Chase stared at the screen like a fish out of water. He turned to his classmates, who were still working. They were not seeing it. He was the only one and he didn't like it one bit. He had finally gone crazy. Or maybe he was hallucinating and what he saw was a figment of his fucking imagination.
'Yeah," he thought. 'That must be it. I'm fucking hallucinating, that's all?"
He slapped himself twice on both cheeks then closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening his eyes and staring back at the screen. It was still red. It was still the same mission. It was still saying 'death by manhood explosion.' Chase lost it.
He stood up abruptly, the chair crashing to the floor like a miss.
'Oh, shit! Oh, shit!' He screamed in his mind. 'I'm fucking screwed! We're fucking screwed! Which fucking psychotic lunatic lost it?'
He took a deep breath, comported himself, and marched to the door.
"Hey." A voice called out.
Chase turned back to the voice.
It was the class representative. The girl stared at him. "I would like to know where you are going? As you can see, you still have work to finish."
Chase stared at her for a moment before he replied. "Not like it's any of your business, but I want to use the toilet. "
The girl stared at him suspiciously.
Chase added. "Unless you want to watch me take a dump, be my guest."
Surprisingly, the class chuckled at his quip as he opened the door and walked out, closing it. Immediately, he headed for the bathroom, which was located way downstairs.
"Dammit, that crazy bitch delayed me." He cursed. "He must have started shooting by now.
He needed to stop him. He had to. But how? It was only one way to find out?
---------
The bathroom was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent bulb casting sharp shadows across the cracked tiles. Steam from the shower still clung to the mirror, blurring the reflection of the boy standing in front of it. He was no older than sixteen, but his eyes held a weight far beyond his years—focused, unflinching.
On the counter lay a box of 12-gauge shells. One by one, he loaded them into the chamber of his pump-action shotgun with practiced precision. The metallic click of each round sliding into place echoed off the walls, a rhythm of resolve. His fingers, wrapped in tight black tactical gloves, moved quickly but deliberately—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
He turned to the vest hanging on the back of the door. It was heavy, layered with Kevlar panels and stitched with loops for ammunition. He slipped it over his head, the weight settling on his shoulders like armor. He adjusted the straps, pulling them snug against his torso, then began stacking strings of shotgun shells across his chest—bandoliers of brass and steel, each one a promise of protection.
His breathing was steady, controlled. He reached for a black hoodie and pulled it over the vest, concealing the bulk beneath fabric. The gloves gave him grip, the vest gave him cover, and the shotgun—resting against the sink—gave him power.
He then picked up the shotgun and stared at it for a moment. He knew that what he was about to do would change his life forever. And he was going to do it.
The door suddenly opened as a couple entered, kissing hungrily, hands all over each other, and giggling. They suddenly froze when they found someone in the bathroom. Then their shock turned to horror as they saw what he was holding in his hand.
They broke apart as fast as lightning, edging back against the wall. The girl was about to scream but she instinctively slapped her hand against her mouth.
The place became silent like a graveyard. The boy stared at the couple, a blank look on his face.
"Look, ma....." The boy began, ready to plead as he was scared.
A gunshot rang out, destroying the tension that had become so thick in an instant. The boy's head blew up like a watermelon. He let out a strangled choke before collapsing on the ground like a doll whose strings had been caught.
The boy twitched violently, blood gushing profusely from his disfigured head. An eyeball beside it, twitching also. Then the boy stopped breathing, becoming very still.
The girl paled in fright as she stared at her boyfriend, who had just become a corpse in an instant. She screamed at the top of her lungs and sprinted out of the door.
The shooter sighed, swiftly reloading, before stepping out of the bathroom door, catching the frightened girl as she ran in his line of sight. He aimed, squeezed the trigger as she ran; there was a loud bang, and the girl's foot blew up like a firework.
She screamed as she collapsed on the ground, clutching her disfigured stump of a foot, crying in pain. He walked up to her, the latter edging back until she was against the wall.
"I didn't tell you to run, did I?" The shooter spoke, his voice cold as ice.
"I'm sorry!" The girl sobbed in fear. "Please don't kill, me! I'll do anything."
He released her hand and then raised her chin up. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt you."
He straightened up, raising the gun and pointing it at her with a blank, steely look on his face. "I'm going to destroy you."
The girl raised her hands to plead, but he squeezed the trigger, and there was a loud bang, cutting the girl off immediately.
The shooter reloaded, before leaving the shot girl to strangle out her last breath.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "I'm gonna find that fucking bastard Prince and I'm going to murder him.