Ethan walked back to his seat, still dazed from the earlier commotion. His hands trembled as he stared at them.
(I did that...)
His gaze drifted to the front—where the needles had burst from the ground, where the gas had hissed, where lightning had crackled and died.
(I did that? All of that... me?)
A familiar voice echoed in his mind.
(I told you, didn't I? We can absorb energy and manipulate it—especially in hostile environments.)
(Hostile?) Ethan's thought wavered.
(When we were up there, absorbing all that energy... someone tried to strike us. Luckily, I reacted first and absorbed their Persona.)
(Someone tried to—?) Ethan shuddered. (That... makes sense. We kept draining energy and canceling their Persona, but who?)
His eyes scanned the room—faces, movements, murmurs. (Who would be so hostile toward me?)
The lecture ended.
Ms. Foxglove's fan clacked sharply as she pointed it toward him.
"Sir Von Claude. A word, please."
"Yes, ma'am," Ethan murmured, stepping closer.
"Your Persona," she said, her eyes narrowing with intrigue. "Is it always like that?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, clutching the strap of his leather bag. "Honestly... I don't know the full capacity of my Will yet."
Ms. Foxglove hummed softly. "Very well. Don't fret too much, dear. You'll find your footing soon enough—this school tends to bring things to light." She smiled, faint but knowing.
Ethan bowed slightly and turned away.
He checked his schedule. "Hmm… self-study time."
The long hallway stretched before him, scented faintly of burnt wax—and something else. Flowers. Daisies.
He followed the scent until it opened into a vast garden—wildflowers of every hue swaying in the sun. The sight stirred something deep within him.
A memory. A warmth. A life before death
Ethan lay on the grass, inhaling the fresh air. The scent of wet earth was soothing.
(This… feels nice.)
He stared at the bright blue sky, cirrus clouds drifting lazily above. He reached a hand toward them.
A ladybug crawled across his fingers, and he smiled and remembered
"Look, Ethie! A buwaterfly!" a little girl said, struggling with the word.
"No, no, Alexis. That's a ladybug," said a voice with soft gray eyes and a bob of hair.
"No, Momma… that's a buwaterfly," the girl insisted .
Momma? Ethan's heart skipped.
"Did I… have a mother?" he whispered to himself.
His memory blurred, hazy and distant.
"From now on, call me Ma'am Cat," a gentle voice said.
A woman approached him, lifting his tiny hands and holding him close.
"There, there…" she murmured, patting his back. "You're safe now."
A warmth spread through him. I feel… loved. Really loved.
He gazed at the sky again, heart light. Then, his eyes fell back on the ladybug.
"You're not a buwaterfly, are you?" he chuckled softly.
Suddenly, a foot came down on it.
"Hey!" Ethan shouted, leaping to his feet.
A shadow fell over Ethan, cold and heavy. He looked up into black, lifeless eyes.
"I'm… sorry," Ethan said, his voice flat, emotionless. "I didn't even know you were there."
"You just killed a ladybug," the figure protested.
"Oh… I killed it? How?" he asked, tilting his head.
"You stepped on it," Ethan replied.
"And…?" the lad asked, voice cold, unbothered.
Ethan's chest tightened—furious, shocked.
"Well, you killed a ladybug… an innocent ladybug!" he exclaimed.
"You kill ants and pests—what's the difference?" the lad said calmly.
"That ladybug did no harm!" Ethan shot back, voice rising. "Pests bother you, yes, but this one didn't. It's… innocent!"
"…It's dead now," Ethan muttered, picking up the crushed ladybug, staring at it with regret.
The lad simply sat beside him, taking the tiny body in his hands. He squeezed it—hard.
"Don't… do that. It's already—" Ethan began, but the lad opened his hands, and a small ladybug fluttered into the air.
"You… you can bring back the dead?" Ethan whispered.
"The term is necromancer," the lad replied, not lifting his gaze from the book.
Ethan studied him. His style mirrored Ethan's, but darker. Slightly long, curly gray hair framed a face that never shifted, black eyes cold and unreadable.
"I'm Ethan Von Claude," he said, offering a hand.
The lad didn't look up or accept it, reading on silently. After a minute, he finally spoke.
"Mycroft."
"What?" Ethan asked.
"Mycroft Helbert," he said, still staring at the page.
Ethan opened his mouth, but the melodic chime of the bell interrupted him.
Mycroft closed his book, stood, and glanced at Ethan.
"You don't want to be late for Recovery class," he said, tone sharp and distant.
Ethan followed, footsteps echoing softly against the marble corridor as they roamed in silence.
"I didn't know you were in the same class as—" Ethan began, but before he could finish, they slid under something, shadows merging with the sudden flicker of movement ahead.
Ethan screamed as they slid, the world a blur of marble and shadows. His hands scraped against the smooth floor, and his heart pounded.
He glanced at Mycroft, expecting at least the tiniest reaction—but the boy remained perfectly unbothered, expression unreadable, black eyes fixed ahead as if nothing had happened.
Ethan's frustration bubbled. How can someone be this calm…?