The next morning, Aiden woke before dawn, muscles tight and mind restless. The weight of the day ahead pressed on him, but the workout was a ritual, a way to purge tension, to remind himself he was still alive.
He began with squats, knees burning, sweat slick against skin. But even here, in the quiet of his room, the entity was there, a cold, mocking whisper curling around his focus.
"Look at you," it breathed, deep and venomous. "Trying so hard. Pathetic. You'll tire before you matter. You always do."
Aiden's chest tightened, not just from exertion, but from the sheer pressure of that presence. He rose, legs trembling, and forced the next set, grounding himself in pain. The burn in his muscles was real. The voice was not. He reminded himself of that.
Push-ups came next, each descent a test of strength and will. The entity laughed softly, a sound that felt like claws scraping bone.
"See how easily you sink? You want to give in. You want relief. You always do. Why fight, little boy?"
His hands gripped the floor like claws, muscles quivering but unyielding. Not today, he thought, letting the ache anchor him.
Bent-over rows were more than exercise, they were battles. With every lift, he imagined dragging that shadow from his back. It hissed, sharp and cruel:
"Stronger? Hardly. You strain, you sweat, and still you're weak. You can't carry yourself. You never could."
Aiden's jaw tightened. Breath ragged, every fiber screaming defiance, he pushed harder, muscles screaming, mind centered on the tangible reality of weight and motion.
Planks pressed him further. The entity pressed harder, cold and suffocating, whispering of surrender, whispering of oblivion. "Collapse. Break. Let it take you. You'll beg for it eventually."
Aiden held every nerve alive, burning fire in his abs and arms a physical manifesto: he would not bend. Every lunge, every overhead press, every deadlift became a duel, the shadow feeding off exertion yet powerless to claim him.
Even in bicycle crunches, as sweat stung his eyes, the entity sneered, cruel and intimate. "You twist, you fight, you pretend. But inside, you're soft. You'll crumble soon."
And yet, Aiden twisted tighter, breathed deeper, felt the pulse of life beneath the cold claws. By the end, in stretches and slow recovery, the entity receded, patient and waiting. He had survived this round—his body a battlefield, his mind sharpened, a fragile victory carved from sweat and fire.
Twenty minutes later, he dressed quickly. Steve wasn't working today; his night shift last night had only been a cover. He had the weekend free, but his routine was still slowly adjusting to Aiden being around.
The drizzle painted the morning gray, slick against the bleak trees lining the road. Steve drove up in casual exhaustion, white t-shirt, blue pajama pants, hair mussed—clearly feeling the wear of the last few days.
"Hey," Steve said, voice hoarse, rubbing his face.
"Later today I've got an appointment, so I won't be picking you up. You'll have to catch a ride or walk back." Steve said, pulling up to the school parking lot.
Aiden shrugged, shutting the door. "It's fine. I can find my way." as he got out and shut the door.
The sky stretched as a pale, oppressive blanket, the clouds heavy, echoing the shadow still at the edges of his thoughts. He weaved between parked cars, noting the three unfamiliar vehicles, the silver Volvo, the white Jeep Wrangler, the red BMW convertible. Sleek and deliberate, they gleamed quietly like predators at rest. The entity's whisper curled around the thought, cold and mocking:
"Notice them. Feel their power. You had that, but now. Your pathetic."
Aiden ignored it, climbing the stairs toward his first class: gym.
The class passed without incident. Everyone expected him to showboat; he did not. He passed balls, took open shots, kept his head down. Ben and Tyler shot him sharp, hungry stares, but the entity sneered, taunting him for ignoring them.
"Afraid? Pathetic. Strike, or stay weak. Typical."
He breathed steadily, letting focus and discipline ground him against the shadow.
Next, the literature review. Jessica, Angela's friend, sat beside him, bright and curious, asking questions, leading discussion.
"Hey, you okay? You didn't really join," she said, eyes flickering with concern.
Aiden's mind resisted the entity's push to shrug or snap. "Say something wrong, embarrass yourself. Go on, ruin it."
"Yeah, I didn't have much to add," he said quietly, letting her cover the points.
She grinned, nudging him lightly. "Me and some of the guys are heading to the coffee shop after school to study. Wanna come?"
The entity hissed with mocking delight. "Say yes. Let them drag you in. Humiliate yourself with pleasantries. You're weak."
Aiden shook his head. "Nah, I'm good."
Jessica tilted her head, teasing, but he ignored the urge to let the shadow influence his answer.
His next class was history, and it immediately felt charged, the kind of tension that made the air heavy. Today's lesson had turned into a quiz showdown—a reenactment of battles, but not with swords or muskets. Instead, it was words, facts, and strategy.
Across the room, a pale student moved with uncanny grace, his skin almost luminous under the fluorescent lights, the honey-blonde of his hair catching the glare in sharp contrast to the starkness of his complexion. He leaned forward, eyes sharp, calculating, a quiet intensity radiating from him that made the room feel smaller, heavier. Aiden felt a flicker of unease. The entity wasted no time:
"Look at him. Perfect. Controlled. Everything you're not. Pathetic."
The student stood to face Mr. Warner, the teacher, and what followed was a duel of minds. Questions about American battles flew back and forth like volleys, each answered with precision and confidence. Mr. Warner's tone was firm but challenged, the student's replies almost eerily calm, measured, and flawless.
It was like watching two generals reenact history in real time. The pale student anticipated every move, countering each of Mr. Warner's questions with exacting knowledge, his voice steady and commanding despite the casualness of his posture.
Aiden watched, fascinated and uneasy. The entity whispered in his mind, a low, mocking hiss:
"You're nothing. You'll never match him. Look at that control. That calm. You're weak. Always weak."
The classroom applauded when the exchange ended, stunned by the student's precision and Mr. Warner's reluctant acknowledgment of his opponent's skill. The pale figure didn't stay to bask in attention. He slipped silently out of the room, leaving a whisper of chill behind, as though the air itself remembered him.
Aiden exhaled slowly, shoulders tense. The entity murmured again, cruel and patient:
"See how easily he dances? You'll never keep up. You're always trailing, always behind."
Even as the bell rang, the cold echo of that duel lingered, the weight of skill and control pressing on him like a shadow.
The hallway was its usual chaos, slamming lockers, snippets of conversation, the shuffle of sneakers on waxed tile, but then, something shifted.
Aiden felt it before he saw it. The sound dulled, as if someone had turned the world down a notch. His steps slowed.
They came into view like they owned the space, though nothing about their movements was boastful. At the front was a honey-blonde male, tall, lean, his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a small, inky-haired girl. They were close, too close for casual classmates and spoke in voices so low they were nearly lost under the murmur of the hall. Every tilt of his head toward her seemed deliberate, protective.
A few paces away, leaning casually against the wall by a water fountain, stood a towering figure with dark hair, shoulders broad enough to block part of the corridor. Beside him was a girl, statuesque, with a kind of impossible stillness—that made Aiden's skin prickle. Her eyes, golden yet somehow sharp, locked onto him the instant he looked up.
For a moment, she swayed forward, the smallest shift of weight, like a predator deciding if the distance was worth crossing. Her fingers flexed. Her lips parted just slightly, and something about her, her posture, the cool control in her gaze, sent a faint ripple through his thoughts. It wasn't recognition exactly, but there was a tug there, like a dream slipping away the second you try to remember it. Familiar, but too far in the fog to grasp.
And then the big one moved. His hand landed on her arm, grip firm. It wasn't a restraining hold; it was an unspoken command. She stilled, the movement so subtle no one around them even seemed to notice.
Aiden blinked. Students walked past, chattering, oblivious. Not a single head turned toward what had just happened.
No one saw that but you, the voice in his head murmured, slow and deliberate, like it was savoring the fact. Interesting. She wanted you. Not in a polite, take-you-to-coffee way. She wanted you like a wolf wants a throat.
She didn't even move, Aiden countered, though his mind kept circling back to that strange almost-recognition.
She moved enough. And the big one, he stopped her. You don't put a leash on someone unless you know they bite.
The honey-blonde and his small companion passed without looking at him. The dark-haired giant and the girl lingered a heartbeat longer before turning away, as if the moment had never happened. The noise of the hallway returned all at once, like someone had unmuted the world.
The bell hadn't rung yet. Aiden found himself standing in the middle of the hall, his bag still hanging off one shoulder. That tug of familiarity with the girl gnawed at him, but every time he tried to follow the thread, it vanished like smoke.
Aiden ignored them and pushed on toward his next class, cooking.
The familiar scent of garlic and herbs hit him the moment he stepped inside, warm and inviting, though the assignment for the day soured his mood almost instantly. They were learning to prepare "healthy" Italian dishes, light on meat, heavy on vegetables, and rating ingredients for nutritional value.
It wasn't the lack of meat that bothered him most. It was them. His classmates snapped spaghetti in half before tossing it into the boiling water like it was nothing.
It was wrong. Unforgivable.
He bit back the urge to say something, jaw tight, and forced himself to focus on slicing tomatoes with mechanical precision. Better to bury the frustration than waste the breath.
Slipping his headphones on, he drowned the clatter of pans and idle chatter under a haze of beats, old-school NAS rolling into smooth, honeyed R&B. The rhythm steadied his breathing. He could almost ignore the crimes being committed against pasta a few feet away.