KC’s Perspective

Clover was predictable—or at least, she used to be. Every question had a purpose, every movement was calculated, and every thought was processed before it left her lips. Logic was her armour, equations and hypotheses shielding her from uncertainty.

But lately, there’s a flaw in the pattern.

A few months ago, I saw her at the bank. She withdrew all the money from our shared account. I told myself Harper knew, so I said nothing.

Now, she’s asking again—about the hieroglyphs, the ritual. She wants me to teach her how to replicate them.

“The patterns repeat, Kc,” she says, her voice steady, clinical. “Repetition indicates structure. Structure means it can be understood.”

I hesitate. She notices. She always does.

She studies me like an unsolved equation, dissecting my silence, calculating my reluctance. Her fingers tremble as she adjusts the syringe—just muscle fatigue, she insists. The green injections, which she refers to as medicine, are now more frequent. Too frequent.

“You know something,” she murmurs, low and deliberate. “You just haven’t decided how to say it yet.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you think I know.”

Her gaze sharpens—measuring, assessing. But the flicker of frustration vanishes just as quickly, buried beneath logic, beneath control.

“Everything is measurable, Kc. Even hesitation.”

Outside, the rain pounds against the warehouse—cold, relentless, never-ending.

5:30 PM

Anastasia, Patricia, Joan, and Harper arrived, their footsteps echoing through the vast space. Their tired breaths hung in the air, merging with hushed whispers.

I flipped through the grimoire, releasing a small burst of light energy. Vines coiled outside, reacting to my thoughts. A warm, cool sensation spread through me, revealing an endless blue ocean tinged with gold. The hieroglyphs shimmered, dancing in my vision.

“KC, we got the vial ready and prepped. Hope you’re ready?”

Vionelle’s voice was tight. A cold sweat clung to her forehead as she waved me over. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, catching the light in golden frames of her glasses. She glanced at Clover and stiffened.

She dusted chalk from her hands and turned away. Her brows furrowed, muttering under her breath. Skyler leaned in to speak to her, their voices hushed.

I gripped the vial. Memories surfaced, flashing through my mind. I placed it back in its container.

A sharp exhale—a breath too close. Hot. Sticky.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I turned.

Clover stood there, hands coated in chalk, the faint scent of rot and decay curling beneath the usual sour citrus perfume she wore. Just like the day she stole my research.

My skull ached—swirling, throbbing, fracturing.

Then, a voice—my voice. Soft, familiar.

“What thou dream’st is rot and ruin, Falsehood wrapped in sweet undoing. Shatter glass and break the chain, rend the flesh, dissolve the vein.” (What you dream is decay and destruction, lies hidden in a sweet unravelling. Break the glass and shatter the bond, tear the flesh and dissolve the lifeblood.)

A whisper from nowhere, a prophecy from someone I used to be.

This world is a facade—its beauty hiding a deeper decay. You must bring it down. Tear apart the illusion. Break what binds you. Wake up.

I shook my head, vision stabilising. Clover’s eyes met mine—shifty, calculating.

A mark on her neck.

Being taller, I noticed it—a small tattoo, a magic circle, a pictogram.

“Fear?” I asked, sharper than intended.

Her body tensed, then relaxed. Slowly, she slicked back her hair, her expression smooth, unrestrained.

“Umm, I’ve always had it,” she said, absentmindedly scratching at her skin. “But it’s crucial—important indeed.”

Her claw-like nails dug in too deeply. A thin stream of blood oozed from the wound.

I stopped her, pulling out my Hello Kitty bandages and wrapping her fingers carefully.

She barely reacted.

Her skin—yellowed, waxy. Her teeth—sharper, jagged. Her back hunched, her frame folding inward. Wrinkles crept along her face and arms, thin, like loose plastic. Her eyes—sharper, beastlike, calculating. Her palms—sticky, clammy, and too warm.

She looked up, her expression vacant. “Have you finished—finished—yes, finished, —with-with the preparations for the ceremony?”

Her voice was sickly sweet, syrupy.

I shuddered. “You want to check it out?”

My fingers tingled from touching her skin. Clover snatched the vial.

“Clover, Clover—Clover!” I called.

She muttered—fast, absorbed, as if entranced. A curse? A prayer?

"Flame flickers, night devours, and He comes—the Redeemer—blood spills, sacred and wretched, tangled in mortal coils. Creation writhes. Gods rise. Fiends slither. The Saintess. The vessel. Forsaken. Lost. Cursed. The black lamb stirs... and reckoning follows." (The fire flickers, the night consumes, and He comes—the Redeemer. Blood spills, both sacred and cursed, tangled in mortal threads. Creation writhes. Gods rise. Fiends slither. The holy one. The vessel. Forsaken. Lost. Cursed. The black lamb stirs... and justice follows.)

She turned to me, manic, eyes hollow with something inhuman.

“Oh, sorry—I’m just… tired. However, I will prepare this for you. You should get some sleep… good sleep.”

She left, her voice deepening. The scent of rot thickened in the air. My fingers still stung from the mere seconds of touch.

Her muttering didn’t stop.

"Flame flickers, night devours, and He comes—the Redeemer—blood spills, sacred and wretched, tangled in mortal coils. Creation writhes. Gods rise. Fiends slither. The Saintess. The vessel. Forsaken. Lost. Cursed. The black lamb stirs... and reckoning follows." (The fire flickers, the night consumes, and He comes—the Redeemer. Blood spills, both sacred and cursed, tangled in mortal threads. Creation writhes. Gods rise. Fiends slither. The holy one. The vessel. Forsaken. Lost. Cursed. The black lamb stirs... and justice follows.)

Over and over.

I could only listen.

Chills ran down my back, as memories of my past went through my mind of the day, and we became best friends….

FLASHBACK – Tuesday, 16 April 2025 Lullingstone Castle, Kent

The sweet scent of Sakura blossoms wafted into my nostrils. The starry sky shone above me, the moon's silver hues bathing the cobbled paths as Veronica shoved me to the ground, her group of friends cackling to the side. Veronica's green eyes glowed in the night, a disgusting grin on her face. Her beautiful visage was cloaked in darkness as she spat, “Disgusting wretch, it’s all because of your father! My dad was sent to prison!”

“A researcher! He was some quack! And who do you think you are, studying like some golden saint? What are you trying to prove?” she sneered, her voice sharp, as she slammed me against the wall, her claw-like acrylic nails scratching my face—streaks of blood marring my skin.

Susan laughed at her side—her second-in-command smiled, lightly touching my cheek. “Wretch! You should drop out! Who will miss you? Probably the one who set your house on fire. No wonder only you and your brother were the only survivors.” She smiled, her face like the demon who did it that day.

Memories flashed through my mind. A stabbing headache at my temples. My nose is bleeding. Bursting. Bulging. Vision blurred as their voices grew silent until I could only hear my breathing. Huffing. As a voice whispered into my ear:

“Fight. Defend yourself. Enemies. Run… fight.”

Energy. Small. Encased my body. A heat rushed through it like a volcano about to erupt. Simmering, seething, slithering rage entwined with my cosmic energy. The vines around the walls reacted as they slithered closer. The gargoyles on the building walls are shifting. The wall tapestry is moving.

Snap! Veronica’s face snapped to the side as I slapped her. Her blonde hair was flying against the wall.

Everyone looked shocked, with disbelief and fear gleaming in their eyes. Mouths opened and closed, words caught in their throats, choking them, like cornered rats facing a docile cobra in a gilded cage. My brown eyes raised to look at them. Revenge felt bitter, sour, dry—like ash in the back of my throat.

I glanced at my trembling hands. Blood smeared on my face and hands. Veronica lay on the ground, twitching as she coughed blood, convulsing, with white foam bubbling at her mouth. Eyes rolled back as her veins bulged on her neck.

The silver moon peered in. Light reflecting on the grand pond a distance from us, onto the walls, and onto my skin. Runes glowed and grew on my skin, radiating a fresh green and gold. A light breeze ruffled my soft brown hair.

An oppressive, thick aura slammed down on everyone, crushing their very will like a cobra coiling around them. Dark clouds brooded in the sky. Thunder roared. Lightning flashed a deep violet.

John Simmons, a young man with missed potential, took five steps back, his body quivering as a cold sweat dripped from his forehead. His brown hair clung to his forehead.

Pitter! Patter! Pitter! Patter! A light shower fell from the sky. Icy drops of rain seeped into my bones, washing away the blood on my hands and stinging the deep gashes on my sunken cheeks. Black bags are forming under my eyes. A smile crept up my face.

A sharp pain pierced the deep silence as I muttered: “Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood, Clean from my hand? No, this is my hand, rather. The multitudinous seas incarnadine.”

John glared at me, his hands holding Veronica, screaming, “You wretch! You’re a MONSTER! DEMON! How DARE you touch my girlfriend!” His eyes reddened, veins bulging, as ice spears formed at the tips of his fingers.

Sophia, a timid, petite girl not quite at ease—half shy, half assertive—squatted down as she trembled, looking up at me. Tiana, a loud girl, slapped her as commanded.

“STAND UP, WRETCH!” she shouted, pushing her towards me.

Her emaciated body trembling, her face pale as a ghost, gaunt and coloured in jaundice, as she held a small army knife in her skeletal hands. Her blue eyes glanced down at the floor as they cornered and egged her forward.

“Sophia… stab her. Teach her a lesson. And after that, we will let you go. I will even pay for your living expenses, your mother’s hospital fees, and your brother’s school fees,” Susan coaxed, her arms over her shoulders, sharp nails pinching her stomach as she took out and lit a cigarette—the light dimly shining on her face.

“Master… so-so you will let me go?” a croaky voice echoed in the silence, as Sophia’s hands gripped the knife, her feet trembling as she walked forward, continuously muttering as she began to run towards me.

Sophia lunged toward me.

Her eyes—swollen, gleaming—were drenched in something unreadable. Guilt? Grief? Her nose ran. Her breath hitched. She gripped the knife like it had grown from her bones.

Schlurrp.

Steel slid into my stomach.

White pain bloomed. My breath fractured as blood poured from my mouth. Sophia stared. Her pupils flared as I crumpled against the wall.

John shouted behind her.

“Kill that wretch!”

His ice spear carved the air, grazing my cheek. A chill raced down my spine.

All eyes locked onto me: John. Sophia. Veronica. Susan. Beady. Waiting.

Sophia wrenched the knife out—blood clung to the blade like syrup. Her arms quivered. She fell back, gasping.

Her chest heaved, a heartbeat against chaos. “It’s not my fault! I’m sorry—sorry, Mum, sorry, Dad, sorry, brother—!”

Ash simmered in her throat. Her ears rang. Her legs obeyed instinct—she fled—hair snapping behind her, a trail of blood marking the stone.

My vision swam. My fingers turned to rubber. I tore a strip from my skirt and pressed it hard to the wound. Breath—wet, shallow.

Behind me, Veronica stirred. She stood on shaking limbs, then kicked. Pain erupted as I vomited blood. Rain blurred everything.

“You dog,” she hissed. “You think you’re worthy? I’ll discipline you. Personally.”

Their laughter came next, cackling like hyenas. Predators in uniforms.

The runes on my skin blazed hotter. My pain numbed.

Silence.

I didn’t move. A possum playing dead before the slaughter.

Tiana knelt. Her citrus perfume stung through my bruises. She touched my neck. She stiffened.

“What’s wrong?”

She swallowed. “Her pulse… It’s fading.”

John’s eyes widened. “What do you mean—faint?”

Tiana: “She’s dying. If the bleeding doesn’t stop...”

That word: dying.

Something cracked open in the room.

Susan exhaled smoke. Water stuck her clothes to her skin.

She scoffed. “So what if she dies?” Another drag. A lazy shrug. “Like I said—no one will miss her.”

She stubbed her cigarette into the stone, her beady gaze fixed on me— crumpled, twitching— a wounded jaguar, throat pierced but teeth bared.

Tiana stood tall.

“Academy protocol: if she dies here, we face expulsion… or death.”

As they panicked—shouting, fumbling for a call—I felt the haze around me lift. Consciousness returned like a flame licking up my limbs. Fingers twitched. Toes stirred.

A whisper of energy curled around my feet. Heat bloomed through my core. My senses flared— I could hear my heart hammering, blood roaring like drums inside glass pipes.

I stood, trembling, and ran.

John. Susan. Veronica. Tiana. They turned, four masks of disbelief. Eyes wide. Breath caught.

Susan barked: “Get her! Don’t let her leave—if she gets out, we’re finished. Move!”

But I was already gone.

Rain lashed against my uniform, soaking it to my bones. Each step burned. Blood slipped down my leg in ribbons. I staggered—my soul energy bleeding out in invisible wisps.

Behind me, those demon-spawn voices shrieked louder, closer. My lungs screamed. Pain sharpened. The world tilted.

Heaven opened. Sheets of silver speared down—cold, cruel. Punishment.

Ahead, through the blur: Dorm Building 2. My legs barely held, but I threw everything into that sprint. Breath laboured. Vision doubling. Mind fracturing. Their footsteps echoed behind me alongside Susan, and Veronica shouts.

I stumbled into the study room. Fell.

The floor drank the water and blood as my limbs curled inward.

Cold. So cold.

A fever swallowed me whole. And then— Light flickered. Memory bled. Consciousness cracked like ice underfoot.