The car rolled forward, its engine humming against the silence. For two long hours, Alexander sat in the back seat, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the shifting blur of shadows outside. The air inside the vehicle was heavy with awkward quiet, so thick it seemed to press against his chest. Neither he nor the driver spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic thrum of tires against the road.
Alexander's mind wandered in that silence. Every bump in the road seemed to jolt loose fragments of memory—faces he had tried to forget, voices that once mocked him, the suffocating weight of humiliation. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, as if pain could anchor him to the present.
When the car finally slowed, Alexander lifted his eyes. Looming before him was an old apartment building, The paint peeled like shedding skin, windows stared back like hollow eyes, and the structure itself seemed to sag under the burden of years.
This was the city of Alexander hellish past, the place where his nightmares had been born. The sight of it made his stomach twist.
The wind howled through the narrow streets, carrying dust and whispers of abandonment. It rattled loose shutters and stirred scraps of paper across the cracked pavement. The silence of the area pressed down on him, making the place feel less like a neighborhood and more like a forgotten ruin. No laughter, no voices, no signs of life—only the echo of what once was.
The driver finally broke his silence, his voice flat and mechanical after two hours of muteness. "Go inside. It's completely empty, but you'll find all the necessary things. You'll need to cook for yourself."
Without another word, he restarted the car. The engine roared, the tires screeched faintly, and then the vehicle disappeared into the night, leaving Alexander alone in the biting wind. The sudden absence of sound was jarring, as if the world itself had abandoned him.
Alexander sighed deeply, his breath visible in the cold air. "Is this his way of managing things?" His words were swallowed by the wind, leaving only the echo of his frustration.
He picked up his worn bag and stepped toward the building. The door groaned as he pushed it open, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the stench of dust . The air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten years. He wrinkled his nose. "OMG! Why the hell is it so dirty inside?"
Before he could adjust himself, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen glowing against the gloom.
White Hoody:Clean the house. Rest and settle yourself within one hour. Then go to your old school. Those six are going to bully someone again today. Your mission is to make them your underlings within this week.
Alexander groaned, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He wants me to clean this two-story house in one hour and still get some rest? So nice."
He dropped his bag with a dull thud, shoved his phone back into his pocket, and began counting the rooms. His footsteps echoed through the empty halls. "One, two… nine. Nine rooms in total." He paused, relief flickering across his face. "Thank God the toilets are clean."
In one of the rooms, he discovered cleaning supplies—an old vacuum cleaner, a duster, bottles of phenyl. He rolled up his sleeves, the fabric tightening around his arms, and began the grueling task.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Sweat dripped down, his shirt clung to his back, and his muscles burned with effort. By the fifty-seventh minute, Alexander collapsed onto the floor, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. "Done… finally," he whispered between heavy breaths, his voice trembling with exhaustion.
He glanced at his phone. "Three minutes left. No time to rest. At least let's normalize my breathing."
Crossing his legs, he sat in meditation. He inhaled deeply, held the breath, then exhaled slowly. His heartbeat steadied, the storm inside his chest calming. The silence of the house seemed to shift, no longer oppressive but almost tranquil. For a moment, he felt control returning.
The alarm rang, sharp and loud noise. He opened his eyes, clarity settling over him. "This method really works. My breaths are normal again."
He locked the door behind him, the metallic click echoing in the empty hall, and checked Google Maps. His old school was fifteen minutes away. "Not that far," he muttered, though the thought of returning there made his head ache.
As he walked, the wind brushed through his hair, carrying fragments of memory. Each gust seemed to whisper old insults, old laughter, the sting of betrayal. His mind replayed the words that had been drilled into him: Don't adapt any personality. Become like water.
On the surface, it sounded simple. But he remembered another line, one that had carved itself into his soul: Geniuses start thinking where normal people stop.
He pushed deeper into thought. I don't need a fixed mindset for any situation. I need to adapt. No default identity needed—just flow. His steps grew steadier, his posture more confident. The philosophy wasn't just words; it was survival.
By the time he reached the school gate, he was three minutes early. The building loomed before him, unchanged yet heavy with memories. He leaned against the boundary wall, hands in his pockets, hair flowing with the wind. His heart thumped rapidly, each beat a drum of anticipation. "Am I nervous?" he whispered to himself.
Then, clarity struck. I don't need to be rigid. I need to adapt, to bend, to flow, fixed with goal and flexibility with process.
He was so immersed in thought that he didn't notice six familiar figures watching him from a distance. Their presence was like a shadow creeping closer, unseen yet inevitable.
The girl whispered, her voice tinged with unease. "Is that him? It feels different… I sense some kind of aura."
One of the boys, the same who once forced a cigarette into Alexander's mouth, smirked. "Let's go and find out."
The girl approached, tapping Alexander's shoulder. "Hello. Where are you looking? Waiting for someone?"
Alexander blinked, realizing he had been completely zoned out. His face was emotionless as he looked at her, then at each of them. Emotion surged in his chest—anger, humiliation, defiance—but he forced himself to stay calm, broadening his vision, refusing to let them see weakness.
The girl sneered, her lips curling. "See? He's our cute smoker."
Alexander placed his hand against the wall, pinning her tightly. His voice was cold, mocking, each word dripping with venom. "Yeah, long time no see. I came to smoke with you again—that's why I'm here."
One of the blond hair boy shouted angrily, his voice cracking with rage. "Remove your hand from her!"
Alexander's tone turned teasing, his smirk cutting like a blade. "Why so anxious, blondie? Don't worry—I've got allergies to animals."
The scene shifted far away, to a skyscraper where someone sat in a soft chair, laughing with pleasure as if watching the events unfold from above. The laughter was cruel, detached, savoring the chaos like a spectator at a gladiator match.
Back at the school, the girl tried to pull away, her voice sharp with panic. "Move aside!" she shouted.
The bully, tall with long blond hair and piercings, snarled. His eyes burned with malice. "We're not inside school. We can beat you to pulp."
He swung a broad punch from behind Alexander, the air whistling with the force of it. Time seemed to slow. Alexander's instincts sharpened, his body moving before thought could catch up. At the crucial moment, he shifted right. The fist missed him—and landed squarely on the girl's face.
The impact echoed, a sickening thud that silenced the group. Shock rippled through them, their confidence faltering. Alexander stood calm, his expression unreadable, as chaos unfolded around him. The wind carried the sound away, leaving only the heavy silence of consequence.