Chapter 01: Watching eyes. Stand still and observe, love !

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Any hapless son of affluent parents ordained to attend The Royal Imperial Boys School knew three things for certain, and three things only, even if he was unable to recollect Boyle's Law or solve simultaneous equations.

1. Vincent Cross was the great-great-grandson of Sir NatCross, the founder of Royal Imperial. (A sepia photograph of Sir NatCross hangs in an ornate frame made from gold outside the Director's office. NatCross is a gloriously dead man, sporting a thick moustache and withered gray eyes which Vincent has inherited.)

2. Vincent Cross was undisputed royalty. Though he was heir to no throne, Vincent reigned over Royal Imperial with a deceptively straight smile and porcelain skin that reflected the dazzling lights but concealed the darkness he harbored within himself.

3. Vincent Cross was an asshole.

But it was one thing to know all these facts and another to witness them day after day, second upon second.

Before me, a scrawny freshman staggered to his hands and knees after stumbling over Vincent's shoe which had been deliberately placed.

It seemed everything in this place was deliberate, precariously articulated to create a blueprint by which all machines could be produced. No defects, no manipulation of formulae, no sliver of area for blunder to go unnoticed. In an outré sense, Royal Imperial was defying life. It was the place where ingenuity and sentiments were callously butchered in order to manufacture exquisite replicas that stuck to the standards of (wealthy) boyhood, as outlined by Sir NatCross.

I glanced across at Vincent as he wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder, a robust sneer tugging his thin pink lips upwards. The malicious spike to his dark eyebrows was the only thing in his expression that was real, it was the only glimpse you could get of Vincent Cross when he was not Vincent Cross.

"Move, or be stepped on," he declared, his voice sweet and toxic. The sublime undertone of British descent in his accent revelled in the empty hallway.

The freshman's spidery brown fingers were splayed on the polished floor beneath him. Desperately, he tried to scramble to his feet, a loud squeak produced by the slipping of his elaborate shoes. A hectic grin broke the smooth contours of Vincent's face. His stride proud like a lion's, he stepped onto the freshman's back, and then over him.

Four silent boys (helplessly) witnessed the event: Elijah Grayson, Johnny Westham, Chase Stetson, and I. None of us spoke.

Somewhere deep inside me, a hurricane was kindred to life. It waged a vicious war with my cells and brain and bloodstream. I looked at the freshman. He cried out but took the humiliation without protest.

This is what you are. This is what you've done.

I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my tailored pants so no one could catch me clenching them into fists.

After Vincent had crossed, he beckoned us to literally follow in his footsteps with a curl of his hand.

I turned to the others. Chase was the newest one of us, the latest addition to the notorious Golden Boys. Despite this, he was possibly the most brutal. If there was anyone I dreaded to be more deranged than Vincent, it was him.

He cocked a dusty blonde eyebrow and bowed slightly to offer the freshman his hand. "Off you go, mate," he said, the smile evident in his voice, but not his face. His hair was like him; golden. The sunlight that streamed in through the windows illuminated his sharp Roman features until his was basking in the yellow hue, the perfect image of what pretty boys with serpent smiles were meant to be.

I stared at him, overwhelmed by incredulity.

Maybe this was it, I thought. Maybe this was the change.

But that's when Chase's smile made an appearance. It was a beautifully ugly thing; one corner of his lips curled, dripping with ambrosia that killed upon contact. Just as the freshman began walking away, newfound pride holding his chest high and pushing his shoulders square, Chase's leg lashed out and kicked him in the back.

The freshman went down again, a shout emitting his mouth.

A mingle of Vincent and Chase's laugh enveloped the hallway, replacing the deathly silence that had comforted me mere seconds ago. The freshman, holding onto the final shreds of his dignity, crawled away from us.

This is what you've done.

"Nice," Vincent was saying. I cut my gaze to Chase. The traces of his murderous smile were no longer visible. He jerked his chin in a solemn nod, a sudden gravity grasping his features. 

What was this? Had he finally come to terms with what he'd done?

I doubted it, but then again, I didn't.

Chase was a serpentine creature and comprehension was not to be associated with him. Behind those luscious golden locks was an intricate mind which governed a beauteous boy with glassy blue eyes. He functioned solely due to the chasm in his chest, much like the rest of us.

Maybe that's why we were what we were.

But the thudding in my fingertips and the racing at my neck made me wonder: Was I really one of them? Was I a golden boy?

We were golden because we were divine to the naked eye and merciless when cautiously scrutinized, a vicious combination. The kind that Vincent loved.

After all, he was the creator of this divide. He chose us because he was aware that we were desirable, and that we lacked empathy. He intended for the four of us to be missiles of mass destruction, just like him. Our target had been decided centuries ago, and it was so close that it was impossible to miss; St. Jude's All Girls Boarding School.

"What's the plan for tonight?" Johnny asked, having spoken for the first time this morning. The white collar of his shirt contrasted with his sun-kissed skin as it pressed against his neck. He had his hands buried deep in his pockets, ankles crossed in a manner that made him appear decades older.

"Plan?" I echoed.

Vincent made a pompous sound and leaned his slightly plump body against the wall. "Oh you know, there's that crappy ball at St. Jude's tonight. We've been invited."

"Are we going?" I asked. Anyone who knew anything knew that St. Jude's and Royal Imperial didn't go well together. It was an enmity that ran centuries deep and was only fueled by newer generations.

"We are, indeed," Vincent replied. "The ball is going to be a major event. So many girls, so many hearts just waiting to be broken."

Johnny snickered. "Alicia Keyes better not be there. She won't be impressed to see me after last time." Elijah shot him a withering look that I couldn't quite fathom.

An appreciative smirk grew across Vincent's face. "Fuck Alicia. Find some new bitches to screw tonight. All those whores in St. Jude's are so desperate."

We all laughed in agreement. The sound that left my lips rung in my ears, isolated from the others.

This is what you are.

This is what you've become.

My lungs filled with air. I'm not one of you, I screamed, but it was distorted by my corrupted blood and came out as an even more superficial laugh.

The pump in my chest cavity thudded heavily, the muscles tripping with trepidation as the truth of my reality dawned on me, unceremoniously late. It was followed by this revelation:

Those with hearts were utmost mortals, and mortals were bound to die.