Kieran's PerspectiveThe Next Day
The sunlight streamed through the classroom windows, bathing the room in a warm glow. I sat at my desk, second row from the back, right in front of the door. The chatter of my classmates filled the air—some talking about last night's shows, others gossiping about meaningless drama. I stayed quiet, resting my chin on my hand and staring out the window.
There was this weird hum in the air, like a storm was about to break. Then the teacher walked in, his usual morning scowl in place, and clapped his hands to grab everyone's attention.
"Alright, settle down. We've got a new transfer student today."
New transfer student? Great. Another person to add to the class roster of people I didn't care about. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the door without much interest. That's when he walked in.
It was him.
The boy.
He stepped into the room with an effortless stride. He didn't have a grocery bag on his head this time, just a clean school uniform, his tie slightly loosened like he couldn't care less about appearances. His hair was neat but not too neat, and his posture was straight but relaxed. His eyes? Calm. Cold. Observant.
He was the same but different. In the daylight, without blood staining his hands, he looked normal. Just another kid. Except I knew better.
"My name is Roy," he said with a tone that struck a perfect balance between polite and detached. His voice was steady and unassuming, but there was something about the way he spoke that commanded attention. "I recently transferred here. I hope we can all get along."
His lips curled into a faint, practised smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes, but you could just sense it.
There wasn't anything special about what he said, but the way he said it—the way his eyes seemed to scan the room, pausing for just a second on me—made it clear he wasn't like the others.
I didn't react. No wide-eyed shock. No blurting out his name. I just followed him with my eyes, leaning back in my chair and watching the scene unfold.
Roy turned to the teacher, his posture impeccable, and whispered, "Where should I sit, sir?"
The teacher pointed to the seat next to mine—the only empty one in the room. "Right there, next to Kieran."
Roy's eyes flicked toward me, and for a fraction of a second, they lingered. It wasn't the same unhinged stare from the night before, but it wasn't entirely normal either. There was a weight to it, like he was looking through me rather than at me.
He walked over and sat down without a word, throwing his bag under our desk.
The room buzzed with renewed chatter, but Roy didn't seem to notice—or care. He opened his notebook, his movements precise, and began writing something.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, my mind racing with questions. What the hell was he doing here? How did he end up in my class?
But I didn't ask.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms and staring straight ahead.
The hum of the classroom faded into the background as I tried to process the absurdity of the situation. Roy, the same guy who had worn a grocery bag on his head while cutting down assassins, was now sitting next to me in our uniform like nothing had happened.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his hand move in smooth, deliberate strokes. He wasn't writing notes or doodling. It was something else entirely. Then I saw it—a faint shimmer of prana tracing across the surface of his desk, vanishing before anyone else could notice.
Prana writing.
I shifted my gaze subtly to my desk, tracing the same shimmer on its surface. Words appeared slowly, fading almost as quickly as they formed.
"Why are you here?" I wrote, keeping my expression neutral, my eyes still fixed forward.
Roy didn't even flinch. He continued scribbling in his notebook as though nothing was happening. A moment later, more prana shimmered across my desk.
"little trip".
I nearly snorted. Of course, he'd be sarcastic. I wiped the text away with a swipe of my finger and responded:
"Seriously. What do you want?"
For a few seconds, there was nothing. Roy kept writing in his notebook, completely unbothered. Then, with the same deliberate motion, the prana on my desk flickered again.
" I just got transferred to the orphanage downtown."
I frowned, rubbing a hand over my face to hide my reaction. I'd known Roy for less than 24 hours, and he was already impossible to predict but weirdly open.
"Oh, I see. What's next?" I wrote, hoping for something concrete.
This time, he didn't answer with words. Just silence—his pen frozen mid-air, like time had paused for him alone. Then he scribbled something in his notebook instead of using magic.
When lunch rolled around, we ended up under the same tree outside. He didn't say much at first—just sat there, chewing on his sandwich like it was fuel, not food. Eating was a necessary process, not something to enjoy.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, "Do you dream much?"
I blinked at him, caught off guard. "Sometimes. Why?"
He shrugged, still not looking at me. "I never do. Just black. Every night. No images. No sound. Just... nothing."
There was a strange calm in the way he said it. Like it didn't bother him. Like he'd gotten used to the emptiness.
"Sounds kind of peaceful," I said, unsure if I meant it.
"Or hollow," he replied.
He looked at me then, and for a split second, something in his eyes flickered—something too quiet to name. Then it was gone.
"Anyway", he added, biting into the crust of his sandwich, "your teacher still looks like he's one bad cup of coffee away from throwing himself out the window."
The shift in tone made me laugh, more out of confusion than anything else. "Yeah," I said. "He probably is."
And just like that, the weight of the moment passed. Roy's humour was dry, flat, and a little too timed—but it worked. Disarming in the weirdest way.