*Thane's POV*
I sat stiffly in the chair across from the principal, my hands folded neatly in my lap, trying to ignore the way my fingers trembled. This body—Arlo's body—felt too light, too small. My heartbeat was uneven, foreign, like it wasn't mine at all. Which, technically, it wasn't.
The principal's sharp gaze bore into me, his fingers steepled as he leaned forward on his desk. His office smelled faintly of ink and coffee, the air heavy with something else—concern, maybe, or doubt.
"Arlo," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Tell me what happened."
I met his gaze, forcing myself to stay calm. My mind was still a mess, tangled between my own thoughts and fragments of Arlo's life. There were gaps, details I hadn't yet sorted through. But I knew one thing—I couldn't afford to look lost.
"What do you mean?" I asked, playing dumb.
The principal's lips pressed into a thin line. "You were found on the rooftop, dangerously close to the edge. You fainted, or so the report says. But some students claim you were about to jump."
I exhaled slowly, choosing my words carefully. "I wasn't trying to jump."
The principal studied me for a moment before sitting back in his chair. "Then what were you doing?"
I hesitated. A memory surfaced—blurry, incomplete. Arlo standing there, the wind tugging at his uniform. The pounding of his heart. The overwhelming pressure, the voices echoing in his head.
But I wasn't Arlo.
"I... I don't really remember," I lied. "I think I just blacked out. I was dizzy, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the infirmary."
The principal didn't look convinced. "Arlo, we can't ignore this. If you're struggling, you need to talk to someone."
I shook my head. "I'm fine."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "The nurse mentioned signs of stress. And now you're telling me you fainted? You can see why I'm concerned."
I glanced down at my hands, flexing my fingers. Arlo's hands. Not mine. I was still adjusting to the way they moved, the way they felt like they should belong to someone else.
"I was being bullied," I said finally, lifting my gaze to meet the principal's eyes. The words left my mouth with surprising ease, probably because they were true. Still, saying them aloud made something twist inside me—an old, dull ache I thought I had buried. "But I'm over it now."
The principal's brows knitted together in concern. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped over the desk. "Who was bullying you?" he asked, his voice even but firm.
I hesitated, my fingers curling into the fabric of my sleeve. Faces flashed through my mind—smirking mouths stretching into cruel grins, voices dripping with mockery. I could almost hear the echoes of their laughter, sharp and cutting, laced with the kind of malice that made even silence unbearable. Hands shoving me against cold lockers. Feet kicking. Books knocked from my grasp, papers scattering like fallen leaves.
I swallowed hard. There was anger there—deep, simmering, but not entirely mine. It belonged to the boy who had never been able to stand up for himself.
"It doesn't matter," I said, exhaling slowly. My voice was steady, though my hands weren't. "I just want to go back to class."
A long silence stretched between us. The principal's gaze was heavy, as if he were trying to peel back my skin and see what was underneath. He wouldn't find Arlo. Not really.
Finally, he sighed and nodded. "Alright. But if anything happens again, you come straight to me. Understood?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
He studied me for a moment longer before waving a hand toward the door. "Go on, then."
I stood, my legs stiff, and walked out without looking back.
The classroom was buzzing when I returned, but the moment I stepped in, the noise dimmed. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned toward me, some filled with curiosity, others with amusement. A few with pity.
I ignored them.
Sliding into my seat, I let my eyes drift to the window, where sunlight filtered through the glass. The teacher droned on at the front, something about historical conflicts, but I wasn't listening.
I had bigger concerns however. I just realized, I hadn't thought about Athena. Where would she had transferred to. I checked the date on the book of a classmate with a glance. It was on the tenth of May. That's seventeen days after we transferred our souls from our body.
My fingers unconsciously pressed against my chest. If she was here, she would have a mark, just like me. That was the rule. Anyone who had transferred souls would bear a sign on their body—proof that they weren't who they appeared to be.
I waited until the teacher turned toward the board before tugging at the collar of my shirt, just enough to peek beneath the fabric.
There it was.
A dark mark, shaped like a crucifix, burned into my skin just above my heart.
My stomach twisted. I had expected it, but seeing it made everything feel more real. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some feverish hallucination. I was here. In this body. And there was no going back.
The bell rang, jolting me from my thoughts.
After school, I moved through the hallways on autopilot, following a path I had never taken before but somehow knew. Arlo's body had instincts, muscle memory guiding me to the dorms.
I kept my head down as I walked, my strides steady, my breathing measured. I had no desire to stand out, no interest in engaging with the murmurs that followed me like ghosts. Yet, no matter how much I willed myself to be unseen, I felt their eyes—heavy, assessing, dissecting
Whispered voices swirled in my wake, tendrils of half-heard conversations curling into my ears, laced with curiosity, amusement, and something darker. Fragments of memory surfaced—Arlo's memories—blurring with the present, but I shoved them aside. Now was not the time.
I focused on my destination. The dormitories stood just beyond the main building, their tall, uniform frames bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Windows gleamed like polished glass, reflecting the sky's dying embers. I could almost convince myself that I was safe, that I would make it without incident.
Almost there.
Then the light dimmed. A shadow stretched across my path.
I halted.
Five figures loomed ahead, blocking the dormitory entrance. Their postures were relaxed, too casual—like a cat watching a trapped mouse. They were taller than me, broader, their presence crackling with an energy that set my nerves on edge. Their faces were etched with amusement, but beneath it, something sharper lurked. Something predatory.
One of them stepped forward, tilting his head as a smirk tugged at his lips.
"Going somewhere, Arlo?"
The words slithered through the cool evening air, sharp and taunting. They came from the tallest one in the group—a boy with a jagged scar running down his cheek like a lightning bolt. His smirk was lazy, almost casual, but his eyes… his eyes held something else. Something darker. Something that sent a slow, creeping chill down my spine.
I didn't respond. There was no need. My mind had already begun stitching the pieces together.
These were the ones.
The ones who had made Arlo's life a living nightmare.
The ones who had tormented him, mocked him, chased him down every darkened hallway, left bruises where no one would see, whispered venom into his ears until he believed every word.
The ones who thought they still had power over me.
Scarface stepped forward, the dim glow of the streetlamp casting shadows over the deep groove in his cheek. He tilted his head, voice laced with amusement. "Didn't think you'd be back," he mused, almost as if he were speaking to an old friend. "We were sure you'd be six feet under by now."
A ripple of laughter followed, low and mean, curling around me like smoke. The others—his pack—watched with smug grins, feeding off his words, waiting for me to flinch.
I didn't.
Instead, I met Scarface's gaze and let my lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile.
"Sorry to disappoint."