Chapter Text
“We have a new student, have you heard?” Petra asked as she opened a pack of cigs and tossed one over to me.
“Burned down that boys home with kids still in it.” She lights the cig and tosses the lighter over.
We're sitting in the graveyard, its become our smoke spot because nobody but students come up here and after I threw a flaming 26 of vodka at some kid who was pissing me off nobody but the rats came up here.
“Why would I give a shit, Petra?” I muttered, half-focused on lighting the cigarette “Probably just some CIA agent’s kid, nothing but generational talent there.”
I left out the part that i was the one who brought him here. Petra doesn't need to know that and honestly i love my friends but the less they know the better.
“I just heard he's easy on the eyes, that’s all. At least, that’s what Saya said. Lin wants us to greet him later, so be ready. introduce him or what not.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending to be absorbed in my notes, though I couldn't help but notice the brief flicker of green hair in my peripheral vision. A soft chuckle followed, and then Billie was there, crouching down beside me. I blew out a cloud of smoke in his face.
“Don’t worry, Jules,” Billie said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “All you have to do is smile a little. Maybe try blowing smoke in his face”
He winks at me and drops his skateboard to the concrete floor. I shot him a look, feeling familiar annoyance bubbling up. “Honestly, I’d rather pick a fight with the cartel. I’m not smiling for him,” I muttered, pushing him lightly out of my space, though he barely budged.
Billie leaned back on his haunches, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, you can’t be that cold. He’s probably just some nervous kid, trying to figure out where he fits in.”
“Or maybe he's just a talentless loser who has a thirst for fire.” I leaned back on the concrete.
Petra chimed in, eyes glinting with mischief. “You should at least give him a chance, Jules. I mean, Saya says he’s got some sort of… charm. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little nice. Besides if you have Saya saying shit like that who knows”
I looked up at her, the sarcasm thick in my voice. “Charm, Petra? What’s next? Is he going to be the second coming of Jesus too?”
Billie chuckled softly but gave me a sideways look. “You're such a cynic. Maybe you’ll end up surprised.”
“Or maybe I’ll just end up bored.” I didn’t meet his eyes,
“Besides who wants to be friends with a child murderer.”
3 days earlier
Hungry, homeless, and wanted by every cop in the city for a dozen murders. A positive mental attitude is essential to survival out here. These fucking people make it hard. Lunatics, gangbangers, pushers. You can only stay on your toes for so long before you wake up with a screwdriver in your gut. All I ever wanted was the mundane shit everyone takes for granted. Somewhere I belong. A safe place to sleep. To know where my next meal is coming from. I see it in their eyes. Easier to think I've done something to deserve this. And in my case, maybe they're right.
Marcus walked down the darkened street, his head hung low, shoulders hunched, as he wove his way through the narrow camp between abandoned buildings. The city skyline loomed in the distance, its lights glaring even at this late hour, but the sounds of the bustling metropolis felt far away out of reach, like another world. The alleys, on the other hand, were eerily silent, the cold wind biting against his neck as he moved through the shadows.
Hiding wasn’t the best strategy, but what choice did he have? Going to the police was out of the question; they thought he was guilty. Being homeless, well, it wasn't like that was anything new. So, the streets it was. His entire life packed into a ragged backpack slung over his shoulder, and the only constant companion a lighter, rattling in his pocket. If the cops found him now they would probably peg that lighter on the one that started the fire. The lighter was only used to light cigarettes.
Marcus kept his head low as he shuffled through the dingy alley, avoiding any eye contact or recognition. Just another invisible face in the crowd. Up ahead, a tall man strolled along, casually smoking something pungent a joint by the smell of it. Marcus watched the man smoke it, smoking trailing around his head as he walked and marcus kept an eye on him as he continued. The man dropped it without a care and continued walking, oblivious. Marcus waited a moment, then swooped in, snatching the discarded roach off the ground. He took a drag, blowing the smoke out slowly, feeling the burn.
"Man, if you're out here smoking some random guy’s street roach, well… that’s on you,"
He muttered to himself. It didn’t take long for things to start feeling strange. The colors of the alley shifted. Everything seemed to have an electric purple glow, warping the space around him.
"And when it hits like a semi-truck, that’s definitely on you. Oh… shit."
Marcus blinked hard, trying to shake off the sudden rush. He felt a little calmer when the smoke entered his lungs but only from the familiar comfort of smoke. His heart thudded in his chest as he noticed the sounds of laughter and music ahead. He stumbled forward, and a vivid celebration came into view. People were dancing, their faces painted like skulls, brightly colored decorations hanging above them, candy strewn across tables. Red and purple lights danced around as women swirled around each other in bright dresses.
"Day of the Dead? Is that tonight?" His pulse quickened. "Oh, this is bad. Real bad."
Suddenly, a television screen popped out of nowhere, as if yanked from the walls of the alley itself. The blaring TV host’s face was unnaturally close, his voice echoing unnervingly.
“Well, hello, Marcus! Looks like you’ve scored yourself a joint laced with angel dust! What a bad break,” the host cackled. “I tried to tell you, just say no!”
Marcus stumbled back, panic rising as the TV host’s face twisted, the screen flickering. It felt too real. The host wasn’t just talking anymore he was reaching out, long mechanical hands extending from the screen, clawing toward Marcus like they were trying to pull him inside the TV.
“Nah… no, no, no,” Marcus mumbled, fear building as he turned and bolted toward the celebration. But the TV host’s voice echoed behind him, his laughter distorted, reverberating in his mind.
"You’re high, Marcus, you’re high! It’s just paranoia… someone’s watching you."
He mumbled. Marcus’s breathing grew ragged as he bumped into someone a tall kid about his age, dark-skinned with a black jacket.
“Yo, you’ve been made,” the kid said sharply, locking eyes with him. He gestured to men in black running towards him.
“Wait, is he talking to me? No, no, I’m just too high. That’s all… just freaking out.” But as Marcus’s mind raced, the paranoia kicked in full force. He glanced behind and froze as flashing red and blue lights appeared at the end of the alley.
"Cops?!"
His heart pounded harder, and adrenaline took over. He ran, legs pumping, barely dodging a girl dressed in a flowing red dress, her face painted with an elaborate sugar skull. She spun, startled, but Marcus didn’t have time to apologize he kept running as fast as his legs could carry him.
If there was one thing he learned in foster care, it was how to run. Fast .
He darted toward the nearest parking garage, taking the steps two at a time, desperate to lose them. But the flashing lights stayed on his tail. He whipped his head around for a quick glance, red and blue lights lit up the night, but now there was something else. A motorcycle roared behind them, the engine’s growl vibrating through the air like it was coming for him.
“Fuck,” Marcus muttered as the motorcycle roared closer. His feet fumbled, and he stumbled backward, crashing hard onto the pavement. The world was still a blur of distorted colors and reality bending in and out of focus. A girl with dark hair pulled up on the bike, stopping just inches from him. She glanced down at him with a calm, almost indifferent expression.
“Get on,” she said firmly.
Before Marcus could react, flashing lights and blaring sirens cut through the haze.
“POLICE! Hands in the air! Weapons on the ground!” The command echoed through the alley.
Marcus's head spun, trying to make sense of what was happening. The reality around him flickered between his paranoia-fueled visions and something more concrete. He watched, stunned, as the girl on the motorcycle leapt off and took down one of the cops with a swift, calculated move. The others screamed at her to stop, their guns drawn, shouting warnings to shoot.
“Who the hell is that?” Marcus thought, bewildered.
Suddenly, everything around him shifted again. Out of nowhere, two figures appeared behind him. He barely registered their presence before a rag soaked with chloroform was pressed over his mouth. His struggles weakened quickly, and everything went black as his body slumped to the ground.
"He's cute."
"Yeah, maybe, but you're sure he doesn’t have rabies?"
“Don't look like a psychopath to me.”
“Can't judge a book by its cover.”
“Yeah but you can buy its smell.”
“Yeah.”
“He's cute.”
“Yeah total hobo fancy cover material.”
Marcus’s mind slowly drifted back to consciousness, drawn by the voices around him. He blinked, his vision swimming as he took in his surroundings. The cold scent of raw meat hit his nostrils, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw large slabs of meat hanging from the ceiling, swinging gently on hooks. He's in what looks like a butcher's curing chamber with the meat hanging from the ceiling. He looks around the yellowing walls as the putrid smell hits his nose when he inhales. A group of people, no, teenagers stood around him, watching him closely. He felt the ropes binding him to a chair and squirmed, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.
The first face he recognized was the tall boy from the Day of the Dead celebration. Then, in a blur of memory, he recalled almost knocking into the girl in the red dress. His eyes darted between them and the others: a girl with a severe side part and jet-black hair, a tall lanky boy with neon-green hair, and finally, another girl with long black hair, pale skin, and a quiet, unreadable demeanor, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.
“What’d you say, Mad Dog?” The tall boy spoke with a sneer. “You the psycho who did the boys’ home massacre?”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, then smirked, despite the situation. "Pretty tough barking at a guy tied to a chair."
The tall boy scowled, clearly irritated. “Untie this punk-ass bitch.”
The green-haired boy stepped forward, producing a knife with a casual flick. “All right, but my bet’s on ‘Hepatitis Harry’ over here.” With a quick motion, he sliced through the ropes binding Marcus to the chair.
Marcus stood up slowly, rubbing his wrists, trying to gauge the group around him. The girl with the dark hair and pale skin studied him, her eyes sharp and piercing as if she could see right through him. She stepped away from the wall and walked closer, her gaze sizing him up. Her expression remained cold and unimpressed, like she’d seen it all before. Marcus thought she looked like a statue pale and emotionless, every movement deliberate.
Just as Marcus opened his mouth to speak, the door to the room creaked open. A middle-aged asian man entered, his presence commanding the room with quiet authority. His face was stern, lined with years of experience and something harder to place ruthlessness, maybe Marcus couldn't tell.
“Forgive my students,” the man said in a measured tone. “They forget that unnecessary viciousness only makes them appear weak.”
He looks at Marcus with a sort of understanding between them. Marcus is still lost looking over the teenagers in the room
“Billie, if you would be so kind?”
The green-haired boy, Billie, quickly pulled up a chair for the man. He moved with sort of a twitchy angle. His gaze met Marcus's, holding it for a long moment.
“Are you satisfied with your life?” the man asked with unnerving calm.
“Me?” Marcus scoffed. “Yeah, I eat trash and sleep in piss. Everything’s going according to plan.”
One of the girls, the one with tattoos, bristled at his words. She took a step forward, her eyes blazing with protective energy. “Show Master Lin some respect.”
Marcus didn’t even flinch. “Master Lin can eat my shit.”
The tattooed girl made another move, but the pale girl with the stoic expression, spoke up.
“Saya, don’t.”
Saya hesitated, but her eyes remained filled with disgust as she glared at Marcus.
“What the hell is this? Who are you people?” Marcus snapped, looking around at the bizarre group.
“What matters,” Master Lin said calmly, “is that we know who you are, Marcus. We know what you’ve done. You’re a killer.”
Marcus’s eyes flickered with confusion, but the man’s words pierced through his skepticism. The group looked at him with varying expressions, some amused, others unreadable.
“Few value this particular proficiency,” Master Lin continued, “but I do. What if I told you there’s a home for people like you? A place where you’d be surrounded by peers. A school… where you could harness your potential.”
Marcus glanced around the room again, the pieces of this strange puzzle starting to fall into place. These people… they weren’t just some random group of street punks. They looked like they could be but there was something different about them, something dangerous.
“So, what? I signed up and dressed like a Viking so you can take some tasteful photos?” He laughed, a bitter sound.
Master Lin’s expression didn’t change. “I’m offering you a chance to master the deadly arts. To control the fire inside you.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, trying to decide if this was real or some elaborate joke. “The deadly arts, huh? Yeah, that sounds… great. This all seems super sane and normal, by the way. You guys look like a fun bunch, but, uh… I think I’ll pass.”
With that, Marcus grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door, leaving the cold, meat-filled room behind. He grabs the tall boy's wallet on the way out and doesn't give a second glance back.