"Why didn't they just sentence him to death?! He killed Sarah—he killed so many people, yet they just let him walk free?!"
Voices melded together in outrage as a young man walked down the hallway, his head bowed—not in sorrow, but in quiet acceptance. His hands hung limply at his sides.
Silver hair, shoulder-length and untamed, veiled his eyes from the menacing glares cast his way. He wore a sleek, white long-sleeved shirt with a small chest pocket on the right. Black, slightly baggy jeans clung to his legs, paired with simple black shoes. He was leaving the Academy.
He had lost everything.
"I smell nepotism," someone muttered, though their glare remained sharp and defiant.
"That can't be. I heard from my father that he's been disowned by the Nevanas," another countered.
"That's expected. He dragged their name through the mud. I'm surprised it took this long for them to cut him off," someone added with a scoff.
"But that doesn't mean they have no hand in his freedom. Disowned or not, they wouldn't let someone who once bore their name die a pitiful death," another voice chimed in.
"Maybe. But still, there's no concrete evidence that he actually—"
"Just shut up. Finish that sentence, and I dare you to get caught in the fallout," someone snapped, silencing the previous speaker.
"He's the only suspect. He tried to kill another student, for crying out loud," someone else said, their voice thick with disgust. The young man they were talking about didn't react. He seemed immune to the murmurs that echoed around him, or perhaps... he just couldn't hear them anymore.
Slowly, surely, he was losing his grip on reality.
"That's enough to get expelled, but not prosecuted. They need more evidence for that. Bastard's just lucky," another spat bitterly.
Suddenly—
He stopped.
His gaze fell on a pair of shoes blocking his path. Eyes trailing upward, his breath hitched as he took a step back.
"Ansley," he muttered, his eyes locking with the last people he wanted to see right now.
"I knew you couldn't be trusted from the start," came the venomous voice of Aden—the third prince. Stepbrother to Isabelle. A bastard he'd been at odds with since childhood. "I knew you were trash. But I didn't know you were this much of a monster. You killed hundreds of students. You killed your own kind!"
"I… didn't kill anyone," he muttered. Then looked Aden dead in the eye. "Auston is still alive."
"Well, that much is true," came another voice—Ethan, the son of Duke Vincent, a noble of high standing. "But that doesn't change the fact that you compromised the system. You caused those deaths. You're the reason Angelica is fighting for her life."
Azalea didn't even bother replying. What was the point? They were never going to believe him. Maybe that's why Isabelle hated him now. Angelica—her twin. Well, fuck her. He didn't care what she felt. Not anymore.
He felt…
Nothing.
That suffocating, gnawing feeling in his chest?
It was gone.
He didn't care.
Not anymore.
Even if she stood in front of him now, he would've walked past like she was a stranger.
After all, this wasn't the first time he'd felt betrayed.
Not in this life.
Not in the one before.
A person he once trusted more than himself...
"I'm ashamed we once shared the same name. That people used to call you my brother." The contemptuous voice belonged to Ansley—his stepbrother.
One of the very people, like Ashley, that he would've gladly sacrificed his life… if it meant he could inflict upon them the worst pain imaginable.
They had made his childhood a living hell.
He stared directly into Ansley's eyes. There was only one emotion left within him.
Hate.
Only hate.
Nothing else.
Pure, undiluted hate.
But he sighed.
Then turned and walked past them.
However—
"Where do you think you're going?" a voice asked, followed by a hand gripping his wrist.
"Let go, Aden," he said calmly. He was weak. He knew that. If they decided to beat the hell out of him right now, he wouldn't be able to fight back. And truth be told… he didn't care.
"Not gonna happen, Az. Not until I put you in the same condition as my Carmella."
"So that's what this is about. Prince Simp," he muttered.
Then—BAM!
He was slammed against a locker. The young man pinning him there wasn't even trying to hide his fury.
"Let. Go," he muttered.
"You bastard! She called you her friend! She always defended your pathetic ass! And this is how you repay her?!" Aden screamed, his fist glowing with ether as it punched into the wall just beside his head, hard enough to crack it.
"Argh…" he grunted. Blood dripped from the back of his head, and the world tilted as dizziness set in.
'Carmella…' he thought faintly.
She was the only one who hadn't tried to beat him to death.
But that was probably because she was in the infirmary.
If Isabelle could slap him in front of everyone—could nearly kill him before being restrained—then Carmella would be no different.
Andrew.
Leon.
Castor.
His "bros," as they used to call each other…
Even they didn't look at him the same anymore.
"Let go…" he muttered again.
"Or what?" Aden growled, his fist drawing back. "Or what, you fucker?!"
Crack!
A punch to the face this time. Everything blurred. Darkness swallowed his thoughts for a brief second before he regained something resembling clarity.
But by then, he could barely see.
"Beat him up. I want him crippled," someone said.
And then—
He was plunged into a world of pain.