Chapter 3: A Smile in the Mirror
The bathroom light flickered above Shams' head as he stood in front of the mirror.
It was late—well past midnight. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs. He lived with his aunt and uncle, both of whom worked night shifts at the local hospital. He was usually alone after dark.
He stared at his reflection.
The spaghetti-stained gym shorts were gone. He wore a clean white T-shirt now. His black eyes were locked on themselves in the glass. Unblinking.
He didn't feel anger. Not really. Anger was hot, messy, loud.
What he felt was colder. Like ice under skin.
He smiled.
But not the kind of smile you give someone when you're happy. This was different. It didn't reach his eyes. It was thin, calculated.
Practiced.
He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a small, worn-out leather pouch. Inside were several small items from his old life—an ID card from his school in Cebu, a bus token, and a newspaper clipping, yellowed and creased.
He unfolded the clipping.
"High School Boy Dies in River Accident. Foul Play Not Suspected."
The article was short. A student from Shams' old school had drowned during a class trip. It said he slipped and hit his head on a rock. A tragedy. No witnesses.
But Shams had been there.
He folded the paper again and placed it back in the pouch.
It had been easier then. People didn't ask too many questions. He was a "quiet boy." A "victim of bullying." Teachers pitied him. Students ignored him.
And when Miguel—the loudest, cruelest boy—"slipped" and drowned, no one looked at Shams.
Just like now.
He sat on the edge of the bathtub and opened his notebook. He turned to the page from earlier. The names stared up at him:
Tyler. Max. Zoe.
Beneath them, he added dates:
Tyler – Soon
Max – After
Zoe – Last
He circled Zoe's name once, then again.
She was the one he hated the most. Not because she was the cruelest—but because she enjoyed it the most. She didn't laugh like the others. She smiled with her eyes, like she was feeding off his humiliation.
He closed the notebook.
Stood up.
Flushed the toilet—not because he needed to, but because it gave his presence in the bathroom a believable reason if someone happened to ask.
Then he turned off the light.
As the door creaked shut, the last thing to vanish in the dark was that smile—thin, cold, and patient.
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