Chapter 19: Decisions and Regrets, Part Three.

"At the edge of the abyss where light and darkness intertwined, her voice was an echo that could be either a spell of redemption or a curse for her lost soul." —Excerpt from an unpublished manuscript: Inks and Swords.

Brián Morningstar's Perspective.

Should he? Or shouldn't he? And... what was this unpleasant sensation lodged in his stomach? An irrefutable disgust, etched as if by a slow burn. Before him stood a door leading to the women's restroom, if the sign above its frame was to be trusted.

His hands trembled, clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Anxiety coursed through his system like a poison. "I shouldn't, I shouldn't..." he repeated to himself over and over, but that nauseating feeling remained, clinging to him like a shadow. If something really were happening, a simple door wouldn't stop him from hearing it.

His indecision grew in tandem with that repulsive sensation rising in his esophagus, almost as if he were about to vomit from sheer disgust.

With Meru having disappeared to who-knew-where, Brián decided to eat quickly and end his picnic prematurely. He thought it a good idea, especially since he wanted to check the school library for another book that might aid his studies. Imagine his surprise when, midway there, he spotted from a distance the very person he'd hoped to encounter over the past few days. Yes, the silver-haired girl. Someone who reminded him so much of... He shook his head; no, he wasn't in the mood to fall into that pit of despair again.

Still, given how little he knew about the silver-haired girl, he couldn't say whether the four other girls with cheerful smiles accompanying her were friends or tormentors. Forming hypotheses was tricky. "Of course, you colossal idiot! You just don't want to be branded as some creepy stalker for going into the women's restroom. That's why you're making all these dumb excuses," he chided himself.

He didn't mean to sound offensive toward the silver-haired girl, but with what little he knew of her and the shy personality she'd shown in their brief conversation, he tended to believe making friends would be harder for her than making enemies. Especially when other people were dumb enough to perceive that kind of demeanor as condescending rather than understanding she might simply be socially awkward. Yes, those kinds of people existed—of course they did.

That last thought darkened his gaze, a bitter memory cutting through him like a blade. "Whatever... your reputation's already in the gutter. One more stain won't kill the tiger," he muttered. He shot the door a sharp glare and placed his hand on the handle. If his assumptions were way off, he could always feign ignorance and claim he'd made a mistake.

When he tried turning the handle, his brow furrowed. That unpleasant sensation in his stomach magnified a thousandfold, exploding in his chest as his brain cataloged every red flag in the situation. He applied more force, but it wouldn't budge, as if... his eyes widened slightly, as if... someone on the other side was holding it shut. With that realization, the sickening feeling only grew stronger.

I don't like this. I don't like this at all... His gaze sharpened, his irises turning icy. No, he didn't like this one bit. Not again. This couldn't be happening again. Maybe he was overreacting, but he wasn't about to repeat the mistakes of the past—he'd have to be insane to do that.

All or nothing, he thought. He stepped back, raised his leg, and kicked the door with force. Given his considerable inhuman strength, the result was predictable. Part of the door's hinges detached, and whatever had been holding it closed hadn't expected such violence, ending up face-first on the floor.

The door swung wide open, granting him unobstructed access to the restroom. What he saw only made his blood boil with murderous intent. If his eyes had been icy before, they now looked lifeless, for the sight before him churned his stomach to the point of nausea.

"Well, well, even here this disgusting filth exists," he said, venom dripping from every syllable.

"Who the hell...?"

He'd admit it—just for a second, all he saw was red. That was why he didn't hesitate to smash the nearest face to his position with full force. When he realized what he'd done, he couldn't bring himself to care; in his opinion, everyone present—except for the victim involved—deserved to die in the most horrific ways imaginable.

The girl he struck—one of the four—was sent flying, skidding across the tiled floor until she hit the far wall of the restroom. Unconscious and with her nose broken, it was clear she wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

With the time bought by his surprise attack, he started taking in his surroundings and formulating a plan. He quickly realized something painfully obvious: he couldn't win in a fight.

Excluding the girl he'd knocked out, the one who'd been holding the door—now recovering from her fall—and the silver-haired girl, no one else in the room looked even close to 12 years old.

The other two girls appeared to be around 13 or 14, while the three boys ranged from 15 to 16. His gaze scanned the bathroom: large and spacious, with tiled walls, sinks lined up in front of a massive rectangular mirror on one side, and on the other, stalls with steel partitions instead of compact plastic. No windows, and what he guessed were odd-looking air vents scattered around.

Finally, his eyes settled on the silver-haired girl, and a wave of unfiltered rage coursed through him. His hands clenched into tight fists, ready to destroy. The bandages over her eyes were poorly secured, partially revealing what they were meant to hide. Her dress was in tatters, and most disturbing of all—what made his stomach churn with disgust and anger—she wore only underwear from the waist down.

She was pinned by one of the bastards—the tallest of them—who had his filthy hands occupied: one buried inside her underwear, the other squeezing her chest at his leisure. Did I mention this scumbag looked around 16? What a piece of shit, he thought, his urge to smash the guy's face surging as he noted the disgusting expression plastered across it.

Yet, he took a few steps back, crossing the threshold of the doorway. He didn't trust his physical abilities, so he gambled on his brain to get him out of this mess.

"You're disgusting, so repulsive it makes me sick! You think you have the right to toy with other people's lives, that you can do whatever you want without facing consequences!" he yelled, pouring every ounce of venom into his words, raising his voice to its loudest in the hopes of drawing attention to this place. Surely someone had to hear him.

A subtle, mocking laugh interrupted him. One of the three boys—the one who radiated the greatest revulsion and danger—smiled, his expression brimming with arrogance and smug satisfaction. That same boy stepped forward.

"It doesn't matter if you step outside the bathroom, and it doesn't matter how loud you scream. Your plan to draw attention won't work. But, I have to admit, I'm impressed. You're a quick thinker, and I like that," he said, pointing his thumb toward one of his companions. "You see, my friend over there has a rather unique Trait, one that lets him control the amount of noise going in and out of a place, so..."

Unfortunately for him, Brián didn't let him finish. His main plan seemed to have failed before it could even start, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rock. Without hesitation, he hurled it with all his strength at the boy who supposedly could neutralize sound.

Why carry rocks? Well, why not—especially when you can throw them with the force of a damn bullet.

However, his improvised plan failed spectacularly when the same smug boy effortlessly caught the projectile without even trying, confirming Brián's suspicion that he wouldn't stand a chance in a direct fight.

"You're more interesting than I thought, but something that slow wouldn't have taken Víctor out of the game. Try harder next time." The same guy smirked, casually tossing the rock in his hand before winking. "Here, let me give it back to you," he said.

His pupils dilated to their maximum, capturing every movement of that guy who repulsed him so much. He saw the muscles in the guy's arm tense, the skin stretching tautly over them, signaling the imminent throw. His body reacted instinctively, moving before his mind could process the danger. In a swift turn, he tilted his torso to the side just as the rock sliced through the air mere centimeters from his face. The projectile grazed his cheek, leaving a sharp sting in its wake, accompanied by a high-pitched whistle that reached his ears a fraction of a second later.

The impact echoed behind him with a dull, cracking thud. The rock struck the wall, leaving a deep dent before falling to the ground, lifeless, as though all its fury had dissipated the moment it completed its task. He frowned, worried. This... was undoubtedly a disaster.

"Wow, I didn't expect you to dodge that. Not bad for a first-year," the guy said, his grin shifting into something both charming and grotesque, revealing just what kind of person he was. Upon realizing it, Brián couldn't hold back his own disdainful retort. His lips curled into a smirk, dripping with irony.

"Here or back home, it's always the same. You always run into the same garbage," he muttered, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back.

"Ohh, look at me! I'm unique, I'm different. Wow... is it really this easy to provoke people? To make them do whatever I want?"

Brián chuckled to himself, gesturing broadly in mockery, his performance a flawless mirror of this type of bastard. "In every form, in every color," he muttered, his face darkening. "I can recognize a damn sociopath when they're standing right in front of me."

His sharp eyes scanned the bathroom like a hawk sizing up its prey, dissecting every detail, every face, and in mere seconds, he pieced together a hypothetical scenario. "Tell me, who's your puppet? Who did you drag into your filthy little game?" he demanded, his voice laced with a visceral hatred that stemmed as much from the past as the present.

A cacophony of laughter echoed through the room, shrill and unsettling, enveloping the space like a dark tide. The sociopath covered his mouth, as if to stifle it, but the attempt was futile—he was too entertained. Between bursts of laughter, he began to applaud, slowing only once he'd composed himself.

"Bravo, bravo... I'm impressed. You're amazing; with so little, you already know so much," he said, his grin growing bolder as his twisted admiration for Brián seemed to deepen with every word.

"So tell me, what else can you figure out?" he asked, tilting his head with deliberate theatricality.

Brián's expression hardened, his features losing every trace of humanity. He quickly ruled out the two younger girls—they were too erratic to play the role of puppet, whether consciously or not. His attention shifted to the one who appeared most confused and finally settled on the one who seemed the least tense in the situation.

"I'd bet on her," Brián said, nodding subtly in her direction.

The sociopath's smirk widened into something almost grotesque. "Looks like you're caught, Lydia," he said with relish.

The girl in question visibly trembled, her nerves fraying under the accusation. Brián cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the tense air.

"Let me guess—if one of you can block sound, another must have the power to ensure that whatever happens here stays a secret. What a pathetic cliché."

The applause resumed, slow and mocking. "Quite perceptive, I must say. You've got quite the brain in that little head of yours," the sociopath said, his voice brimming with malicious amusement. "Tell me, have you ever heard of slave contracts? They're so easy to use, especially when you can bypass their biggest inconvenience: the consent of the subject."

His grin stretched wider, the deranged glee in his voice nearly infectious. "By the way, I'm Ronan. What's your name?"

Brián narrowed his eyes, disgust radiating from every fiber of his being. "A bastard like you doesn't deserve to know it," he replied, his voice dripping with disdain.

Ronan only grinned further. "I think you and I could be great friends," he said, suppressing another bout of laughter. "Sorry, it's just so entertaining watching you play the noble knight in shining armor."

Brián didn't respond, but his gaze grew sharper, more dangerous. Then, cutting through the tension, a desperate voice—one he recognized—rang out.

"Just go! Run and get out of here! I'll be fine!" screamed the silver-haired girl.

Ronan shook his head with exaggerated disapproval, his expression a twisted mockery of pity. "You're smart, so I know we both understand the same thing. If you leave, she suffers in your place. If you stay, you suffer in hers. Equivalent exchange in a hostage situation," he explained with chilling calm.

The thought hadn't even crossed Brián's mind—he refused to let it, because if he did, he might as well commit seppuku right then and there.

Ronan continued, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. "I'll admit, I didn't think that girl had a hidden friend. You're a pleasant surprise. I've been having quite a bit of fun, seeing how a few words here and there could change the mindset of that other girl you knocked out—the one who initially just wanted to befriend the poor blind girl."

He gestured theatrically, as if presenting a grand performance. "But that got boring far too quickly, so I had to switch things up. Pulling the strings is so easy when someone's eating out of your hand."

Ronan spread his arms wide, like a maestro orchestrating a twisted symphony. "When faced with such easy prey, I couldn't resist getting involved. Watching someone fall, breaking them little by little—it's... exquisite, isn't it?"

Brián exhaled slowly, the red haze threatening to cloud his vision again. He couldn't give in—this was yet another pathetic ploy by the sociopath to make him stumble.

"You know, I've never been one to drag things out. Why don't we cut to the chase? Just shut up and fight—since you've left me no other choice," Brián said coldly, his voice devoid of fear.

Ronan winked at him. "You're a tough nut to crack. I thought you'd fall for this, but it seems I was wrong. A shame that the idea of offering you my friendship doesn't appeal to you at all."

With that final comment and without warning, Ronan moved. His fist shot directly toward Lydia, who remained frozen in disbelief at being uncovered so easily. Time seemed to slow for Brián, his body sending a warning—a spark of instinct urging him to act now or witness something utterly grotesque. Without hesitation, he acted.

A tingling sensation surged through his arm, akin to the cramp one feels in a strained muscle. It was the same feeling he'd experienced a few times during his clashes with his maniacal fencing instructor—the same signal foretelling the skill he'd been striving to perfect as if in a stupid video game. Taking full advantage of the element of surprise, his fist connected first—a perfect hook shot out, sending Lydia flying against the nearest stall.

His punch landed squarely on Lydia's face, saving her from potential death. But don't be mistaken—his blow carried every intention of hurting her. A tense silence gripped the room, broken only by the echo of the impact and the labored breathing of those present. In that silence, only two people truly understood the purpose of his actions.

Ronan narrowed his eyes, clearly entertained by being found out so quickly yet again. Brián, on the other hand, spat out a silent curse, his eyes blazing with pure hatred. "Sociopathic bastard, discarding his toy the moment it stops being useful," his mind hissed, deducing exactly what was about to happen.

Lydia's body collided with the steel panels of the stall, the impact reverberating in the confined space. The sheets bent slightly under the force, but Brián didn't let his guard down. This girl was older than the apparent age of his current body. He also recalled one crucial lesson: for some reason, every woman in this world was absurdly strong. Two was a coincidence; three, a certainty.

And he was right. Lydia was already beginning to recover. Too bad for her that Brián was fully committed to gender equality—a concept that had seemed very important in his time. As he said, he'd struck with every intention of hurting her, but he wasn't a cold-blooded killer.

Don't misunderstand—he believed people like her deserved to burn in hell for all eternity. He didn't care if she died; he just didn't want it to happen before his eyes, or he'd never sleep tonight—if, of course, he somehow survived this.

The tingling sensation, like an electric shock, returned to his arm. Without much thought, he moved, unleashing another punch with fury. The impact reverberated as Lydia's face distorted under the blow. The steel panels bent further, leaving a noticeable dent.

The tingling faded, but that didn't stop his arm from delivering punch after punch, relentless and merciless. Each strike was a lash of hatred, each one more brutal than the last, until... the tingling returned. The final blow landed squarely on Lydia's face, with overwhelming force, sending her into a deep sleep and momentarily pulling her from the brink of death.

This girl was no innocent dove—this was the least she deserved, or so Brián believed. After all, he wasn't the true victim of her harassment.

Her face was a bloody mess, a scene straight out of a slasher movie, so disfigured it was hard to identify her. Well, that was her fault for resisting so much. If she'd fallen with the first punch, there'd have been no need for such violence. Slave contract or not, his opinion remained the same: that bitch deserved to die—just not before his eyes. She should be thankful he wasn't a murderer; otherwise, her brains would already be splattered across the walls and floor, because Ronan's punch had undoubtedly been powerful enough to do it.

The stall, needless to say, was destroyed—so much so that opening the door was unnecessary to see its contents: a simple toilet with its tank. A smile crept across his face. He grabbed the ceramic tank lid with one hand and rushed out. The sound of the blows hadn't been enough to snap the other two girls out of their stupor. Good for him, and good for them, that Ronan allowed him to do as he pleased, entertained by the outburst against Lydia.

The tingling sensation returned, and with haste, Brián prepared his arm and hurled the ceramic lid with all his strength toward the next victim's face. She didn't see it coming and took the full brunt of the impact on her forehead. The ceramic shattered into smaller fragments, and the upper half of the girl's body tilted backward under the force of the hit.

Once again, Brián was reminded of how terrifying women in this world could be, as apparently, smashing a toilet lid over her head wasn't enough to bring her down.

He approached like a bullet, hooking his leg around his opponent's heels in one swift motion and making her stumble. His hand moved like a claw, seizing the girl's face. Without hesitation, he applied pressure and slammed her into the ground with all his might. It was a shame he wasn't strong enough to shatter the stone tiles; it would've looked amazing.

The dull thud that followed was painful even for him, though he was already preparing to throw another punch. Soon, however, he managed to calm himself—fortunately, this girl wasn't as resilient as the last one, whom he'd deemed the most dangerous of the group. Seeing her unconscious, he felt nothing but indifference. In his opinion, she deserved worse, but unjustified violence wasn't his style.

His gaze slid toward the last member of the group, the one trembling as she held the door shut to prevent others from entering. When she noticed his stare, she froze instantly, as if time itself had stopped for her. He began approaching her with slow, almost deliberate steps, but she, drenched in sweat from panic, stumbled over her own feet and landed on her rear.

"I... I didn't mean to..." she stammered, scrambling backward like a cornered animal. Too bad he couldn't care less.

"You know... in a fight, throwing yourself on the ground is dangerous. Bad people might take the chance to give you a good knock on the head," he said coldly, watching as the girl's back hit a wall, leaving her just beneath the sinks. Without another word, he moved swiftly, his leg connecting with the side of her head in a precise strike, knocking her out in one brutal motion.

He didn't care one bit about how she felt—just as they didn't give a damn about how the silver-haired girl felt. It was enough that they should be grateful for his courtesy in sparing their lives.

"Women are scary, aren't they?" he said to Ronan, who seemed content to let him do whatever he wanted, satisfied with the display before him. He didn't receive a verbal reply, but Ronan's nod was enough to confirm they were on the same page.

Brián sighed, brushing his hair back from his face. He wouldn't lie—this made him feel better. Hunting down culprits individually was complicated; better that all of them received the same treatment. It was easier that way. After all, they'd chosen the same path and agreed to become tormentors.

In his eyes, these bitches deserved far worse. Who knew how long they'd been playing their disgusting games? Who knew how much physical or emotional pain they'd inflicted? He didn't want to think about it; just the thought made him see red. He didn't know the silver-haired girl at all, but the simple act of her caring for him when he'd passed out from his own stupidity was enough to make him fight for her. At least he'd returned the blow—not much, but a reasonable start.

His gaze returned to the girl, still trapped in the grasp of one of those bastards. The man, stunned by the violence of Brián's actions, wore an expression of disbelief. And this guy had the audacity to look at him like that while holding someone against their will? What a son of a bitch, Brián thought furiously.

He rolled his wrists to loosen them, his icy stare sharp enough to pierce through the three men, who were far taller and bulkier than him.

"Alright, I think I'm satisfied with my performance. I'm ready to take a good beating now. So, how about we end this crap?" he said with a bold smirk, making no effort to hide his mockery. After all, an insurmountable wall stood right in front of him.

He didn't have high expectations; he knew better. It was logical, considering this entire altercation had lasted barely two miserable minutes. Yes, those two minutes also included his rapid assault on the bullies, whom he'd knocked out in seconds—less than ten, if anyone were counting.

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The author speaking here.

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