Kid Flex

 My name is Kyle Damian, I live with my mom Dorothy Damian, my dad passed away when I was 5 and I'd like to believe I have no enemies.
A voice from the TV echoed through the room as Kyle sat on the couch, watching the daily news. "It's been two weeks since the home of Mr. Borgov Spassky was destroyed in what authorities are calling a gas leak. The police are still investigating."
Two weeks had passed since the incident, and Kyle couldn't help but think, What's next? We've defeated our arch-nemesis in just eight chapters. Is that some kind of record?
"Kyle, Kyle, I'll be leaving on a business trip for a few days," Mrs. Damian called out as she prepared breakfast. "There's food in the freezer, and I left you some cash." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and headed out the door.
Kyle watched her leave, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. She hadn't mentioned the incident once, and it was starting to eat at him. Sensing his unease, Raknar's voice slithered into his mind. "LET'S GO HAVE SOME FUN, BOY," the demon suggested, his tone dripping with malevolent glee.
"Nuh-uh," Kyle shot back, shaking his head. He knew all too well what Raknar considered 'fun.'
"Boo hoo... Good boy, Kyle. So, I killed a couple of people. Big deal. Mama's scared of me," Raknar mocked, twisting the knife.
Kyle sighed heavily, feeling the weight of Raknar's words. "I take full responsibility, but right now, there's no way to get rid of you. So, we might as well learn to coexist," Kyle muttered.
"Fine then," Kyle continued, straightening up. "Let's set some ground rules."
A few minutes later, Bart arrived, and the two of them walked to school, animatedly discussing the latest episode of Mr. Flex.
Lately, I've been feeling a lot more confident. It's a bit scary, to be honest—this whole being possessed thing. Maybe the power is getting to me, but life hasn't been as bad as it used to be. The only thing missing is—
"Would you stop monologuing, kid? You're disturbing my sleep," Raknar's voice suddenly boomed in Kyle's head, causing him to jump in his seat. The outburst startled Kyle so much that he nearly fell out of his chair, drawing laughter from the rest of the class. But somehow, this time, the laughter didn't sting as much.
Class ended, and Kyle and Bart made their way to the cafeteria. "I DON'T LIKE THIS HUMAN," Raknar sneered, his voice dripping with disdain for Bart, but Kyle ignored him. The two boys sat together, casually swapping items from their lunches.
"Hey, Kyle," Bart leaned in close, whispering. "I think she's staring at you."
Kyle looked up, dumbfounded, as his eyes locked with those of a beautiful girl across the room. She smiled at him, and his heart skipped a beat.
"You should go talk to her," Bart urged, though he didn't really expect Kyle to follow through. "I mean, what's the worst—"
"Okay, man, I'm going," Kyle interrupted, surprising both Bart and himself. He got up and approached her, his mind racing. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Sure, have a seat," she replied, her pretty blue eyes focused intently on him.
"What's your name?" Kyle asked, feeling a little more confident.
"Clara," she answered.
Clara was a brown-skinned girl with well-defined eyes, a cute nose, and long, dark purple silky hair. She wore pink lipstick that highlighted her slender, elegant features.
"Clara, that's a nice name," Kyle said, trying not to let her beauty intimidate him. "I'm Kyle. Nice to meet you."
"You too," she said, her gaze seemingly piercing into his soul.
An awkward silence followed, and Kyle could feel panic starting to rise. I came over here like I knew how to talk to girls. What should I do now? he thought, scrambling for something to say.
"Wanna get out of here?" Clara asked suddenly, breaking the tension.
"Yes... yes, I'd love to," Kyle replied, relief washing over him.
They headed up to the school rooftop, where they were alone. "Isn't it against the rules to be up here?" Kyle asked, glancing around nervously.
"Are you scared?" Clara teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
"Oh, I like her," Raknar chuckled in the back of Kyle's mind. Ignoring the demon, Kyle walked ahead of her, taking in the view of the cityscape.
He didn't notice Clara quietly locking the door behind them and drawing a pair of katanas from her bag. "I know what you are," Clara said, her tone sharp and threatening.
Kyle spun around, alarmed, his heart racing. He had almost forgotten about the demon inhabiting his body. "Would you mind not pointing those at me?" he asked cautiously, trying to keep the situation from escalating.
"Show yourself, or I'll cut off your head," Clara demanded, her katanas gleaming in the sunlight. From her perspective, Kyle was radiating an enormous, malicious aura.
"Seems little Miss over here can smell us," Raknar hissed.
"Smell... what's going on, Raknar?" Kyle was just in time to see Clara charging at him, her katanas slicing through the air with deadly precision. His heart pounded as he instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp edge. The blade whistled past his ear, missing him by mere inches, and he felt the rush of air as it cut through the space where his head had been moments before.
Clara moved like a seasoned warrior, her strikes smooth and calculated, each one aimed with lethal intent. Her eyes were cold, focused, betraying no emotion as she unleashed a relentless flurry of attacks. Every swing of her katanas was a blur, a testament to her skill and training. She was relentless, pressing forward with the precision of a predator closing in on its prey.
Kyle dodged and weaved, his instincts heightened by Raknar's presence simmering just beneath the surface. Each time Clara's blade came close, he managed to evade, his body reacting with a speed and agility that surprised even him. But he knew he couldn't keep this up forever. Clara was too skilled, too fast, and the rooftop offered little room for maneuvering.
Clara didn't give him a moment to recover. She was already on him again, her katanas a blur of motion as she launched a series of rapid, expertly executed strikes. Kyle deflected one with his forearm, the force of the blow sending a jolt up his arm, but he managed to keep his balance. He sidestepped the next attack, his eyes darting around, searching for an opening.
"You're quick," Clara acknowledged, her voice calm and cold as she slashed at him again, her blade gleaming in the sunlight.
Kyle ducked, barely avoiding the strike, and backed up, his mind working furiously to find a way out of this. He was running out of space, the edge of the rooftop looming dangerously close. One wrong move, and he could be sent plummeting down.
"You're trying to kill me," Kyle realized, the cold truth settling in. "But why?"
As Clara advanced again, he dodged another strike, trying to keep his distance without escalating the fight.
But Clara was relentless, her strikes becoming faster, more precise, as she pushed him closer and closer to the edge of the rooftop. Kyle's back hit the ledge, and he glanced behind him, seeing the dizzying drop below.
Clara paused, her katanas held at the ready, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Why aren't you fighting back?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "What are you hiding?"
Kyle swallowed hard, trying to think of a way to diffuse the situation. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him.
Clara's eyes flicked to the side, taking in their surroundings. "You're cornered, Kyle," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "There's no escape. If you won't show yourself, I'll make you."
Before Kyle could react, Clara lunged at him with a powerful thrust, her katana aimed directly at his chest. Kyle sidestepped at the last moment, but she was already anticipating his move. She spun gracefully, bringing the other katana up in a swift arc that forced Kyle to stumble backward, his foot slipping over the edge of the roof.
For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Kyle teetered on the brink, his arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. Clara didn't miss a beat—she stepped forward, her katana inches from his throat, pinning him against the edge.