Chapter 23
"The Trembling Rat"
Sung Ho's journal filled with frantic scrawl. The ink bled where his hands shook, but he couldn't stop.
He isn't Xin Min. I know it. I saw him drown. I saw the river carry him away. Why is no one else seeing it? Why is it only me?
The words steadied him for a moment, but only a moment. By dawn, his eyes were bloodshot, his body trembling with fatigue. He looked like a ghost as he walked into school. The whispers had started already.
"Did you hear him yesterday? Screaming about corpses."
"Yeah, I think he's finally snapped."
"Creepy bastard."
Their voices were needles in his ears. He ducked his head and moved quickly through the hall. His eyes, however, betrayed him—darting to every shadow, every corner, searching for that smirk.
When he reached his desk, his stomach turned. Xin Min was already there. Sitting back, chair tilted, arms crossed. Like nothing had changed. But Sung Ho swore his skin looked too pale, like a mask stretched too tight.
The longer he looked, the harder it became to breathe.
That afternoon, Sung Ho tried a different tactic. If no one believed him, maybe he could find allies. He slipped out of class and found a group of boys near the back of the gym. They had all suffered under Xin Min before—the bruises, the humiliation, the stolen money. Surely they'd listen.
"Listen," Sung Ho whispered urgently, glancing over his shoulder. "I know what happened to Xin Min. He—he's not who he says he is. He—"
One of the boys cut him off with a bark of laughter.
"What, you finally lost it? That's your big secret?"
"No, you don't understand—"
"You wish he was dead, don't you? That's all this is. You want revenge so bad you're seeing ghosts."
Another chimed in. "Pathetic. Even when he's gone for a few days, you can't stop thinking about him. Obsessed much?"
Their laughter echoed like knives. Sung Ho's face burned hot. He tried to protest, but his words tangled and died in his throat. They shoved past him, muttering curses.
He stood frozen in the empty gym, their laughter still ringing. Slowly, his knees buckled. He pressed both hands to his face.
They don't believe me. No one believes me. I'm alone.
That night, his paranoia bloomed into full terror. He locked his window, shoved the desk against the door, and crawled into bed with his eyes wide open. The shadows shifted. He swore he heard footsteps in the hall. His breath came in ragged gasps.
And then the voice. A whisper, barely audible, curling into his ear.
You saw me drown, didn't you?
His body went rigid. His teeth chattered. He bolted upright, but no one was there. The room was empty—yet the air felt thick, suffocating, alive with a presence he couldn't name.
He screamed until his throat bled.
The next day, Maverick leaned casually against the railing overlooking the school courtyard. His borrowed body wore Xin Min's face perfectly. The other students barely noticed him, beyond the usual deference his name commanded.
But Sung Ho noticed. He always noticed.
Their eyes met across the courtyard. Maverick let his lips twitch into the faintest smile—no words, no movement, just the curve of lips that carried centuries of patience.
Sung Ho broke. He stumbled back, clutching his head, muttering. His chest heaved as though he'd run miles.
"Why me?" His voice cracked. "Why am I the only one who sees it?"
That evening, in the safety of their hidden residence, Voldrack spoke quietly. "He's losing his grip. His paranoia worsens by the hour. If he screams the truth often enough, someone may listen. If not mortals, then others." His tone was edged with warning.
Zaratul stretched lazily in his chair, humanoid form draped like a cat. His eyes gleamed faint red. "Shall I end it? One flick, and he will never trouble us again."
"No," Maverick said. His voice was flat, without hesitation. "He is a test case. A tool."
"A tool?" Voldrack frowned.
"Fear kills faster than blades," Maverick murmured. "When he breaks completely, even if he screams the truth, no one will hear it. He becomes his own executioner. All I need to do is wait."
Zaratul chuckled. "Cruel. I approve."
The following morning, Sung Ho entered class trembling, eyes darting wildly. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unwashed. His hand clutched the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles went white.
Xin Min—no, Maverick—sat across from him. Their gazes locked. Maverick mouthed two silent words.
Still alive.
Sung Ho's scream tore through the classroom. He pointed, hand shaking violently.
"You're dead! You're supposed to be dead!"
The teacher slammed the desk. "Enough! Sit down, Sung Ho!"
But he couldn't. His body shook, his breath ragged. He spun to his classmates. "You saw it, didn't you? You have to see it!"
They only stared, some laughing, others whispering.
"Crazy."
"He's gone mad."
"What a freak."
Sung Ho collapsed into his chair, tears streaking down his face. His world was unraveling, and no one would save him.
Across the room, Maverick's borrowed face tilted, lips twitching upward in a predator's smirk.
The rat was trembling. And Maverick was patient.