Robert sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched tightly, knuckles pale beneath his skin. The room around him was quiet, save for the distant sounds of early morning—birds chirping, a car engine turning over, the faint hum of life continuing outside his window. But inside his mind, chaos reigned.
"Why are you even trying?" one voice hissed. "They hate you. You're wasting your breath."
"No," another whispered, softer, "Remember when we used to cry, hoping the bullies would stop? We used to wish they'd change. Be that change now."
"Fool," the darker voice spat, "You're stronger now. Faster. Resilient. And once you level up—" it laughed, low and menacing "—you'll be able to fry anyone who crosses you. Who's going to stop us? These weaklings?"
Robert pressed his fingers to his temples as a sharp pain lanced through his skull.
"No, we should use this power to help. Lift others. Not break them down."
"Break them. Make them pay. Every insult. Every blow. Every betrayal."
"Heal. Forgive. Grow."
The voices warred, overlapping, echoing, splitting his thoughts into fragments of light and darkness. Robert groaned softly, curling over his knees as the tension throbbed like thunder behind his eyes. The internal battlefield was exhausting. And somewhere deep in his core, a silent plea lingered—Who am I becoming?
---
Meanwhile, in another house across town, Jamlick stood silently in the hallway, the faint hum of morning television still buzzing from the living room. He had just come from the backyard, where he had listened to Charles… no, Robert, apologize. Sincerely.
The apology wasn't loud or dramatic. There were no theatrics. Just a boy who stood with lowered eyes, voice trembling slightly, like someone carrying too many regrets. And Jamlick had seen something in him—a softness, maybe. Or guilt. Or pain. Whatever it was, it didn't belong to the same Charles who had once made his life hell.
Jamlick stepped into the kitchen, where his sister was cutting an apple with a little more force than necessary.
"Jecinta," he began.
She didn't look up. "What?"
"Something's changed in Charles. He… he looked like he meant it. Like he really meant what he said."
The knife slammed down. She turned to face him, her brows furrowed, eyes sharp.
"Jamlick, if you ever say that name again, I might forget you're my brother."
He blinked. "But—"
"No," she snapped. "Don't you dare try to defend him. You weren't the one who cried yourself to sleep. You didn't have to hide in the bathrooms. You didn't hear the whispers, the laughter, the names. You don't get to tell me how to feel."
Jamlick opened his mouth but couldn't find the words.
Jecinta softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. "I don't care if he's turned into an angel overnight. What he did to me—I'll never forgive him."
"Jecinta—" he tried again.
"Don't." She turned away, wiping her hands on a dish towel before disappearing down the hallway.
Jamlick stood there for a while, staring at the door she had just passed through. Silence settled again, but in his mind, Charles's face lingered. Or rather, the face of whoever was pretending to be Charles. There was something off—his eyes didn't carry the same fire. His words didn't bite. And most of all, he looked... haunted.
"He seems like a completely different person," Jamlick muttered, grabbing his backpack.
He didn't know how right he was.
---
Back in his room, Robert finally managed to quiet the voices long enough to breathe. He stood and looked at himself in the mirror. This face—Charles's face—was becoming too familiar. He didn't just wear the skin of another boy. He was inheriting his sins.
"This is not redemption," he told his reflection. "This is survival. But maybe I can make it more."
The walk to school felt longer than usual. Every face he passed seemed to carry a hidden judgment. He couldn't blame them. Charles had left a legacy of bruised hearts and bitter memories. And now Robert bore the weight of both their lives.
He noticed Jamlick at the school gate. For a moment, their eyes met. There was no scowl. No anger. Just a pause—uncertain, tentative. Robert hesitated, then nodded once. Jamlick returned it.
A start.
Maybe.