The words, "Everything is fine," hung in the air long after he'd spoken them, a fragile shield of spun glass against a battering ram. Outside the door, Kieran could feel his mother's presence, a warmth tinged with the faint, anxious chill of maternal concern. He could sense the slight frown on her face, the way her hand lingered on the doorknob before she finally, reluctantly, let it fall away.
"Alright, sweetheart," her voice came, softer now, laced with a weariness he had never noticed before. "Try to get some sleep. You sound exhausted."
He heard her footsteps retreat down the hallway, each one a hammer blow against his fragile composure. The moment her presence faded back into the gentle rhythm of a sleeping house, Kieran stumbled back from the bathroom door, his hand pressed against his mouth to stifle a gasp. He leaned over the sink, his knuckles white, and stared at the branded creature in the mirror. The Demon offered no commentary. It simply watched, its ancient calm a terrifying counterpoint to Kieran's frantic, human panic.
Sleep was an impossible prospect. He returned to his bedroom, the space feeling both smaller and infinitely more complex than it had just hours before. He lay on his bed, fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling, but he did not see the familiar water stains that resembled a map of some forgotten continent. He saw… more. He could perceive the flow of electricity through the wires in the walls, a faint, buzzing circulatory system. He could feel the stress points in the timber of the roof, groaning silently under the weight of the ceaseless rain. He extended his senses, a terrifying new muscle he didn't know how to control, and felt his mother's sleeping form in the room below. He could sense the gentle cadence of her breathing, the slow, steady beat of her heart, and the faint, troubled murmur of her dreams—fragmented images of bills to be paid, a leaky faucet, and a worry for her son that was a constant, low-grade fever in her subconscious. The intimacy of it was a profound violation. He pulled his senses back with a gasp, feeling like a voyeur in his own home.
You see the world as it truly is, the Demon's voice stated, a calm observation. Not the surface, but the structure beneath. Not the smile, but the sorrow it hides. This is not a curse, Kieran. It is clarity. To wield power, one must first see the truth.
He spent the remainder of the night in this state of heightened, agonizing awareness, a prisoner of his own amplified senses. When the first grey, watery light of dawn seeped through his window, it felt less like a new day and more like the beginning of a new sentence. The prospect of facing his mother, of sitting across from her at the kitchen table and pretending to be the boy she had tucked into bed for years, was more daunting than facing a dozen of Marcus's fists.
He found her in the kitchen, a silhouette against the window, nursing a mug of coffee. The air smelled of toast and bitter brew, a scent so painfully normal it made his head spin. She turned as he entered, and a warm, practiced smile lit her face, though her eyes, he could now see, were filled with a deep, clinging exhaustion.
"Morning, honey," she said, her voice a little too bright. "I was just about to call you. Hungry?"
He nodded, the motion feeling stiff and strange, and sat down at the small wooden table. The chair scraped against the linoleum, a sound that grated on his raw nerves like a blade on bone. He was acutely aware of the branded skin on his back and arm, a cold weight beneath his long-sleeved shirt. It felt as though the sigils were glowing, burning through the fabric, announcing his damnation to the world.
She placed a plate of toast and scrambled eggs in front of him. It looked like alien matter. He picked up a fork, the metal cold and heavy in his hand. Every movement was a performance, every word a line from a script he was struggling to remember.
Eat, the Demon commanded from within. The vessel requires sustenance. Observe the ritual. This is their communion. It is simple. Replicate it.
He forced a bite of eggs into his mouth. The texture was revolting, the taste nonexistent. He chewed and swallowed, the action purely mechanical.
"You were out late," his mother commented, her tone casual, but her eyes were studying him, searching for the cracks in his façade. "Everything alright with you and… your friends?" She used the word "friends" with a gentle hesitation, as if she knew it were a fiction.
"Fine," Kieran managed, his voice a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat. "Just… tired. Long day."
"I heard there was some trouble at the school yesterday," she continued, turning to rinse her mug in the sink, her back to him. "Mrs. Gable called me this morning. Her son, Leo… he came home in a terrible state. And the other two… Cain and Marcus… their parents couldn't wake them properly. The paramedics had to come. They're saying it was some kind of… psychological episode. Found them in that alley behind the old textile mill."
Kieran's fork froze halfway to his mouth. The hum of the refrigerator suddenly roared in his ears. He could feel the Demon's cold satisfaction, a chilling, triumphant pulse that was utterly devoid of remorse. He, however, felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Broken minds. A permanent echo of their own cruelty. This was the reality of the Demon's "justice." Not a simple comeuppance, but a complete and utter dismantling of a human soul.
"Did they… did they say what happened?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper.
His mother turned, her brow furrowed with concern at his tone. "No one seems to know. Leo isn't making any sense, and the other two… well, they're not speaking at all. It's horrible. Such angry boys, but still… for something like that to happen…" She trailed off, shaking her head. Her gaze fell on him, her worry sharpening. "Kieran, you look pale as a ghost. Are you sure you're feeling well?"
The mask is slipping, the Demon warned, a sliver of ice in his mind. Reassure her. The herd is spooked by any deviation. Conform.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile that felt like it was cracking his face. "Just… shocked. That's all. It's crazy." He took another bite of toast, the dry bread scraping his throat.
He endured the rest of the meal in a state of quiet torment, answering her questions with monosyllabic lies, the chasm between them growing wider with every passing second. When he finally stood to take his plate to the sink, he felt a hundred years old.
"I have to… get ready for school," he said, needing to escape the suffocating normalcy of the kitchen.
His mother nodded, her eyes still clouded with an unshakeable worry. "Alright. Have a good day, honey. And… be careful."
He retreated to his room and grabbed his backpack, the familiar weight doing nothing to ground him. He was putting on the uniform of his old life, a costume for a role he could no longer play. He looked at his reflection in the darkened screen of his computer monitor. The same gaunt face, the same haunted eyes. But the Demon was closer to the surface now, a shadow lurking just behind the glass.
He was heading back to the one place that had been the epicenter of his suffering. The hallways where he'd made himself invisible, the classrooms where he'd endured silent scorn, the courtyard where he'd eaten alone. The thought no longer filled him with the usual dread. It filled him with something else entirely. A cold, quiet anticipation.
Do you feel it? the Demon asked, its voice a purr of dark satisfaction. The dread is gone. The fear has been replaced.
"Replaced with what?" Kieran whispered to the reflection.
Purpose, it answered. The school is a microcosm of the world, a breeding ground for the casual cruelties that you so despise. We once went there as the hunted. Today, we return as the judge.