Arlen.
"…"
Arlen.
Who was that?
Who was calling his name like that? There was a warmth in that voice—soft, tender, almost overflowing with affection.
He hadn't even fully come to his senses from that loving call when the same voice suddenly twisted into hatred… and roared:
"ARLEN, THIS IS MY ORDER. YOU WILL NEVER SET FOOT IN THIS HOUSE AGAIN."
He jolted awake, sitting straight up. Once again, he found himself on the top bunk of the school dormitory bed—just like always.
His entire body was drenched in sweat. His breathing was uneven, heavy… panic still clinging to his skin.
After a few moments, he forced himself to calm down and lay back down. His memories were too hazy—he couldn't remember when this dream had started haunting him.
After a while, he was completely in control again.
He didn't try to overthink it. He simply closed his eyes again.
The next morning, he left the dormitory dressed in his school uniform, ready for breakfast as usual.
Seeing the rain outside, he picked up his umbrella and headed toward the convenience store. He bought a cheap sandwich and an orange juice before walking toward school.
The rain had put him in a surprisingly good mood—he had always liked rain. People passing by couldn't help but look twice.
He wore matte black straight-fit trousers, a crisp white shirt, a navy-and-silver diagonal-striped tie,
and a deep navy blazer. On the blazer's left side was a silver-embroidered crest—a crown entwined with laurel leaves—marking him as a student of Coxton Royal High, one of the country's elite institutions.
His face was slim, foxlike—innocent at first glance, yet his eyes told a completely different story.
A soft jawline with just enough sharpness to look striking from certain angles. A pointed chin paired with subtle, gentle cheeks.
His skin was pale, cool-toned—almost ivory—making his snow-white hair and sapphire-blue eyes even more vivid.
He looked like an ice prince walking casually through the morning rain.
By the time he finished breakfast, he had already reached school. Female students walking past greeted him; he returned their greetings with his usual closed-eye smile.
He opened his locker to grab his things and immediately noticed a folded note inside.
He exhaled quietly. Someone had opened his locker again without permission.
He glanced at the note.
"Charity case."
He said nothing, simply closed the locker quietly and walked toward class. Students around him, used to this kind of drama, pretended not to see anything.
A group of three boys standing nearby hid their wicked grins as Arlen passed. They followed him toward the classroom—one of them deliberately bumping into him hard.
Arlen nearly stumbled, but caught himself. The smile on his face didn't fade, not even a little.
He set his bag on his desk and turned toward the boys—
—but before he could speak, his classmate Sofia Morales waved brightly.
"Arlen, your eyes look beautiful as always," she said, staring into his blue eyes with an openly flirty smile.
As always, he reacted the same way to compliments—closing his eyes with a polite smile. "Thanks," he replied softly.
But Sofia kept going, lost in her own admiration—and a few boys in the room shot Arlen sharp, jealous looks.
He could feel those stares pricking at his back.
"And your white hair—it's like soft snow," she added.
I know, he thought with a quiet, amused smile.
"Can I touch it?" she asked, eyes sparkling.
No. Don't touch me with your dirty hands.
He smiled through closed eyes—but just as he opened his mouth to politely refuse, someone grabbed him by the collar.
"You freak. Poor trash—what did you eat for breakfast today that you're smiling like this?"
Even under the insult, Arlen's expression didn't change. His smile didn't even twitch.
He looked calmly at Hugo Verrano—the bully—and answered,
"Sandwich and orange juice. From the convenience store."
A few students burst into laughter. Some laughed because the breakfast was cheap—others laughed because Arlen had answered so casually, as if Hugo didn't matter at all.
Hugo Verrano, a rich kid, loved bullying Arlen. But Arlen's constant smiling, calm replies, and complete lack of reaction always irritated him to the edge.
But today… the reason for the bullying felt different. Arlen could see it in Hugo's eyes—anger, real anger. Something new. Something strange.
"Hah…" Hugo scoffed, tightening his grip on Arlen's collar. "Clueless bastard—"
"Ouch. That hurts."
Arlen's blue eyes turned slightly red from the pressure, and Hugo froze for a second—something didn't sit right with him.
Before he could process it, a voice cut through the tension.
"Hugo Verrano, sit down."
The homeroom teacher walked in, heading toward the podium. Hugo shot Arlen a glare before dropping back into his seat.
Arlen straightened his collar, opened his book, and focused on the lecture.
He had been at this school for six months now. He was lucky he even had a place in the dormitory—otherwise, after the incident six months ago, he might've been homeless.
Six months earlier, a supernatural disaster had occurred in the coastal districts outside Valencia. Seventy-five people died. Only Arlen Cazador survived.
The entire world had heard about it. They called it "La Noche del Lamento"—The Night of Lament.
Because of that incident, Arlen had developed amnesia. He couldn't remember any details—not why he survived, nor what had happened that night.
Was he lucky? Or was there something else?
Given his background, entering Coxton Royal High should've been impossible.
After the incident, he had woken up in a hospital bed wearing a hospital gown—without a single injury. The police questioned him, but because of the amnesia, he couldn't answer anything.
He was the only one left alive—the sole witness. The police tried searching for his parents, but no information surfaced.
He wasn't yet eighteen, so they decided to send him to an orphanage.
The next morning, when he was supposed to leave—
—a man around forty or forty-five stood in front of him. A genuine, dignified old man in an expensive suit.
He gave him only two choices:
"Orphanage… or come with me."
Arlen listened quietly, his eyes unmoving. He didn't respond, so the man spoke again—and this time, Arlen's blue eyes flickered.
"I knew your parents."
Arlen remained silent for a moment before muttering, "Oh."
"Sympathy? Or are you expecting something in return?"
Hearing that blunt question, the man smiled.
"I don't deal in sympathy. And what could you possibly give me?"
Arlen closed his eyes, lips curving into a faint smile.
A cold breeze brushed past them from the open doorway, lifting his white bangs. Then he answered,
"Of course. I'll come with you."
In this world, sympathy doesn't exist. There is always a reason. Always a motive. Arlen just didn't know his yet.
The bell rang. The teacher left. Next class: P.E.
Arlen stood up from his seat.
Well… whatever.
He continued living this aimless life.
When lunchtime finally arrived, Arlen headed toward the cafeteria. The moment he stepped inside, the students' loud chatter felt sharp enough to pierce his ears.
Today was noisier than usual. And one glance was enough to tell him why— the Student Council was present.
"Oye, did you see the chart? Arlen Cazador came last again," one boy said to his female friend, gossiping loudly.
"He's the fake Cazador. Not the real one who actually tops the rankings." Arlen heard the whisper and rolled his eyes. Yes—besides "charity case" and "fragile pretty face," he had another nickname:
"Fake Cazador."
Why?
Because in Spain, there existed a powerful elite family with the surname Cazador. And then there was Arlen—poor, lowest grades, zero background. The fact that he shared their surname was just another burden on his shoulders.
Well… What could he do about it? Nothing.
He simply shrugged, uninterested, and walked toward the food counter.
Coxton Royal High's cafeteria felt like a mini-luxury restaurant. High ceilings, warm white lights glowing from every corner. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows looked out at the courtyard fountain, its water sparkling under the soft sunlight now that the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing.
The polished grey marble floor reflected faces so clearly that not a speck of dust could be seen. Students crowded the space—disciplined, but rich-kid loud. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume mixed with the hiss of social whispers.
And then there was Arlen—alone. With no friends.
Pitiful. Anyone watching might think he was someone deserving of sympathy.
He saw the pity in the eyes of a few students.
But Arlen Cazador was the kind of person who, in this situation, would simply close his eyes, smile a little, and think:
"Why do you care how I live my life? Idiots."
Of course, out loud he would only say, "Oh. How unfortunate."
After getting his food, he swiped his student ID. Arlen's card was different from everyone else's— right on the surface, bold letters read:
"SPECIAL ACCESS — 0 CHARGE."
"Free food again today." "Maybe he's doing something shady behind the scenes." "He doesn't even react… creepy."
Students whispered loudly behind his back.
The atmosphere shifted the moment he entered, and even the Student Council noticed. They rarely ate in the cafeteria due to their workload, so they had never interacted with Arlen before. But they had heard the rumors.
It wasn't rare for rich kids to bully poorer ones, but usually they behaved carefully when the council was around. Yet today, despite their presence, the students continued harassing Arlen.
The council glanced over— noticed it— and then looked away, deciding the students would probably stop soon on their own.
They didn't.
A boy approached while Arlen sat at a corner table, quietly enjoying his lunch.
"Oye. I want that card too. Zero charge. How did you get it? Tell me."
His tone was mocking, but his eyes showed real curiosity.
"Easily," Arlen replied, wearing his usual closed-eye smile without a hint of irritation.
"How?"
The boy leaned closer, and students around them subtly tilted their heads to listen.
"Your parents die. You become an orphan. And when you have nowhere left to go, someone shows up and asks you—"
Arlen turned his head and opened his eyes.
For the first time, people saw him smile with his eyes open.
And those eyes were cold. Like ice.
Something in them pressed against everyone present— a silent pressure that made the nearby students stiffen.
Even those at a distance heard him clearly. Some gasped— some expected drama— some waited eagerly.
Arlen repeated the question the old man once asked him:
"The orphanage… or will you come with me?"
The boy's face flushed with anger. He raised his hand, ready to punch Arlen—
—but someone grabbed his wrist.
The boy's fist stopped barely an inch from Arlen's cheek.
A cold, authoritative voice froze the entire cafeteria.
"Enough. Don't move."
All eyes snapped toward Nerea Valteterra, the Discipline Committee Head.
She stepped forward, expression calm— neither angry nor sympathetic.
Just pure authority.
The bully's wrist was locked tightly in her grip.
"Were you about to throw a punch?" she asked plainly.
"W–What? N-No—he provoked me—"
"I saw everything," Nerea cut him off, her voice low but sharp as a blade.
"The rising volume, hitting the table, the crowd forming, and your posture— It's obvious you were about to attack him. Don't make excuses."
Everyone held their breath.
Nerea glanced at Arlen— he looked calm, smiling politely with closed eyes.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly.
Arlen gave a slight nod.
Then she turned back to the bully.
"Assault attempt. Public disturbance. Harassment."
The boy's face went pale.
"Three days of detention. If you think I'm unfair, you may go to the principal. The footage will confirm everything."
Then she faced Arlen again.
"Next time, report it first. A single sentence from you can trigger someone. Be careful."
Arlen smiled faintly. "Okay."
Nerea addressed the room:
"Back to your meals. Drama is over."
The cafeteria noise slowly returned to normal.
As she walked out with the Student Council, Arlen muttered with an amused smile:
"I didn't know honest people existed in this school."
He finished his lunch, and when the bell rang, students returned to class.
After school, students headed home. The council finished their final tasks and exited the office.
"I don't understand why the principal gave Arlen Cazador temporary guardianship," said Lio Serrano, the charming Event Committee Head.
"He's nothing special."
"Agreed," muttered Diego Rivas, the exhausted Sports Committee Head, dark circles under his eyes and messy blond hair. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—clearly uninterested in Arlen.
"That's not true," the General Secretary, Iker Montesa, spoke suddenly.
Everyone turned to him in surprise— he rarely showed interest in anyone.
"What's special about him?" Diego asked sharply. He had been unusually irritable lately.
Before Iker could answer, Lio spoke:
"I know you don't like him because Sofia Morales likes him. But ignoring that he's more handsome than you is impossible."
Lio said it with a playful smile— pouring salt straight onto Diego's wounds.
Diego clenched his fists.
"Sofia doesn't like him," he growled, almost biting the words—perhaps afraid it might be true.
"Sofia? Who's that?" asked Nerea, adjusting her glasses.
"A good question," Lio said brightly. "She's a transfer student—second-year junior, completely in love with Arlen Cazador. Their romance began when Diego met her at a party a year ago. She's lived in his heart ever since. But he never had the courage to confess. Then Arlen showed up. And now she's crazy about him."
"Enough." Diego snapped, glaring at Lio.
"So that red-haired girl clinging to Arlen… that's Sofia?" Iker pointed toward the gate— where Sofia was indeed clinging to Arlen, laughing and chatting, while Arlen tried his hardest to ignore her.
The sight made Diego's eyes burn red with anger.
"I'm going home." Diego strode past them, marching toward the gate without a backward glance.
"Tsk tsk. Poor Diego. She didn't even look at him once," Lio sighed sympathetically.
"I feel like I've seen him somewhere," Vice President Alma Torres murmured out of nowhere.
"What? WHAT?! Since when do you take an interest in girls?" Lio exaggerated his shock dramatically. The others looked at Alma too— he rarely commented on anyone.
Alma glared, and Lio immediately corrected himself.
"I-I mean, you're a young guy too, love and all— I mean—"
"Just shut up, Lio," Alma said and walked ahead.
Again, his eyes drifted toward Arlen. White hair and blue eyes were rare—maybe that's why he felt the boy looked familiar. Or maybe it was just his imagination.
"You were talking about Arlen Cazador, right?" Iker asked, walking beside him as the others fell behind.
Alma simply hummed in response.
"He's the sole survivor of The Night of Lament. The principal mentioned him to you— maybe that's why he feels familiar. White hair is rare, after all."
Hearing that, Alma remembered the conversation with the principal— and the tragedy known as La Noche del Lamento. He felt a faint chill thinking about Arlen surviving alone.
The Night of Lament. It was named so because of a rumor— that on that night, the sky turned unnaturally black, as if light itself had been stolen. A shadow-like creature "devoured" the coastal districts of Valencia.
People whispered that an Encanto was responsible— a high-rank species known as Sombra Lamenta.
Rumors claimed it swallowed seventy-five people into shadows. When the dark fog finally disappeared, only Arlen Cazador was left standing.
Later, a social media post claimed it was the beginning of the world's end— a supernatural disaster. But the post and the account vanished soon after.
No one knew what was true… and what was a lie.
_______
CONTINUE...