Silent Requiem

The classroom was a graveyard. A place where words came to die, their carcasses left to rot in the heavy air, picked apart by the droning voice of the lecturer. J sat in the back, as always, slouched against the uncomfortable wood of his chair, legs sprawled out in practiced defiance. His pen twirled between his fingers, not out of interest, but out of habit—because the only other option was paying attention, and that wasn't happening.

The professor rambled on, something about ethics or philosophy or maybe economic downfall—hell if he knew. The words blurred together, their meaning dissolving into static, a monotonous hum that barely scratched at his consciousness. J had long since perfected the art of appearing half-invested—head tilted, eyes half-lidded, his gaze occasionally flicking to the board, just enough to avoid suspicion.

He glanced at the clock.

Forty minutes left.

An eternity.

His fingers drummed against the desk. His mind wandered.

This place was a joke, but it was a useful one. A convenient front. A necessary delay in the long game. He could play along.

For now.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as the professor's voice melted into nothing.

J leaned back in his chair, the dim light of his room casting long, jagged shadows against the walls. His notes lay open, words sprawled like the remnants of a crime scene. All the while, he was thinking of one as well.

Elijah Dre. A businessman by trade, but that was only the mask he wore for the world. Beneath it, he was something else entirely—something rotting, something deep in the city's marrow. He couldn't wait to put his arm around his neck.

J's fingers traced the edges of Elisa Denaire's photo. The daughter. A different name, a different life. A clean slate on paper, but blood doesn't wash off that easily. Not of family as much as she wished it did. If there was anyone who knew Elijah's contacts, it was her. The trick was getting close without setting off alarms, he thought as he pulled her picture out of his pocket.

Option one—charm. Make her talk. He almost laughed. Not his style.

The idea of leaning in with a sweet smile, playing the part of some silver-tongued liar, felt as foreign to him as a clean conscience. He wasn't built for warmth, and he sure as hell wasn't patient enough to entertain the slow dance of social pleasantries.

But still. It wasn't impossible.

Elisa Denaire moved in high circles. The kind of places where people mistook wealth for immunity, where indulgence was a language spoken fluently. She was young, privileged, the kind of girl who had spent her life wrapped in silk but still craved the thrill of something untamed. He could be that. If only for a moment.

He imagined it. Walking into whatever gilded cage she called home, wearing a name that wasn't his, slipping into conversation like he belonged. Letting her see what she wanted to see—a stranger, just dangerous enough to be intriguing, just distant enough to be chased.

It wouldn't be hard. People always wanted something. Love. Fear. Worship. He'd given all three before. But it came with a price.

His stomach twisted at the thought. There were worse things than bloodshed, and this was one of them—pretending to be someone he wasn't, playing soft when his hands were made for ruin.

J exhaled, tossing the idea aside.

No. He'd slit a man's throat before he ever whispered sweet nothings into someone's ear

Option two—shadow her. Find the cracks in her routine, slip into them unnoticed. Promising, but it required patience.

Option three—leverage. Find something she wanted. Or feared. Everyone had something.

His mind worked through the pathways, assembling them like a puzzle with missing pieces. Where did she go? Who did she talk to? Did she keep ties with her father, or had she buried that part of her life? The file was thin. Too thin. He needed more.

J tapped the photo against his knee. Elisa Denaire wasn't the target—she was the thread. And if he pulled hard enough, everything Elijah Dre had buried would unravel at his feet.

He just had to find the right place to start.

The bell rang, sharp and final, slicing through the room like a guillotine.

J didn't rush. The other students moved in a sluggish tide, some eager to leave, others lost in their own thoughts. He slipped through them like a ghost, his steps light, effortless. The institution's corridors stretched ahead, lined with shadows and whispers, the scent of old books and something sterile lingering in the air.

He was heading towards the assigned rooms. An after class thing where they got more practical, worked independently.

He hadn't been there on his first day. Pressed for time. That was the official excuse. The truth? Well, that was a different story. One with jagged edges and a past that had little patience for formalities.

Each student had to form a group. Be a part of it. If they couldn't, Hains assigned it to them. A necessity, not a choice. In this place, survival didn't belong to loners. Groups were assigned based on performance in the entrance exams, divided like beasts in a pit—some destined for greatness, others left to rot. But J?

He hadn't taken the test.

There was a reason for that. A story buried beneath layers of silence, one he had no intention of digging up.

He stopped before the door to the room he'd been given. A simple thing. Wooden. Unremarkable. 

J pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit, the kind of dim that wasn't intentional—just a side effect of poor maintenance and the dreary institution walls. The air carried the faint scent of dust and ink, like a place meant for thinking but long abandoned by thought. There were chairs, a few desks, and a single hanging lamp that buzzed softly, as if complaining about its own existence.

And then there was her.

She was the only person here.

A girl, sitting near the back, bathed in the tired glow of the lamp. Dark hair framed her face, her expression unreadable, like a painting left unfinished. A book lay open in front of her, but she wasn't reading. Not really. Her fingers tapped idly against the table, rhythm slow, deliberate. She wasn't bored, nor expectant—just there, like the room itself.

J leaned against the doorway, taking her in, but saying nothing.

Because something about the way she sat, the way she existed in this empty space, told him she'd already noticed him long before he noticed her.

"Looking for someone?"

Her voice was smooth, effortless, like she'd been waiting to say it the moment he stepped in. She didn't look up, didn't break the slow, absentminded rhythm of her fingers against the table.

J let the silence stretch between them, just long enough to see if she liked filling it. She didn't.

He stepped inside, glancing around the empty room, then back at her. "No," he said, voice dry. "Seems like I found exactly what I was looking for."

That made her look up. Not startled—just mildly interested.

"That so?"

J dropped his bag onto a desk, the sound breaking the stillness like a stone in a stagnant pond. He met her gaze, unbothered, unreadable. "I'm assigned to this group."

She blinked once, slow. Then she leaned back in her chair, finally abandoning the book in front of her.

"That's funny," she said. "I don't remember being told about a new member."

"Yeah?" J shrugged, unbuttoning his coat like he was settling in. "Neither do I."

"You sure you were assigned R07?" she asked, one brow lifting, suspicion creeping into her voice.

J let the question hang in the air, weighing it like a coin between his fingers. He could lie. Could make something up just to see how she reacted. But where was the fun in that?

Instead, he sighed, slow and drawn out, as if this conversation was already exhausting him. "No, actually," he said, deadpan. "I walked into the first room I saw and decided to make myself at home." He chose to lie in the end. For some reason, he just felt like teasing her. Maybe it was her apathy initially that he wanted to dig.

She stared at him. He stared back.

Then, just barely, her lips twitched. "Bold strategy."

J shrugged. "Gets me places."

J clicked his tongue, rocking back on his heels. "Oh? That so?" He reached into his coat, pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, and waved it lazily between two fingers.

"Headmaster's notice," he said, voice flat. "Official and everything. Signed in blood, sealed with a kiss, probably cursed."

She didn't take it. Just glanced at it, then back at him.

"Didn't think they'd assign someone else," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

J smirked. "Disappointed?"

She scoffed. "More like curious if they let just anyone in."

J chuckled, stepping further into the room like he belonged there. "That makes two of us."