Michael was a botanist, and the only thing he loved more than his plants was his family. He often said plants were simpler—they didn't talk back, didn't judge, and only needed light, water, and a little jazz to thrive. Every day, he retreated into his greenhouse, sunlight filtering through glass panes like a blessing, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and chlorophyll. His son, Victor, was often dragged along—unwillingly.
Victor didn't hate plants; he just didn't love them. Sometimes, he thought his father cared more for leaves than for him. Michael would play Coltrane or Davis, smile to himself, and then turn to Victor, eyes gleaming.
"You know music helps them grow, right?"
"You've said that… like, a hundred times," Victor replied flatly.
Michael chuckled. "Well, it's true."
"Can I go now, Dad?"
But Michael never answered. He'd wave Victor over to inspect some "fascinating" discovery—another leaf, another lecture. Even though Victor rolled his eyes, sighed, and dreamed of escape, he grew up steeped in the language of roots, resilience, and silent growth. Lessons that would matter more than he could ever imagine.
Present Day
"You all seriously need to get checked. For real," Emilia said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Stephen bristled. "You—"
"Let me handle this," Kelvin interrupted, calm but firm.
"Oh, look at that—the new guy's barking orders now?" the Red Hood leader sneered, arms wide in mock surprise. Confidence radiated off him like armor.
Kelvin's eyes narrowed. "What should I call you—'Red Hood'? 'Psychopath'? Honestly, I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would serve something as twisted as Mr. Smile."
"You're young," the leader said coolly. "A lot you don't understand. Transferred here this semester, right? Let me give advice: don't dangle your legs in waters you don't understand… unless you're ready for the sharks."
Victor had heard enough. "Screw this." He lunged forward.
The Red Hood leader raised a hand—and suddenly, everyone except Kelvin froze.
The leader tilted his head. "Ah… so that's why he's leading. The new guy's got bite. I thought you lot were amateurs. But you've… grown."
Kelvin stepped forward, calm and unbothered. "I didn't come to fight petty schoolyard bullies with a god complex. I came to fight monsters. And you? You don't even qualify. I would've let you walk away… but you can't unring a bell."
He reached for the book and raised his necklace. A flash of light transformed it into a gleaming sword.
"You want the book?" Kelvin said, low and cold. "Come get it."
"Get him," the leader snapped.
What followed was a blur. Kelvin moved with lethal grace, dispatching Red Hood initiates one after the other while holding the book in one hand. Every motion was precise. No wasted effort. No mercy. A teenage warrior cloaked in deadly skill.
The leader clapped slowly. "Impressive. You've earned my respect. So I'll tell you my name before I kill you."
He pulled back his hood—revealing a familiar face.
"I'm Hakeem," he said. "Head Boy of Haloville… and the Headmaster's son."
Long ago, when the school was a den of horrors and slated for closure, the headmaster confronted Mr. Smiley, demanding he leave. Smiley refused. A deal was made: the headmaster would create a group to select who must die, and each year, one student would be given to Smiley. The headmaster's children would serve as a balance—but they would remain in the shadows. This was the origin of the Red Hoods.
Later, a headmistress formed the Golden Circle to research ways to stop the monsters. The loss of the Light Keepers and Clera stripped them of power. The school board remained oblivious. Kelvin knew—or at least suspected—enough to challenge them outright.
Kelvin blinked. "If someone had told me Haloville was this full of secrets, I would've come here years ago."
Pieces fell into place—the cover-ups, the deaths, the manipulation. "But why Stephen? Why make him a Red Hood?"
Hakeem shrugged. "You were all insignificant. Background noise. We didn't care."
"Until we found the book," Kelvin said. "You couldn't. So you made us pawns in your search."
Hakeem smiled coldly. "Alright. Let's make this fun. Clearly, we're both cursed. Let's spar. First to draw blood three times—"
A sharp wind cut him off. A blur. A flash of silver.
Blood.
Hakeem touched his cheek—red. He grinned. "I'm nothing like you. If anything… I'm blessed."
Then they clashed—Kelvin's glowing blade against Hakeem's conjured sword. Sparks flew. Steel screamed. Hakeem soon realized the truth—Kelvin wasn't just skilled.
He was terrifying.
And then it happened.
Hakeem's head flew clean off. Silence. Horror. Gasps.
Kelvin stepped back, horrified. His sword vanished. No one else was harmed.
Then the unthinkable.
Hakeem's body bent down, picked up his head, and reattached it as if it were a helmet. He had been holding back. Now, fully whole, he growled:
"Now… I'm pissed."