Dark void

The library was a cathedral of silence, its towering shelves casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the slanted afternoon light, settling on the spines of forgotten books. Ritu sat alone at a corner table, his posture rigid, like a statue carved from stone. His burned face—half smooth, half ravaged by scar tissue—was partially hidden behind a copy of Nietzsche's *Beyond Good and Evil*. He turned the pages mechanically, his eyes scanning words without absorbing them. To him, philosophy was neither enlightening nor pretentious; it was simply noise, a distraction from the hollow static that filled his mind. 

Roéà had been watching him for weeks. 

She lingered by the history section, peering over the top of a book on existentialism. Her curiosity was a relentless itch. Ritu fascinated her—not because he was a mystery, but because he seemed to reject the very idea of being *known*. Where others saw a monster, she saw a void, a black hole that absorbed light but gave nothing back. Today, she decided, she would prod that void. 

She slid into the chair across from him, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. Ritu didn't flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the page, though his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the book's edges. 

"Nietzsche," Roéà said, nodding at his choice. "*'He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.'*" 

No reaction. 

She leaned forward, undeterred. "Do you ever wonder if you're the monster, Ritu? Or if you're just… empty?" 

His eyes flicked up, cold and flat, like two coins left too long in the snow. "Monsters feel. I don't." 

His voice was a monotone, devoid of inflection. Roéà's pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the thrill of a cracked door. She pressed harder. "You took down SKC High. Thirty trained killers. You don't do that without *feeling* something." 

Ritu closed the book. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. "You mistake purpose for emotion. I acted. That's all." 

"But *why*?" 

"Why not?" 

Roéà opened her mouth to retort, but a shadow fell over the table. Teae stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing a worn copy of *The Art of War* on his fingertips. His expression was as languid as ever, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—betrayed a flicker of interest. 

"Philosophy club?" he drawled, dropping into the seat beside Roéà. "Should've brought snacks." 

Ritu stood abruptly, chair screeching. He moved to leave, but Teae's voice slithered after him. "SKC's headmaster had his throat ripped out with bare hands. Messy. Personal. You sure that wasn't *feeling*, Ritu?" 

Ritu froze. For a heartbeat, the air thickened, charged with something feral. Then, without turning, he said, "Efficiency isn't personal." 

Roéà watched him stride away, his broad back tense beneath his uniform. She turned to Teae, irritation flaring. "What was *that*?" 

Teae flipped open his book, a smirk playing on his lips. "Testing a theory." 

"You're an asshole." 

"And you're obsessed." He glanced at her, his gaze piercing. "Careful, Roéà. Voids don't get filled. They swallow." 

--- 

**Later, on the rooftop** 

Ritu stood at the edge, the wind clawing at his clothes. The city sprawled below him, a labyrinth of lights and shadows. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel anything. 

Footsteps approached—light, deliberate. Teae leaned against the railing beside him, lighting a cigarette. The ember glowed like a tiny inferno in the dusk. 

"You're not the first weapon I've met," Teae said, blowing smoke into the wind. "But you're the first one who *likes* being a weapon." 

Ritu said nothing. 

"SKC trained killers. You killed killers. Poetic, I guess." Teae's tone was casual, but his next words were a blade. "What did they do to you? Burn you? Break you? Or did you volunteer?" 

Ritu's jaw twitched. A memory flickered—a dark room, the stench of antiseptic, hands pinning him down as a white-hot brand seared his face. He'd screamed then. He didn't scream anymore. 

Teae pressed. "You're not the only one with scars, you know." 

"Scars imply healing," Ritu said, his voice dead. "I didn't." 

For the first time, Teae's mask slipped. His eyes narrowed, a flash of something raw and hungry. "What if I told you I could make you feel again?" 

Ritu turned, his expression glacial. "I'd say you're a liar." 

Teae grinned, all teeth. "Maybe. But you'll never know unless you play." 

--- 

Meanwhile, in the courtyard 

Roéà found Ritu's notebook. 

It had fallen from his bag during the library encounter—a small, black leather journal, its pages blank except for a single sentence, repeated over and over in precise, angry script: 

*"I am not alive. I am not alive. I am not alive."* 

She traced the words, her chest tight. Loyalty warred with fear. She shouldn't pry. But she *needed* to understand. 

When she returned the notebook, Ritu was waiting at the bridge. He took it without thanks, his eyes boring into hers. 

"Stop digging," he said. 

"Or what?" she challenged. 

For a moment, something flickered in his void-like gaze—a spark, a tremor. Then it died. 

"Or you'll regret it," he said, walking away. 

Roéà smiled. *Progress.*