously.

And like always… his eyes lock onto Amin.

The cannon fodder.

Amin gulps, brushing dust off his shirt.
“Uhh… Captain—”

Too late.

Without a word, Amin bolts.

“HEY—!” Mariam shouts—and immediately runs after him.

Mr. Rahim’s aura changes.

Something primal awakens.

“YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DETENTION!!!” he roars.

The hallway erupts.

“ARGHHHH—!”
“THE CAPTAIN’S OUT FOR BLOOD!!!”

Mr. Rahim charges after them like a pirate captain hunting deserters, coat flapping, fury unleashed.

Students scatter.

I drop down quietly on the opposite side of the building, dusting my hands like nothing happened.

I stroll past Priscilla, Sylvia, and Siti—who are all staring at the chaos in stunned silence.

I reach my classroom.

Ms. Sahara is already there.

I slide into my seat smoothly, gently, like an innocent angel.

I exhale.

Peace.

Sweet.

Sweet.

Revenge.

Maths Class – The Aftermath

Ms. Sahara peers over her glasses at me.

“Eh…? 🤔 Where are the others?”

“Huh?” I tilt my head, pure innocence. “Not sure, miss. I managed to get here on time.”

One by one, students who have absolutely no idea about the chaos on the other side of the building trickle into the classroom.

The Patriots.
Catsy.
Unicorn.

As for the Buccaneers—

Heh.

They’ve already fallen victim to the Captain’s—Mr. Rahim’s—wrath.

Ms. Sahara glances out the window. I can almost see her imagination trying to process the noise echoing across the campus.

😅 “Ara… okay then. Let us start class. It seems the Buccaneers are… a bit late today.”

“Nothing new,” Peter from Patriot mutters. “Chaos follows Buccaneers like a curse.”

“Uh huh…” Mikhail turns slowly toward me. “Alex. This wasn’t something you did, was it?”

“Nothing,” I reply calmly, folding my hands. “I don’t know what really happened.” 😇

“…Yeah, right,” half the class deadpans. 😓

Ms. Sahara just smiles awkwardly and claps her hands.
“Alright, everyone, textbooks out.”

Class begins.

Five minutes later—

The door slides open.

Priscilla walks in first, hair slightly messy, eyes sharp, and drops into her seat like she’s returning from a battlefield.

Ms. Sahara blinks.
“Um… what happened?”

“Fair suck of the sav, mate!” Priscilla says immediately. “This massive tree branch comes crashin’ down right next to Mr. Rahim, and Amin and Mariam are right in the thick of it, innit?”

“…English,” Ms. Sahara says weakly. 😅

“Ai, I am speaking English!” Priscilla protests. “A bloody branch! Big enough to knock the socks off Mr. Rahim!”

The entire class—

Turns.

And stares.

At me. 😒

I whistle casually, eyes drifting to the ceiling like I’m admiring the ventilation.

The door slides open again.

Hazlan enters, confused.
“Uh… what happened?”

Vivian from Catsy leans forward.
“Did Alex do it?”

Oi. Since when am I the school’s disaster mascot?

Hazlan scratches his head.
“Well… I don’t think so. There’s an old tree near the corridor, you know. Only Allah knows when a branch might fall.”

YES.

THANK YOU.

I nearly feel tears of gratitude.

Ms. Sahara sighs, rubbing her temple.
“…Alright. Enough mystery novels for today. Open your books to page thirty-two.”

I finally relax back into my chair.

Chaos avoided.
Blame diverted.
Alibi secured.

For now.

The Price of Survival

Class has barely started when the door slides open again.

One by one, the Buccaneers stumble in.

First—Amin.

He looks like his soul hasn’t caught up with his body yet.

“H-hey…” 😨

Then Mariam follows, dragging her feet like a veteran returning from war.

“Ugh…” 😣

Sweat. Dust. Regret.

Ms. Sahara pauses mid-sentence and smiles politely.

“Um… welcome. Please come in. Take your seats.”

They shuffle past the desks, collapsing into their chairs like defeated NPCs.

I do not look at them.

I do not breathe too loudly.

I do not exist.

I sit straight, eyes forward, hands folded, the model student—
because I know better.

Ms. Sahara resumes the lesson, chalk tapping gently against the board.
Numbers. Formulas. Calm.

For a moment—

Peace.

Then I realize my mistake.

I’m sitting next to the window.

Not a window.

The window facing the outer pathway.

A shadow moves.

A presence.

Then—

A voice, low and sudden, right beside my ear.

“I know who did it.”

I freeze.

My soul leaves my body.

I don’t turn.

I don’t blink.

Mr. Rahim is standing outside the window, arms crossed, smiling like a man who just caught a mouse but decided to let it live… for now.

“This time,” he continues softly, “I’ll let it slide.”

I swallow.

“But…” his grin widens, eyes sharp, predatory, amused,
“I’ll be signing that recommendation.”

He leans closer, whispering—

“Without notice.”

“Hehehehe.” 😈

Then he straightens, turns, and walks away like nothing happened.

I stare at my notebook.

My pen trembles.

Yep.

That scared the absolute hell out of me. 🥶

After Class – Tactical Retreat

The bell rings.

Freedom.

Or so I think.

The moment I step into the hallway, Mariam appears in front of me like a boss battle that didn’t despawn.

Her curls are usually perfect—
now they’re wild, frizzy, and slightly murderous.

She leans in, eyes sparkling.

🥰 “Kukuku… you win this time… kukuku…”

That laugh.

That cursed laugh.

Behind her, Amin drags his thumb across his neck slowly.

A silent threat.

The other Buccaneers stare at me like I committed an unforgivable crime.

Which—
okay, fair. I did.

I don’t wait.

Because I know.

I know they’re going to get me back.

So—

I execute Protocol: Disappear.

Something I learn from Soro.

(Thanks for the survival training, man.)

Somewhere in the South American jungle

Soro suddenly sneezes.

“…Huh.”

Back to School

I move.

No noise.

No witnesses.

I blend into stairwells, duck behind lockers, cut through corridors like a low-budget James Bond with a school bag.

Mission objective:
Reach a class none of them are in.

Target acquired.

Phylis’ Cultural & Social Studies.

I slip into the room and take a seat before anyone notices.

Success.

…Almost.

Phylis looks up from her notes.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Okay,” she says slowly, “something interesting just happened outside.”

“…Uh. Yeah. Hi,” I reply, forcing a smile.

She tilts her head.

“I wonder what happened.”

I shrug, the picture of innocence.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

She studies me for a moment longer.

Then smiles.

I don’t like that smile.

At all.

Lunch Break – Prey Instinct

Class goes on like normal.

Notes. Chalk. Voices droning in the background.

But something is wrong.

I feel it.

That pressure on the back of my neck—
the kind you get when someone is watching you.

Not curiosity.

Hunger.

My eyes drift to the window.

Movement. Shadows. Too many.

Yeah.

It’s happening again.

My brain shifts gears instantly.

Escape routes calculated.
Obstacles memorized.
Distraction options: limited but viable.

I don’t panic.

I prepare.

Phylis finishes the lesson.

“Alright, class—thank—”

I’m gone.

Commando Mode: Activated

The bell hasn’t even finished ringing when I move.

I slip between desks, cut past the doorframe, and disappear into the hallway like smoke.

Lunch break.

Which means—

They’re waiting for me.

I catch a glimpse of silhouettes at the usual choke points.

Too obvious.

Amateurs.

I veer left, vault a low railing, sprint across the back corridor, then climb—
hands gripping concrete, feet finding cracks I’ve memorized over months of escape practice.

My original plan is the hostel.

But they’ll expect that.

So I change it.

The Jungle Behind School

Branches whip past my face as I dive into the tree line.

Leaves. Dirt. Shade.

The school disappears behind green shadows.

I climb.

Fast.

Silent.

I wedge myself into the upper branches of a thick tree, breathing shallow, heart pounding but controlled.

Below me—

Chaos.

“WHERE THE HELL IS THAT BASTARD?!”

Another voice answers, louder.

“NOT AGAIN!! WHERE THE HELL DID HE GO?!”

I wince.

…Yep.

Déjà vu.

From my perch, I scan the ground.

Buccaneers everywhere.

Sweeping in groups.

Even Mariam and Amin are searching, eyes sharp, moving like hunters instead of classmates.

Amin shields his eyes from the sun.

Mariam clicks her tongue in annoyance.

They’re serious this time.

My grip tightens around the bark.

Flashbacks hit me—

Fire hoses.
Screaming seniors.
Absolute chaos.

I swallow.

“This is bad,” I mutter silently.

Because once they find me—

Lunch break won’t be enough.

Lunch Break – Declaration of War

They’re not even pretending anymore.

Down below, the courtyard turns into a base camp.

Students aren’t eating lunch—
they’re preparing rations.

Lunch boxes lined up like ammunition.
Water bottles checked.
Groups assigned.
Routes discussed.

This isn’t lunchtime.

This is hunting season.

I crouch on a tree branch, barely breathing, leaves brushing my shoulders as I watch them from above.

Then—

BZZZZZT.

The intercom crackles to life.

“To all students…”

Oh no.

That voice.

That calm-before-the-storm tone.

Mr Rahim.

“Please refrain from searching for students during lunch time.”

Below me, everyone freezes.

Even the wind seems to stop.

“Please focus on food. The cafeteria is waiting. You all have thirty minutes left to chow up.”

I blink.

…Huh?

So this is mercy?

I relax—just a little—

“But after lunch…”

My spine locks up.

“A new class subject will begin.”

The pause is deliberate.

Cruel.

“Hunting Season.”

🤯
WHAT THE ACTUAL—

“This is for Alex.”

My soul leaves my body.

“Surrender now… or else your friends shall remain in detention with me.”

The voice drops.

Low.

Savage.

“A personal detention class… from me.”

Static crackles.

“…Arrrgh.”

That man just turned into a pirate captain over the intercom.

Below me—

BOOM.

Everyone scatters.

Like trained soldiers.

No shouting.
No panic.
Just movement.

I raise my binoculars.

They eat in formation.

Fast. Efficient.

Like a military exercise.

“ALL DONE!! CONTINUE ON!!”
“TAKE FIVE—LET ALEX EAT FIRST!!”

I nearly choke on air.

They’re giving me mercy.

That’s somehow worse.

My stomach growls.

I reach into my pocket.

A single bread roll.

Warm. Slightly crushed.

My last lifeline.

I sit on the branch, chewing slowly, watching the battlefield below.

Leaves sway.
Shadows move.
Time ticks down.

Thirty minutes.

After that—

The hunt resumes.

I swallow.

“…What a damn school,” I mutter.

And somewhere, far away—

I swear I hear Mr Rahim laughing like a man who has already won.

I don’t relax.

I pretend to.

There’s a difference.

My next class flashes in my head like a death sentence.

Islamic Studies.

Of all classes.

No alternate exits.
No back doors.
No side corridors.

That classroom is a sealed room.

As if the universe itself conspires against me.

“Dammit…”

But—

While some of them are still stuffing food into their mouths, laughing like hunters resting before a chase…

I move.

Silent.
Low profile.
No witnesses.

I arrive early.

Way too early.

Inside, only one person is present.

Ustazah Salimah.

She looks up from her notes, surprised.

“Eh… Alex? You came early?”

My eyes don’t meet hers.

I’m already scanning.

Windows.
Corners.
Ceiling panels.

Exit routes.

Always exit routes.

I spot it.

A small ventilation window near the upper wall.

Perfect.

I move quietly, fingers brushing the latch—

Click.

Nice.

Ustazah Salimah blinks.

“Um… Alex?”

I freeze halfway.

“…What’s happening?”

I turn, lowering my voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Ustazah. I just need to hide in this class for a bit. Please let me attend… from out of plain sight.”

She stares.

Once.

Twice.

Then she sighs.

“…Is this because of the intercom announcement?”

“…Yes.”

A beat.

“…Mr Rahim?”

“…Yes.”

She rubs her temples.

“…Okay. Suit yourself.”

I don’t hesitate.

I climb.

Up the wall.
Into the ceiling crawl space.

Dust falls.

The panel creaks.

Ustazah Salimah’s eyes widen.

“…Why do I feel like I’m watching a ninja?”

“Please just continue the lesson,” I whisper. “Pretend I don’t exist.”

“…Fine,” she mutters. “I’m not paid enough for this.”

Students begin filing in.

They don’t see me.

Good.

I peer through a narrow gap in the ceiling.

Then—

My blood runs cold.

He enters.

Mr Rahim.

In the flesh.

Hands behind his back.

Calm.

Too calm.

“Ustazah Salimah,” he says smoothly, “I’ll be monitoring my students today. Making sure they behave.”

“U-Um… okay…” she replies, clearly nervous.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Then—

“Did Alex come by earlier?”

SHIT.

I grip the beam.

Sweat drips down my neck.

Ustazah Salimah keeps her composure.

“He did, yes. He asked about today’s topic… then left suddenly. Is there a problem?”

Mr Rahim hums.

“Oh… did he?”

He turns slowly.

His nose twitches.

Sniff.

I freeze.

No.

No way.

He’s—

Smelling!?

Like a damn bloodhound.

Behind him—

“Captain! Have you found his scent!?” Amin blurts out.

IDIOT.

Mr Rahim spins.

“IT’S MR RAHIM, AMIN!!!”

WHAM.

A fireman-style backbreaker.

Clean.

Effortless.

Amin’s feet leave the ground.

His eyes roll back.

Drool escapes his mouth.

“I—give—give—!”

Mr Rahim releases him.

Amin collapses like a sack of rice.

The other boys go pale.

The classroom is silent.

I hold my breath in the ceiling, every muscle screaming.

Mr Rahim adjusts his collar.

“…Continue your lesson, Ustazah.”

“…Y-Yes…”

He pauses.

Just once.

Looks up.

Straight at the ceiling.

My soul evaporates.

Then he smiles.

And walks away and sitting on the corner of the classroom

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t exist.

For now—

I’ve survived.

But I know one thing for sure.

This man isn’t done hunting.

From the ceiling, the classroom feels different.

Amin and Mariam keep glancing around, eyes darting like detectives chasing an invisible criminal.

Yeah.

You’re supposed to be studying, not hunting me down.

Ustazah Salimah continues teaching as if nothing strange is happening. Her voice is calm, steady—almost soothing. For once, I do the unthinkable.

I focus.

Pen moves.
Notes fill the page.
No chaos.

Surprisingly… I learn.

Minutes stretch into an hour.

Then two.

A rare thing happens.

Everyone behaves.

Or at least pretends to.

I know why.

The pressure.

That invisible weight pressing down on them.

The gaze.

Mr Rahim stands at the back of the class, arms crossed, silent. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just watches.

A predator observing a herd.

Suddenly—

Amin raises his hand.

“I—I’m just wondering about something… about marriage…”

The room stills.

Ustazah Salimah raises an eyebrow.

“That’s rather quick,” she says lightly. “Go on.”

“Well… about Islam… and other religions. I know a bit about them, but…”

Interesting.

Before she can answer—

Mr Rahim speaks.

“Like I said before,” he says calmly, “it’s all about context, son. And because we are Muslim, we understand it within ourcontext.”

He turns slightly.

“Continue, Ustazah.”

Ustazah Salimah nods and explains—about Islamic marriage, belief, responsibility, and faith within its framework.

I already know most of it.

Mom and Dad taught me early.

But understanding something… and living with that understanding are different things.

Context matters.

Belief isn’t a weapon.

It’s a commitment.

The class continues.

Serious.

Focused.

No chaos.

When the bell rings, everyone packs up and leaves quietly.

Mr Rahim stays behind, speaking softly with Ustazah Salimah.

Then he looks up.

Straight at me.

“You win this time, Alex,” he says casually. “At least they behaved.”

…He knows.

Of course he does.

After he leaves, I wait.

Count to ten.

Then twenty.

Only when the room is empty do I climb down.

Ustazah Salimah watches me with folded arms.

“Son,” she says gently, “there’s something I want to ask.”

“Yeah?”

“About Amin’s question. What would you say?”

I think for a moment.

Then—

“It’s like what Mr Rahim said. Context,” I reply. “But not in a heretical way. Everyone has the right to believe what they choose. Once you commit to a religion, it’s your responsibility to understand it—not force it on others.”

I pause.

“Islam never teaches us to force belief. It teaches us to let people experience it. Otherwise… that’s how conflicts start. That’s what we see happening around the world.”

She smiles.

“I see you have your own way of understanding.”

“…Thank you, Alex.”

I nod.

“See you.”

And I’m gone.

Out the window.
Across the walkway.
Into cover.

Because yeah—

They’re still looking for me.

And the hunt?

It’s not over yet.

Two girls.

No—three.

All of them hunting me down like it’s some twisted dating battle royale, courtesy of Mariam’s stupid game.

The Buccaneers—
my own classmates—are now predators.

I’m the prey.

Footsteps echo down the corridor.

I duck behind a pillar, heart pounding. I peek out—

Sylvia passes first, calm, elegant…
too calm.

Priscilla follows, hands in her pockets, eyes sharp, scanning like a seasoned hunter.

Siti lingers at the back, pretending to be clueless while absolutely not being clueless.

This isn’t a coincidence.

This is coordination.

I move.

Fast.

Barely avoiding a corner where Mariam is casually leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll through her phone while clearly acting as mission control.

She looks up.

Smiles.

Waves.

Traitor.

I sprint through a side passage, vault over a bench, slide under a stair rail—

—and freeze.

Mr Rahim.

Standing there.

Arms crossed.

Looking around.

Looking for me.

Of course.

Of all days.

This school isn’t an educational institution anymore.

It’s a warzone.

And today’s lesson?

Survival.

No grades.
No textbooks.
No mercy.

I hold my breath, pressed against the wall as Mr Rahim turns—

Then—

A shout.

“HEY! HE WAS JUST HERE!”

Wrong direction.

Thank you, random soul.

I slip away again, lungs burning, brain screaming.

WHY.
THE.
HELL.
IS.
THIS.
SCHOOL.
LIKE.
THIS!?

All I wanted was a normal day.

Instead, I’m dodging love interests, classmates, and a history teacher with the soul of a pirate captain.

I don’t know how I’m going to survive the rest of the day.

But one thing is clear—

I’m not winning.

I’m surviving.

And that…
will have to be enough.

Chapter End.