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DATE:???, the 50th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis?
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I woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains. The bed was warm, the sheets familiar. I stretched and felt the pleasant ache of a good night's sleep settle into my muscles.
Morning routine. I rose and padded to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. It felt good—sharp, clarifying. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled slightly. The mirror smiled back. Another day.
The suit was already laid out on the chair. Charcoal grey, the one I'd had tailored last year. I dressed carefully, enjoying the ritual of it—the crispness of the shirt, the weight of the jacket settling on my shoulders. The tie knotted easily under my fingers.
Downstairs, the halls were already bustling with students. I nodded to a few as I passed.
"Morning, Mr. Carter!"
"Good morning," I called back, genuinely pleased to see them energized this early. A girl with braids waved enthusiastically from across the corridor. I returned it.
The classroom felt like home when I stepped inside. My notes were waiting on the desk, lesson plan ready. I'd spent last night refining the section on market equilibrium, and I was excited to see how they'd respond to the real-world examples I'd prepared.
"Alright, everyone, let's pick up where we left off yesterday," I said, chalk already in hand. "Who can remind me what happens when supply exceeds demand?"
Hands shot up. I pointed to a boy in the third row.
"Prices drop, sir."
"Exactly. And why is that important for businesses to understand?"
The discussion flowed naturally. I loved this part—watching them make connections, seeing the concepts click into place. There was something deeply satisfying about helping them understand how the world worked, giving them tools to navigate it.
About halfway through, a hand went up near the back.
"Yes, Marcus?" He was the student representative.
"Sir, did you catch the Ultraman fight last night? It was incredible—"
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
Something cracked open inside me. A hollow, aching space I hadn't known was there. The feeling was immediate and overwhelming—grief, maybe, or longing. Regret for something I couldn't name. My throat tightened.
I blinked, steadying myself against the desk.
"No, I... I missed it," I managed. "But I'm glad you enjoyed it."
Marcus smiled and settled back. The moment passed. I continued the lesson, but the warmth from earlier had dimmed. Something sat heavy in my chest now, patient and waiting.
When the bell rang, I dismissed them with a smile I didn't quite feel.
—
Outside, I lit a cigarette. Mabo brand—the good ones. The leaves were grown in the southern desert, and they had this earthy, grounded quality I appreciated. The first drag was always the best, that rich, loamy taste.
I felt strangely nostalgic for that place.
I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the cool air.
Students passed by, chatting and laughing. A few waved. I waved back, but my mind was elsewhere.
That hollow feeling hadn't left. It settled into my ribs like it belonged there, like it had always been there and I'd just now noticed it.
I took another drag.
What was I missing? Why did hearing about that Hero feel like losing something precious?
The questions circled, unanswered. I finished the cigarette and stubbed it out, watching the ember fade to ash.
Time to prep for the next class.
Halfway through the afternoon class, I spotted her.
A girl in the second row, head tilted slightly down. Blood dripped from her nose—dark, fresh. The angle was wrong. Broken, clearly. She sat perfectly still, like she didn't notice or didn't care.
Next to her sat a man in a Coulobre mask. Sharp features, striped suit. He wasn't a student.
Why did I know that mask?
My stomach turned. Nausea crawled up my throat, sudden and overwhelming. I gripped the edge of the desk.
"Excuse me," I managed, voice tight. "Continue the reading. I'll be right back."
I stepped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
—
The air outside was better. Cooler. I took a few steps away from the door, trying to settle the dizziness.
That's when I saw her—a girl leaning against the side of the building, cigarette between her fingers. Beautiful red curly hair, an oversized knitted parka that looked two sizes too big. She exhaled smoke lazily, eyes half-closed.
Skipping class.
I walked over, steadying myself. "You know you're not supposed to be out here."
She glanced at me, unbothered. "Relax, Mr. Blois. It's just one cigarette."
I froze.
"What did you call me?"
"Mr. Blois?" She looked confused. "You're the Economy teacher, right?"
"No. My name is William Carter."
She squinted at me like I'd said something absurd. "I don't know who that is. Mr. Blois teaches Economics. You're standing right in front of me."
My breath came ragged. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I turned toward the window beside us, catching my reflection in the glass.
A beard.
Dark, trimmed, sitting along my jaw and chin.
Why hadn't I noticed it before? I couldn't grow facial hair. I was cursed.
But there it was. Full. Real.
Why was she the only one calling me by that name?
"Fuck."
Another damn dream.
The warmth bled out of the world like someone had pulled a plug. The edges sharpened. The colors dimmed. Everything snapped into focus with the clarity of waking up underwater.
I wasn't This Blois Guy. I was wearing his face. Living his routine. Playing teacher in someone else's skin.
The girl was still staring at me, cigarette forgotten, concern creeping into her expression. Fuck me. It was Sasha. No wonder.
"You okay?"
No. Not even close.
I pushed off the wall and walked past her without answering. My hands were shaking. The nausea was back, but different now—recognition, not sickness.
I'd been here before. Trapped in someone else's life, thinking it was mine, until a crack appeared and the whole thing collapsed.
How long had I been in this one?
Hours? Days?
How many times had I woken up thinking I was someone I wasn't?
Whatever. Top late to focus on that.
—
"I can use my powers to lighten your mood," she offered, concern still written on her face. "If you want."
"I don't need it."
She shrugged and went back to her cigarette, watching me with wary eyes.
I should find Pamela. Get out of this dream before it collapses on me. But the girl was right here, smoke curling from her lips, power sitting dormant in her hands.
I might as well.
I grabbed her wrist.
"You know what? Use your powers to see inside my mind instead."
She blinked. "Inside? Something that complicated? I'm not sure I can—"
"Let's go."
I started dragging her toward the building. She pulled back, heels digging into the pavement.
"Hey! It's not right to just follow some random man—"
"It's really important," I said, not slowing. "I'll give you a ten if you succeed."
She stopped resisting and sighed. "Fine. Let go and I'll follow."
I released her wrist. She trailed behind, muttering something about bad decisions.
—
The library looked wrong. The floor was older—scuffed wood instead of polished tile, shelves arranged differently, lighting dimmer. Dream logic. Everything was a half-remembered copy.
I led her to an empty corner, away from the few students scattered at tables.
"So... how do I get inside your mind exactly?" she asked, hands in her pockets.
I had no idea. But we'd improvise.
I grabbed four chairs and lined them up to form a makeshift plank. Lay down on them, testing the balance. Good enough.
"Take another chair. Sit next to my head and put your hand on my forehead."
She hesitated, then did as I asked. Her palm was warm against my skin, fingers light and uncertain.
We stayed like that.
Nothing happened.
"This isn't working," she said after a minute. "We should give it up."
I gritted my teeth. What was different last time?
Last time with Sasha, I'd been unconscious. She'd pulled me under after making me fall asleep.
I was in a dream now, but I was awake within it. That was the problem.
Simple fix.
I sat up abruptly. She pulled her hand back, confused.
Then I let myself fall sideways off the chairs, angling my temple toward the floor.
"Wait—what are you—"
Impact. Sharp, clean, immediate.
Everything went dark. Hopefully she gets to work.
I braced myself for that grotesque monster's face, but instead I woke up back in the library to a scream.
Sasha—her hand clenched tight—was standing, trembling. Panic had flooded her eyes.
"What did you see?!" I demanded, desperate for answers.
"I… AHG!" Her skin began to ripple, looking like a cracked porcelain mask fracturing—peeling away in ragged strips.
Her eyes burst—white shards flying, blood rushing in thick rivers from the hollow sockets.
I grabbed her shoulders, annoyed more than afraid.
"Answer me." She trembled under my grip.
But everything beneath the surface was rotten—flesh like dripping candlewax, oozing and twitching under a cracked mask. Her face split open along a mile-long fracture, muscles twined in torment.
She gasped, a pitiful wheeze drowning in broken vocal cords. I was covered in blood.
Her limbs snatched spasms from nowhere, jerking uncontrollably.
Her back arched sharply—vertebrae cracking like dry twigs.
Her hands clawed nails deep into palms until the skin surrendered.
Somehow, despite the melodrama, despite the explosion of gore, I only felt frustration—and a tinge of disgust at how this version of Sasha was even weaker than the real one.
Her mind shattered, her soul unraveling like a cheap sweater in someone else's hands.
Her pathetic gurgle died out.
She was done.
I released her reluctantly. Cold emptiness filled the space she left.
Screams echo. Big deal.
Was this because she was still a student in this memory?
But this… performance? This weak imitation?
I almost laughed.
Almost.
My clothes were ruined, soaked in blood and other mess she'd left behind. I didn't care. Couldn't care. Whatever.
I had one goal. Find Pamela. Break the lullaby holding me prisoner.
Students screamed when they saw me—wide-eyed terror and whispers trailing behind like ghosts. I didn't bother to play nice. After all, I lost all pretenses given by those false memories.
I pushed through, scanning faces.
Then I spotted him. A well-dressed man with broad shoulders. Teacher, probably. His eyes went wide when they landed on me.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice tight.
I shook my head. "No. Not mine."
"Whose then?"
"A student's."
He blinked like I'd just dropped a grenade.
"Why… why didn't you get help for them?"
I shrugged, trying to keep my voice steady. "Her powers malfunctioned. I wanted to find Pamela."
"Pamela?" His brow furrowed, confusion deepening into something else. Distress, maybe. Fear.
"She's in the library, probably stable. You can go check." Well that was a hard lie.
He swallowed hard, barely reminded himself to nod.
"Actually… she's out. With her husband."
I slurred a breath, gaze unfocused for a moment. Dammit. So she wanted to play the couple with another ghost. Can't have that.
Without another word, I brushed past him and made my way out to the courtyard.
A bench waited there, silent and cold.
I sat down, letting the weight of everything press against my spine.
Outside, the world moved on, untouched and uncaring. Well that was also a lie.
—
I could feel the glances. Not the friendly kind. Cold, suspicious, scared or sharp looks. The passer-bys, people googling from windows…
I thought about finding Pamela, but what for? It wasn't like I knew where she wanted to go out.
She'd come back when she was ready—or not. Maybe she'd sneak off to a hotel to charm her husband before showing her face again. Whatever. Not my problem.
I opened the bloody metal case from my pocket and lit up another cigarette. Why was I nostalgic for the southern desert? It was torture. I hate that place.
As I stood there nursing whatever was left of my pride, one woman dared to step toward me.
Zilliam.
Her hair whipped in the wind, catching the light like flames. Young, and surprisingly…pretty. Not shy or brittle like Alice the plank. No, she had curves—the kind that balanced a woman's frame with quiet strength.
She wore a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into black business trousers, the heel clicking confidently. I wondered if she felt the cold, but her posture betrayed no discomfort.
She looked good. Damn good. I almost smiled.
"Who are you?" Her voice was sharp and serious, no pretense.
I let my smile grow wider.
"Students call you 'Carter' and say you teach Economics here, but that's Mister Blois. There's no Carter on staff."
Twenty years. That much had changed? Perhaps the stress took her down a notch.
Why had I hated Zilliam so fiercely back then when I was a teacher? Because of her foolish ideals? Right now I couldn't see them. She had that focused confidence I like in women.
Not like Alice, trembling even when nothing was wrong. A coward and a liar.
She had a clear, commanding way of speaking that riveted you—even if I wasn't quite sure I liked being riveted.
For a moment, I thought about praising her—but kept my grin subtle instead.
"Didn't you hear? What did you do to my students?" She raised her hand, pale light flickering between her fingers.
I couldn't resist. "Are you going to kill me like Pamela's husband?" A grin tugged at my lips.
She froze, eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? Why would I do that?" She sounded confused. Right, it must have not happened yet if it's Pamela's memory. I must look crazy.
Oh well, I'm already up to this point.
"Don't bother trying to shove me into that dream space. I'm already dreaming. It won't work."
Her confusion deepened. She glanced at her glowing hand and flashed light at me again—nothing. Power fizzled like a blown fuse.
She looked dumbfounded.
I laughed, low and mocking. "I wonder… how exactly did you kill Pamela's husband with a dream? Or with her… how did you rip her soul from her body? You psychics are astounding."
Her face paled. She shook her head like she couldn't grasp what I was saying.
"I don't know what you mean," she whispered. "This… this isn't real."
She glanced past me, then gestured at the blood streaking my clothes.
"What's that? Are you hurt?"
I let her stare a moment longer at the wet crimson.
"That isn't mine." I said simply.
She narrowed her eyes, unsettled now.
I wanted to tell her just how little she understood. But why bother? She wasn't even real.
Oh, right. If Sasha failed to see that beast, maybe Zilliam would have better luck. I think this was supposed to be her prime.
I pointed the half-finished cigarette at my face, ember still burning. "You know, I'm in pain. I'd appreciate it if you could look inside my mind and tell me who's there. I'm somewhat haunted."
She stiffened, frustration flashing across her features. "Why would I do that? I'm here to get you out of here—"
I cut her off with a mocking smile. "There's an easy way to fix both those things. You look inside my head, tell me what you see, and I'll walk out myself. Simple."
She lifted her chin proudly. "There's no need. Heroes are already on their way."
I tilted my head, sarcasm dripping. "Aren't you a hero?"
Silence.
She didn't respond. The question sat between us, unanswered and sharp.
I let it hang for a beat, then shrugged. "Fine. Then I'll destroy the whole Academy before they arrive."
"You're not capable of that," she said, but her expression betrayed her. Eyes flickering to the blood on my shirt. Calculating. Uncertain.
I leaned back against the bench, casual. "I'll give you ten seconds to decide before I start."
"Ten."
Her jaw tightened.
"Nine."
Her hands clenched at her sides.
"Eight."
A slight shift in her posture.
"Seven."
"Six."
"Five."
She buckled.
"Wait—what exactly do I have to describe?"
I grinned. "Everything."
I said that I at least wanted to know the name of the figure that haunted me. I jokingly said that she shouldn't have to worry bec"I at least want to know the name of the figure haunting me," I said, taking a drag. "Don't worry—it likes to introduce itself to anyone who meets it."
Her brow furrowed. "How am I supposed to enter your mind if my powers didn't work earlier?"
"Simple." I stubbed out the cigarette on the bench. "I'll knock myself unconscious for a second or two. You peer into my mind during that window. Should be enough time."
She stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
I stood, steadied myself, then let my body fall forward. My temple cracked against the wood of the bench with a dull, wet thud.
Everything went dark again.