The Edge of Empathy

The bridge had become Ritu's sanctuary, a liminal space between the school's chaos and the void inside him. Tonight, the moon hung low and heavy, its silver light reflecting off the river like shattered glass. Ritu stood at the railing, his scarred face tilted upward, as if waiting for the sky to answer a question he'd never voiced. 

Roéà found him there. 

She approached silently, her shoes crunching gravel. He didn't turn, but his shoulders tensed—a predator sensing movement. She stopped a few feet away, clutching his journal to her chest like a shield. 

"You forgot this," she said. 

He didn't move. 

"I didn't read it," she lied. 

The journal's pages had seared her—*I am not alive. I am not alive.*—but she'd closed it quickly, guilt souring her throat. Now, she held it out, her arm trembling slightly. 

Ritu turned. His eyes were black holes in the moonlight. "You're a terrible liar." 

Roéà's breath hitched. "Then why write it down? If you didn't want anyone to see?" 

"To remind myself." His voice was flat, mechanical. "Delusions are dangerous." 

"Delusions of what? *Life*?" 

He stepped closer. The air turned frigid, as if his presence leached warmth from the world. "Life requires desire. Fear. Hope. I have none of those things." 

Roéà refused to retreat. "Then what *do* you have?" 

"Purpose." 

"To what? Destroy? Hurt people?" 

"To exist." 

She laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "That's not living, Ritu. That's just… surviving." 

"Surviving is all there is." 

Before she could argue, a crash echoed from the soccer field below. Raucous laughter followed—a group of boys from a rival school, their voices slurred with cheap sake. One kicked a stray ball hard against the bridge's support beam, the impact reverberating through the structure. 

Ritu didn't flinch. Roéà gripped the railing, her knuckles white. 

"Hey, freaks!" one boy shouted, spotting them. "You gonna jump or what?" 

Ritu turned away, disinterested. But Roéà's temper flared. "Ignore them," she muttered. "They're not worth it." 

"Worth is subjective," Ritu said, almost to himself. 

One of the boys lobbed an empty bottle. It shattered at Roéà's feet, glass skittering across the concrete. She yelped, jumping back—and slipped on the debris. 

Ritu caught her wrist an inch before she hit the ground. His grip was vise-like, impersonal, as if he'd grabbed a falling object, not a person. He pulled her upright, then released her like she'd burned him. 

"Thanks," she breathed. 

He didn't acknowledge her. Below, the boys howled with laughter. 

Then Teae appeared. 

He strolled out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, as if he'd been watching the whole time. "*Tsk, tsk*. Bad manners," he called down to the group. "You shouldn't throw things at ladies. Or monsters." 

The boys froze. Teae's voice was honeyed, but his smile was a sickle moon. 

"Who the hell are you?" their leader sneered. 

Teae tilted his head. "The guy who's about to save your lives." He nodded at Ritu. "See that one? He doesn't feel anger. Or mercy. But he *does* like breaking things." 

Ritu's expression remained blank. 

The boys hesitated, then burst into jeers. "You think we're scared of a burned-up cripple?" 

Teae sighed. "Welp. I tried." 

He stepped aside just as Ritu vaulted the railing. 

Ritu landed in a crouch, silent as a shadow. The boys stumbled back, their bravado cracking. 

"Get him!" the leader barked. 

They rushed Ritu in a clumsy swarm. He moved like water—fluid, effortless. A fist swung at his face; he caught the wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and dropped the boy screaming. Another lunged with a pocketknife; Ritu disarmed him with a flick of his hand, then drove the blade into the boy's thigh. Not a kill. Not even a glance. 

It wasn't fighting. It was dissection. 

Roéà watched, horrified and mesmerized. This wasn't the Ritu who'd caught her—this was something feral, *efficient*, a machine honed for violence. 

Teae leaned against the bridge, lighting another cigarette. "Beautiful, isn't he?" 

"Stop him!" Roéà hissed. 

"Why? They started it." 

"He'll kill someone!" 

Teae blew smoke into the night. "Doubt it. He's not *motivated* enough." 

Sure enough, Ritu ended it as quickly as he'd begun. The boys lay moaning in the dirt, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Ritu stood amidst them, unscathed, his breathing steady. His eyes met Roéà's, and for a split second, she saw it—the faintest ripple in his void, a question: *Why did you stay to watch?* 

Then it vanished. 

The trio walked back in silence. Roéà's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Teae hummed a tuneless melody. Ritu stared straight ahead, blood drying on his knuckles. 

At the school gates, Roéà whirled on him. "Why didn't you just walk away?" 

"You were there," Ritu said. 

"So?" 

"You'd have interfered. Gotten hurt." 

She blinked. "You… *protected* me?" 

"No. I removed an obstacle." 

Teae snorted. "Wow. Romantic." 

Roéà ignored him. "You could've killed them." 

"Yes." 

"But you didn't." 

"No." 

"*Why?*" 

Ritu paused. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet she almost missed it. "Death is permanent. Pain is a lesson." 

Teae's smirk faded. He studied Ritu like a puzzle missing its final piece. 

**Roéà's Room, 2 A.M.** 

She couldn't sleep. The journal's words haunted her—*I am not alive*—but so did Ritu's hesitation in the fight. *Pain is a lesson.* Had he spared those boys out of some twisted morality? Or was he just… bored? 

She opened her laptop and typed: 

**Search: SKC High School incident**

The screen flooded with headlines: 

*"Mystery Attacker Annihilates Elite Academy!"* 

*"SKC Headmaster's Grisly Death: Vigilante or Monster?"* 

*"Survivors Describe 'Demon' with Burned Face…"* 

Roéà's stomach churned. She zoomed in on a blurred security photo—a figure with broad shoulders and a half-ruined face, standing amid rubble. 

*Ritu.* 

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number: 

Unknown: Stop digging. 

She typed back, hands trembling: 

Roéà: Who is this? 

The response was instant: 

Unknown: You'll regret it.

A knock at her window made her scream. 

Teae stood outside, grinning, his phone in hand.