The shooter strode down the hallway, determined in his act. The CCTV was watching him as clear as day but he didn't care. He already knew he was not going to get away with the act. But he was going to make it hurt. All the people who had made him suffer in this dance school were going to pay. And it was going to be a part of their life.
He noticed a boy walk into the hallway, who was holding a phone and listening to music. The shooter squeezed the trigger, and there was a loud bang. The bullet smashed into the chest of the unsuspecting boy, lifting him off the ground cleanly and lurching backwards into a wall with a loud crash. The boy let out a strangled gasp as he struggled for his life, twitching violently, before slumping.
The shooter then switched to a Beretta machine gun, loading it up swiftly before bulldozing into a door on the right. The door was locked. He opened fire on the doorknob, shattering it in an instant. He proceeded to slam into it with his right leg. He didn't try three times before the door gave way, collapsing on its hinges. The gun was raised, startling the occupants inside. The girls screamed in fear and so did the boys. Some were cowering under the desk, clearly afraid.
"Where the hell is fucking Prince?!" He snarled, his voice demanding and laced with anger.
The class was silent as a graveyard in the early morning. Not a sound was heard.
"I said where is fucking Prince?!" The shooter screamed in anger and frustration. "Are you bastards fucking deaf?! Want to blow a hole in your fucking brains!"
"He...he....he's not here." A boy stammered. "I swear. You have to believe me."
The shooter's eyes roamed all over the students he saw in the classroom. His eyes settled on a pretty, blond girl under a desk whose face was drained and white with fear.
He squinted in thought, like he was trying to remember something and he did.
"You!" He spat. "You're that bitch who accused me in the mall of touching you in public last week.
The girl's eyes widened in realization, clearly remembering what she had done.
"I'm so sorry " she pleaded. "It was just meant to be a prank. I never meant for it to escalate that quickly ---"
The girl never finished her sentence as the shooter squeezed the trigger, cutting her off. The bullets slammed into the girl with a sickening sound. One of the bullets slammed into one of her eyes, exiting out the back of her skull. Another bullet pierced one of her breasts, deflating in an instant. Another bullet slammed into her chin and neck in style.
The girl collapsed, blood spurting from her neck like ketchup. She began to execute death throes violently, her remaining eye rolled backwards as she struggled for her life. She lost the struggle, and she became still.
The others were screaming in horror once they saw the girl collapse, and they were still screaming as soon as she died.
"Shut the fuck up!" The shooter screamed.
The silence suddenly became deafening. The shooter made his way out of the hall and into another classroom. He asked the same question and got the same answer. He also shot two more people in the classroom who he knew had made his life miserable.
He made his way upstairs, his face set in stone. He saw students in the hallway and opened fire, not caring who he shot. He was watching them, and he saw the fear laced in their eyes.
That was how he was. He was just like that. He was bullied and mocked, and his life was miserable from day one. Day one in this fucking high school had turned him to this.
But this gun. This beautiful gun he held in his hand was changing him. It was really changing him bit by bit. And he loved it. It was like he had gotten himself again. When everything was just perfect and happy.
This gun had become the answer to his prayers. The adrenaline coursing through his veins just from the mere gesture of holding the gun was like euphoria to him. He had become a god passing judgment on the sinners.
As soon as he reached the second floor, he began to look for the real person he wanted to kill. The others were just small fries. He was going to kill him no matter what.
The boy moved cautiously down the narrow hallway, machine gun gripped tight, the weight of his vest pressing against his chest. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards, each step echoing louder than he wanted.
Then—movement. A figure emerged from the shadows ahead.
The boy stepped closer, his face catching the dim light. For a split second, their eyes locked. Recognition flickered.
The boy's expression shifted from confusion to shock, his voice breaking the silence.
"Travis?"
The name hung in the air like a thunderclap.
The shooter's breath caught.
'No! No! No!." He thought in panic. "Why did it have to be him?"
"Chase." He managed to croak out.
Chase's eyes widened in shock.
"No, it can't be." He gasped out. "You....you're the shooter."