Well, he hesitated. What he felt was unlike anything he'd ever known before—something between fear and guilt, though neither word quite did justice to the sensation curling in his gut. It wasn't guilt exactly, but rather a sickly blend of dread and the odd awareness that something unseen was staring straight into his soul. His throat tightened. His palms sweated. His eyes watered, and his knees quivered as though the air itself had turned against him.

He stood there at the highest stand of the basketball court, the very place Dax had sat hours earlier. That same Dax—the "weird, pathetic nerd" everyone mocked. The same Dax who had dared to knock Malfoy's food from his hand in front of half the school.

Malfoy bent, trembling, to pick up the sandwich. The laughter from the stands rolled like waves—sharp, merciless waves that left him stranded on the shores of humiliation. He was Malfoy, the self-proclaimed king of Stanford High, now kneeling in defeat. The sight was one no one would soon forget.

A few of his sidekicks tried to laugh it off, hurling half-hearted insults to cover their shock. But the crowd's laughter only grew louder, feeding on itself until it filled the whole gym. Dax, who'd started this entire uproar, simply watched with a crooked grin.

That grin—wicked, calm, and oddly mature—sent shivers through the boys who'd once ruled him. Dax let out a soft sigh, turned his back on the chaos, and walked away. Behind him, the laughter still echoed, weaving through the court like the wind after a storm.

As Dax made his way toward the locker room, he began to feel… different. Heavy, yet sharply aware. The sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors felt too loud; the lights too bright. His heartbeat was suddenly all he could hear.

Then—something flickered.

A shadow slipped across the wall beside him.

Dax froze. He turned quickly toward the right, his pulse racing—but there was nothing there. Just an empty stretch of hallway and the faint smell of floor wax.

"Calm down," he whispered to himself, though his voice trembled.

He started walking again, slower this time. But then—there it was again. The same shadow, sliding past the wall like smoke under a door. This time it was clearer, darker. Dax stopped mid-step, his body cold with that eerie déjà vu.

He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, and nearly collided with someone.

"Watch it, loser!" snapped a girl as she bumped his shoulder and stormed off, muttering curses under her breath.

"Sorry!" Dax called after her, though she didn't look back.

The encounter grounded him a bit, dragging him back to reality—or at least what he thought was reality. Still, that feeling lingered. The same unsettling weight he had felt once before, back when Elivar had first trapped him inside a nightmare.

Could it be happening again? Was this another one of Elivar's cruel games—an illusion, a daymare designed to blur the edge between waking and dreaming?

Whatever it was, it felt *real.*

---

The school bell shrieked, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Classes resumed, teachers droned, and before anyone could say "lunch break," the day was gone.

Dismissal at Stanford High was never quiet. It was chaos disguised as routine. For the first time in years, Dax had managed to make an impression—not a strong one yet, but noticeable enough. Word was already spreading: Dax, the nerd, had made Malfoy kneel.

It was the kind of story that sprouted a dozen different versions before the final bell. By the time the last bus left the gates, Dax was halfway between legend and rumor.

Outside, students filled the courtyard, buzzing with laughter and post-school plans. Dismissal time was its own carnival—a time of release, regret, and a bit of stupidity.

Some kids sprinted to their cars like fugitives escaping a crime scene, blasting music loud enough to shake the windows. Others lingered behind the classrooms, trading secrets, gossip, or things far less innocent.

Dax had seen enough to know that Stanford High after hours was a different planet.

There were the "holy ones," who pretended to head to youth fellowship but always ended up at someone's house party. There were the drama club members rehearsing their "emotional expressions" behind the cafeteria, which often looked suspiciously like kissing practice. And of course, there were those who thought sneaking into the chemistry lab to mix "love potions" made them future Nobel laureates.

Once, Dax had even caught two seniors "studying biology" in the supply closet—a memory he tried not to recall too often.

He chuckled to himself, remembering the chaos. "Teenage logic," he muttered, shaking his head.

And then there were the hidden intimacies. Dax remembered, with sudden crystal clarity, walking into a supposedly empty second-floor boys' bathroom last semester, lured by the sound of a dripping faucet he'd intended to tighten.

Instead, he'd found Rose, the breathtakingly gorgeous economics professor in her late thirties, and Brian, the hyper-devout head of the scripture union. Her pristine brown skirt was hiked up around her waist, her silky blouse hanging precariously from a sink tap.

Brian, that fake-ass holy idol Dax had once naively wanted to emulate, had a firm grip on her dark hair, his hips pistoning against her round, magnificent ass, which jiggled and vibrated with every powerful, grunting thrust.

Her full, perfect breasts swayed and danced to the rhythm of their fucking, her moans echoing off the tiled walls. Dax had stood there, frozen for a full minute, captivated by the raw, sinful spectacle before being seen. He shakes his head now, trying to dispel the potent image.

The memory is swept away by the present-day cacophony of joy.

Still, there was something warm about it all—the laughter, the noise, the human messiness of it. For a brief moment, it almost made him forget the strange darkness that had been following him.

The courtyard looked like a living painting of youth: skateboard wheels scraping pavement, phones flashing in the late-afternoon sun, and groups of friends arguing over who'd stolen whose fries.

---

But amidst the joy, Dax's thoughts drifted.

The fight with Malfoy. The shadow. The dizziness. The eerie whisper that seemed to hum under his skin.

It was as if something was *watching.*

His stomach turned slightly, but he forced a grin when a classmate waved from across the yard. A few kids pointed at him, whispering and laughing—not mockingly this time, but in the giddy tone reserved for sudden heroes.

For once, Dax didn't mind.

Far ahead, he spotted his sister standing near the parking lot, chatting with Darren—the boy whose hands were currently glued to her waist. Dax frowned instinctively.

He started walking toward them, planning to ask for a ride home, when it struck him—

"The flask!"

He stopped dead. He'd left it in the basketball court.

"Crap," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He turned around and began retracing his steps.

The walk back was long—longer than he remembered.

The journey back was a voyeur's tour through the school's secret life. The hallways, so loud minutes before, were now eerie and echoing, but not empty. In a dimly lit algebra classroom, a couple was locked in a passionate, desperate kiss against the whiteboard, her leg hooked around his hip.

Further down, a giggling pair was trying to stuff themselves into a single narrow locker. He passed a janitor's closet; the rhythmic banging and soft, feminine giggling from within suggested they weren't fixing a mop.

Then, he passed the open door of the music room. And he stopped.

Sprawled across the grand piano was a girl he recognized from his art history class. Her pleated skirt was pushed up, a bundle of fabric around her middle, and her legs were spread wide, hooked over the shoulders of a muscular guy from the wrestling team kneeling between them.

He was buried deep inside her, his hands gripping her hips, slamming her body down the polished black lid with a force that made the piano wires hum a discordant, rhythmic symphony underneath them. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in a silent, ecstatic cry, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick surface.

The raw, unabashed carnality of it hit Dax like a physical blow, rooting him to the spot, his own blood rushing south in a hot wave.

He finally tore himself away, his breathing slightly ragged, and pushed through the double doors leading to the outdoor courts.

By the time he reached the gym building, the sunlight had begun to dim, spilling through the high windows like liquid amber. The once-crowded court now stood eerily quiet.

And there it was—his flask, lying just where he'd left it.

Dax bent to pick it up. The moment his fingers touched the metal, that same dizzying heaviness hit him again. His senses sharpened. The echo of his breath filled the space. The court suddenly felt too wide, too empty.

Then, from the far end of the gym, something moved.

A shape—a dark ripple against the wall—flowed silently along the bleachers.

Dax straightened slowly, his flask trembling in his grip.

"Not again," he whispered.

The shadow twisted once, as though acknowledging his words, and then vanished behind the scoreboard.

A shiver ran down Dax's spine. He knew that feeling. The thin veil between reality and whatever *else* was watching him had just started to tear.

He took a step forward, then another, heart pounding, the world narrowing to the sound of his own breath and the whisper of unseen movement.

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