Shadow never truly forgot school.
Even though his body was now locked inside his room, his mind was often trapped there—
in those long, dull-colored hallways, with walls covered in carved names and cold wooden desks.
Every corner held a sound. Every floor remembered footsteps that once made him want to run, yet never fast enough.
Back then, Shadow was nobody.
He wasn't popular. He wasn't a troublemaker either.
He was just quiet—preferring the back seat, lowering his head when the teacher spoke, and going straight home without looking at anyone.
He believed that as long as he didn't bother anyone, the world wouldn't bother him.
He was wrong.
At first, it was just small remarks.
"Why is he always so quiet?"
"Like he doesn't even have a soul."
Light laughter. Mocking stares.
Shadow brushed it off. He convinced himself it would stop. That people would get bored.
He chose silence, because silence felt safer than fighting back.
But silence only made him an easy target.
Day after day, the teasing became routine.
His real name was used less and less. They gave him a nickname—spoken with laughter, yet felt like a small blade stabbing him again and again.
His bag was hidden. His books were scribbled on. His desk was moved.
As he searched in panic, they watched from afar, enjoying his confusion.
Shadow remembered one day with terrifying clarity.
The day heavy rain fell, soaking his shoes.
He walked alone through the back hallway of the school, hoping to reach his classroom without drawing attention.
But the sound of footsteps behind him made his neck tense.
"Hey, wait."
He stopped. His body froze.
Someone shoved him from behind—not hard, but enough to make him stumble.
His books fell, scattering across the wet floor.
The pages absorbed rainwater, the ink bleeding like spreading wounds.
"Pick them up," someone laughed.
"They're yours, right?"
Shadow knelt down, his hands shaking as he gathered the books one by one.
He could feel their eyes on him—not with anger, but with amusement.
As if his suffering were entertainment.
He didn't fight back.
He didn't respond.
He didn't scream.
He just wanted it to be over.
When he stood up, someone lightly patted his head.
Too light to be called a hit.
Too humiliating to be called a touch.
"Don't report it," a voice whispered.
"It'll just get more fun."
From that day on, fear took root.
Every morning before school, Shadow felt nauseous.
His hands were cold. His breath was short.
He stood too long in front of the front door, hoping time would stop—or the world would disappear.
But the door always opened, and he always stepped outside—toward a place that slowly eroded him.
The most painful part wasn't the blows or the insults.
It was the silence of adults.
Teachers saw him sitting alone.
Saw the faint bruises on his arms.
Heard laughter that was too loud when he passed by.
But no one asked. No one stopped it.
The world seemed to agree to pretend that everything was fine.
Shadow learned one important truth back then:
He was alone.
At night, he stared at his bedroom ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like to laugh without fear.
But every time he closed his eyes, those faces appeared. Those voices returned.
His chest tightened, as if invisible hands were pressing down on him.
One day, he stopped going to school.
At first, one day.
Then two.
Then a week.
No one came looking for him.
No one knocked on his door to ask if he was okay.
That was the day Shadow began to shut himself away.
The day he realized the world would not save him.
And if he wanted to survive, he had to disappear from human sight.
The memory faded, replaced by the silence of the room.
Shadow opened his eyes.
His breathing was heavy. His palms were damp with sweat.
His heart still raced, as if he had just run a long distance.
"School…" he murmured softly.
He stared at the locked bedroom door.
"That was my first prison."
And without realizing it, the hatred born in those school hallways was still alive—
waiting, growing, and one day, perhaps, demanding retribution.