A Quiet Life Denied

Franz stood still for a beat, steam curling from his lips as he drew in one slow breath and let it out. Inhale. Exhale. His chest rose and fell with deliberate rhythm, mechanical, too even to belong to someone who had just been running at inhumane speed.

The hood of his sweatshirt shadowed his face.

For the first time since the whistle blew, the girls around him froze. Serena Caldwell— Her eyes lingered on him with something sharper. Something she didn't want to name.

Above them, the scoreboard lit up, flooding the cracked concrete in cold neon glow:

"Blue Team—Victory!"

The word Victory hung in the air like smoke.

Franz dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the sweat that clung to his skin. He exhaled hard, voice low, barely audible.

"…What the fuck just happened?"

[We won.]

< See? I told you. Piece of cake. >

He didn't answer. His expression never shifted. His eyes—hollow, empty—fixed on nothing. Normally, he would have shot back, sneered, or told Arcadia to shut the fuck up. But not now..

It was back. That memory. That blur of mud and blood. He thought he'd buried it. He thought silence had finally come. But it had clawed out again, dragging itself into this moment.

Why now? he thought. Why at that time?

His chest tightened. His steps carried him forward toward the exit. His mind said only: Go home.

Serena's POV

"Wait."

The word slipped out before she realized it.

He stopped. For a second, she thought he would keep walking. Then—slowly, deliberately—he raised a hand and lowered his hood.

It was the first time she had seen him like this, exposed under the harsh arena lights.

Dark strands of hair clung damp to his forehead before his fingers combed them back. His face—God, his face—was all sharp planes and angles, the kind of symmetry that made you wonder if the world had carved him rather than born him. The line of his jaw caught the glow of the scoreboard, shadow and light fighting across his skin.

Serena's chest constricted. A rush of heat hit her so fast she felt dizzy. Her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting just enough to pull in air that no longer seemed to want to come.

She hated it. She hated how her pulse betrayed her, hammering harder with every second she looked at him. She hated the flush creeping up her neck, across her cheeks, heat blooming beneath her skin until it was unbearable.

Still, her voice managed to rise. A whisper, uneven, trembling at the edges: "What… is your name?"

His eyes lifted to hers.

"Franz Kafka."

Cold. Flat.

And then he turned and walked away.

Serena stood rooted, her fists curling tight at her sides. Her whole body was trembling. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, the frantic rhythm of her heart, the uneven drag of her breath.

Who gave him the right?

Who gave him the right to make her feel this way?

Franz's POV

The corridor stretched before him. Long. Empty. Its overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, their light pale and sickly, flickering across cracked walls. Every voice, every cheer behind him blurred into static. Faces became smudges in his vision, moving without meaning.

<Hey, you okay ?>

[Something's off. Your thoughts—they're… not there. I can't read them.]

He ignored them.

He moved like a shadow, each step heavy but distant, as if his body belonged to someone else. The muffled noise swelled, then dropped again. He couldn't tell if it was his ears or his mind that was shutting the world out.

Then he saw them.

The others. Their mouths moved. Their eyes fixed on him. Voices reached out, but the words refused to form. All of it dulled to a meaningless blur.

Then—contact.

A hand brushed his arm. Lena.

Her voice broke through, muffled but sharp enough to cut. "Are you okay?"

And the world slowed.

His hand rose before he knew it, clamping around her throat. Her body slammed against the wall, the sound echoing like a drumbeat. His fingers squeezed. He watched the tendons of his own hand flex, the knuckles whiten, but he felt nothing. No warmth of skin against skin. No give of flesh under his grip. Not even the vibration of her struggle.

Nothing.

She stared back at him, her eyes wide, glassy, catching the sterile light of the corridor. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her chestnut hair fanned against the wall, strands gleaming like silk, curling around her face in disarray. Her lips were full, flushed from shock. Her skin pale, fine as porcelain.

Beautiful.

He tilted his head, studying the sight as if she were a painting, as if he were observing the final flicker of flame in her gaze.

Her pupils widened. The light was leaving her.

Still—nothing. Not fear. Not rage. Not guilt. Not even satisfaction. His chest was hollow.

He blinked.

Her hand was just on his arm. Her voice repeated, the same concern as before. "Are you okay?"

The air snapped back. The corridor brightened again.

"…Yeah." His tone was flat, detached. "I'm just tired."

She tilted her head, brows knitting. But before the silence deepened, Emphera's voice cut in like glass shattering.

"No, no! You can't be tired—we're throwing a party for acing the test!"

"You didn't ace anything," Iris retorted, sharp as a blade.

Emphera huffed. "Oh, don't be such a mood spoiler!"

Their voices scraped against his skull like static. He shifted his gaze past them, locking on Orion.

His lips moved silently. Take them away from me.

Orion stiffened, but his eyes hardened with understanding. He nodded once. He began pulling the others with him, steering them away. Good. They didn't need to be near him. Not now.

He kept walking. His legs carried him forward, though he felt nothing in them. Just the rhythm of steps. Hollow.

The exit door screeched open on rusted hinges. Cold night air hit him, sharp and damp, clinging to his skin but he felt nothing.

The motorcycle waited in the lot. Black. Cold. Familiar.

He swung onto it. The leather seat groaned beneath his weight. His hand twisted the ignition. The engine roared alive, its vibrations running up through his arms, the first real sensation he had felt all night.

He accelerated. Gravel spat out beneath the tires. Streetlights blurred into streaks of white and yellow. The city around him stretched, warped, as if it too wanted to escape itself.

[Hey, stay with me.]

< Something's wrong. You're not listening. >

He didn't answer. Didn't listen.

The systems spoke, their voices tangled, but the hollow roar of the bike swallowed them whole.

The world blurred past. His chest remained empty. His eyes hollow.

He was there, in the passenger seat of my mind. The one I had buried under years of concrete and control. The one whose memory is a key that unlocks the door to this… hollowness.

Why the fuck did he have to come back?