Mason approached Rachel, his steps slow, but his heart raced like a drumbeat in his chest. She turned to him, flashing another smile that made his breath hitch.
His throat felt dry, and he wondered briefly if his lips were chapped. Should he have brought chapstick?
Up close, she was even more stunning. Her skin was flawless, her silky black hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. Every detail about her felt unreal, like she'd walked out of a dream.
He blinked, trying to steady himself.
She's really my date.
Rachel reached out, her hand gently wrapping around his arm. The simple touch grounded him, the warmth cutting through his nerves.
Rachel: Relax. You're fine.
He let out a shaky laugh, scratching the back of his head as he finally found his voice.
Mason: Sorry for being late. My idiot driver decided to take his sweet-ass time.
Rachel laughed, melodic sound that made Mason's chest tighten.
Rachel: It's alright. Nothing's even started yet.
Her words clicked, and Mason smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Before he could say more, the gym doors swung open, and students began filing in. One by one, they entered, filling the space with chatter.
They seemed to orbit around Mason and Rachel, their eyes shooting toward them with excitement and curiosity. Some whispered to each other, others watched, as if waiting for the two of them to signal the start of the night.
But Mason barely noticed. His focus remained on Rachel, the noise around them fading into the background. Right now, she was all that mattered.
Without thinking, Mason reached out and grabbed Rachel's hand. Her fingers were warm and soft against his, and he felt his face heat up as he realized what he'd done.
But she didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a small laugh as Mason pulled her toward the DJ booth at the front of the gym.
The crowd parted for them, forming a path as they moved. Mason felt their eyes on him, but he kept his gaze forward. When they reached the DJ, Mason turned to Rachel, grinning.
Mason: Alright, what's your favorite song?
Rachel blinked, her face flushing slightly. She tilted her head, looking genuinely puzzled.
Rachel: Favorite song? That's such a weird question. I've never really thought about it.
Mason stared at her, his eyebrows raising in disbelief.
Mason: That's crazy. Who doesn't have a favorite song?
He laughed, shaking his head as if the idea was inconceivable. But then a thought struck him—
What kind of music does Rachel even listen to?
He didn't know. He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, Rachel gently squeezed his arm, cutting him off.
Rachel: I'd much rather dance than talk about music anyway.
He nodded quickly, trying to ignore the heat rising to his face.
Mason: Dancing it is, then.
He turned to the DJ, giving him a quick wink. The DJ nodded back, understanding the signal. The music shifted, the rhythm picking up as the crowd moved aside once more, clearing the center of the gym for Mason and Rachel.
Mason turned to her, his grin widening despite the butterflies in his stomach.
Mason: Shall we?
Rachel smiled at the cliche line, stepping forward. As they moved to the center of the gym, the chatter around them grew louder, the energy in the room electric.
The spotlight seemed to follow them, and Mason could feel the anticipation of their classmates hanging in the air.
The night was just beginning.
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Mason leaned heavily on the punch table. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking into the collar of his tux. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, blinking away the sting as he glanced toward the center of the gym.
There she was.
Rachel twirled effortlessly in the middle of the crowd, her smile never shifting. The music blared around her, the beat driving the mass of students into a frenzy of movement.
Laughter and cheers filled the air, and everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives. Several classmates passed Mason, clapping him on the back as they moved toward the dance floor.
Classmate: Great party, right Mason!
Mason nodded absently, his lips curving into a small smile, but his attention was elsewhere. Something deep in his stomach gnawed at him, a burning sensation that he couldn't shake.
He pressed a hand against his abdomen, wincing slightly. The feeling was sharp, like fire spreading beneath his skin.
He rolled up his sleeve, half expecting to find the source of the discomfort, but his arm was unblemished, the skin smooth and flawless. Mason shook his head, muttering under his breath.
Mason: Get it together. It's nothing.
He took another sip of his drink, hoping to push the strange feeling away. The cold punch soothed his dry throat, but before he could set the cup down, someone bumped into him, the jolt spilling red liquid down the front of his tux.
Mason: Hey, what the hell—
His voice rose as he turned, his hand shooting out to grab the collar of the boy who'd collided with him.
The kid was smaller—probably a freshman or sophomore. He scowled at Mason, shrugging off the grip with a shove.
The boy's voice carried a thick British accent, contrasting against his Asian features.
Boy: Lay off, mate. It's just punch.
Mason's eyes narrowed.
Mason: Watch where you're going next time.
The boy scoffed, his hands slipping casually into his pockets as he took a step back.
Boy: Why don't you go back to doing what you were doing?
Mason blinked, caught off guard by the remark. His grip on the punch table tightened.
Mason: What's that supposed to mean?
The boy's expression darkened, his scowl deepening as he leaned slightly closer.
Boy: It means you should stop pretending like you're doing anything important. Always stumbling at the crucial moment. That's just the kind of guy you are, isn't it? All it takes is one bump, and the whole thing crumbles.
Mason's chest tightened. His scowl deepened as he straightened to his full height.
Mason: What the hell are you talking about?
The boy didn't flinch. Instead, he gave Mason one last cold glance before turning on his heel.
Boy: Get back to it, then. Get Rachel her punch. That's what you wanted, right?
Mason's hand twitched at his side, a dozen retorts flashing through his mind. For a moment, he considered stepping forward, grabbing the boy by the shoulder, and making him regret those words.
But as he took a step, his head buzzed with a strange, distant ache. His mind stumbled, struggling to grasp something just out of reach.
That boy. He was familiar.
Mason raised his hand to his forehead, pressing against the dull pain growing there. His legs wobbled slightly, and he leaned on the table for support.
His gaze shot back toward the gym floor. Rachel was still there, still smiling, still perfect. The room felt off, though, like the scene was out of focus.
Mason: No. Not tonight. He's not ruining this.
He straightened his tux, his grip tightening on the edge of the table. His focus returned to Rachel.
He'd get her punch. He'd clean himself up. He'd finish the dance.
Mason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He turned away from the gym, heading toward the bathroom to clean the punch off his tux.
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Mason scowled as he wiped off his tux with a stack of crumpled paper towels. His reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back at him, irritated.
He'd already wasted too much time because of that kid. His perfect homecoming was slipping away.
He tossed the damp towels into the trash with more force than necessary, adjusting his collar and straightening his tie one last time.
Everything about tonight had to be perfect.
He wouldn't let something this small ruin it. Not when Rachel was waiting for him.
Mason pushed open the bathroom door, stepping back into the hallway. The thrum of music reached his ears, pulling his gaze toward the dance floor.
Rachel stood there, her head turning slightly as she scanned the room. Mason's stomach twisted at the sight.
She's looking for me.
She was probably wondering why he'd left her alone for so long. Guilt formed in his chest as he took a step forward, ready to sprint back to her side.
But a voice stopped him.
???: Mason.
The word was calm, but it cut through the hallway like a blade.
Mason froze mid-step, his body tensing as he turned toward the source of the voice. His breath hitched at the sight.
Claire.
Just Claire.
She leaned casually against the wall near the entrance to the women's restroom, her arms crossed and her usual, unreadable expression on her face.
Mason flushed slightly, irritation flooding his chest. He walked up to her, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.
Mason: What the hell are you doing here?
His eyes darted around the hallway, scanning for classmates. What would they think if they saw her here, his personal maid, chaperoning him like a child?
But to his surprise, no one seemed to notice her. Students passed by, their chatter uninterrupted, as though she were invisible.
Claire sighed, uncrossing her arms and looking at Mason with a pointed gaze.
Claire: I should be asking you that question. What are you doing, Mason?
Mason frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface.
Mason: What do you mean, 'what am I doing'? I'm about to go back to Rachel, finish my dance. What are you doing here?
Claire sighed again, her expression remaining calm, almost pitying.
Claire: You know what I mean.
Mason's frown deepened.
No, I don't.
What do you want from me?
What does that kid want from me?
Are you all just here to ruin my night?
He threw up his hands, his voice rising slightly.
Mason: Why can't you just leave me alone? Let me have this. Just this one thing!
He turned sharply, preparing to walk away. He didn't have time for this.
Claire: Why are you so unhappy, Mason?
The question was simple, but it hit Mason with a blunt forcce. His steps halted, and he turned back toward her, his heart pounding in his chest.
Mason: What are you—
Claire: Why are you so miserable? You have money. You have resources. You have everything a child could wish for. So why do you look at yourself like that?
Mason stared at her, his lips parting slightly as he tried to form a response, but nothing came. He blinked, his heart suddenly aching in a way he couldn't explain.
The ache grew, spreading through his chest, until he stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to clutch at the fabric of his tux. His mind buzzed, an incessant pain building behind his eyes. He winced, his legs wobbling as he tried to steady himself.
Mason: What… What the fuck are you saying?
Claire didn't move. She didn't speak.
Mason's breaths came fast and shallow as he gripped the edge of a nearby table, his knuckles white against the surface.
What's wrong with me?
Why am I falling apart?
Claire: You're slipping again.
Mason turned toward her, scowling, but she didn't stop.
Claire: You find yourself in these situations because you feel unhappy with yourself. That's it isn't it?
Mason: I don't get it. Why are you still on this? I'm not…
Claire: Then tell me—what exactly is so bad about Mason Heartson?
Mason frozet. He opened his mouth to speak, but Claire didn't wait for a response.
Claire: That's the reason behind your unhappiness. It's clear as day. You're frustrated with yourself because you can't change. You can't become anything more than who you already are. Instead of working to improve, you hide away all the bad parts of yourself, pretending they don't exist. That's always been your answer, hasn't it?
Mason's fists clenched at his sides, his body tensing.
Mason: Shut up.
His voice was low, as if forcing the words out would stop hers from coming.
Mason: What the hell you know about me? What do you know about Mason Heartson?
Claire didn't flinch. She didn't even pause.
Claire: Your inability to change and your insistence on regressing back into yourself—it's setting up the foundation of bigger and bigger failures.
Mason's chest tightened. He took a step forward, his voice rising.
Mason: I said shut up! I know all that already! Failure becomes a habit right? You're just repeating yourself!
But Claire didn't stop.
Claire: You've already given up before you've even started trying right? You've convinced yourself it's over. That there's no point because you've already got that bad habit. But let me remind you of something—you've done it before. You've overcome failure before.
Claire: But now you're drowning again. You're letting yourself drown despite already learning how to swim.
Mason's fists trembled, his voice broke as he snapped back.
Mason: It wasn't me! Don't you get it? It wasn't me who did any of that! Granny's the one who dragged me through the waters. I never learned a damn thing on my own!
Claire raised an eyebrow, waiting. Mason's breathing quickened as the dam broke.
Mason: I didn't heal myself after Victor's attack. That damned Astral carried me through it. I didn't defeat Victor on my own—none of it was on my own! Every single time I've "won," it's because I had someone else to rely on. Someone who could fill in the gaps. And now…
His voice cracked, his chest heaving. He looked down, his vision blurring.
Mason: Now she's gone. She's dead. So it's just me. Mason Heartson. And the truth is, Mason Heartson's a guy who can't do anything on his own.
Mason's shoulders sagged as he glanced at Claire, his voice softer now.
Mason: That's the funny part? I have everything—money, resources, all of it—and yet I've always been on my own. From the beginning. With parents who didn't care. Who fucking sold me out. No one in my corner. Without anyone, I can't do anything, I've never been able to do anything. That's the kind of person Mason Heartson is.
He swallowed hard, his voice breaking.
Mason: So yeah, maybe I'm happy tonight. Maybe I just wanted one night where I wasn't alone. Where I wasn't just… a failure. Is that so hard to understand? Why is it so bad to want that?
Claire's expression didn't shift. She stepped closer, her arms still crossed.
Claire: You're wrong.
Mason flinched at the interruption, his scowl returning.
Mason: Don't start—
Claire cut him off.
Claire: No. You're wrong, Mason.
Her voice was sharper now, though still calm.
Claire: You've always been alone. From the very beginning, it was just you. But that doesn't make you a failure. If anything, it proves the opposite.
Mason blinked, caught off guard by the words.
Claire: You came back from Victor's attack. You defeated the beasts that cornered you. You even led the bull to Victor. Sure, you had help along the way, but there's no shame in that. Mason Heartson is a guy who can't do anything on his own, because he never believed he could.
She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.
Claire: That's why it feels different when you have help. Because for a moment, you let yourself believe. You let someone else believe in you, and you rode on that belief. Failure becomes a habit yeah, but there's another saying I picked up a long time ago: Victory becomes a habit.
Her eyes softened, though her tone remained steady.
Claire: So ride on that foundation you've built. Believe in the winner, Mason Heartson. Escape this place. Find that purpose you obsess over. That's the best thing you can do.
Mason stared at her, his lips parting slightly.
His mind swirled, memories rushing back in an uncontrollable wave.
The black flames. Victor Popescu. Rachel Parker. Edward Bassett. It all flooded his mind at once.
He blinked, tears stinging his eyes.
What the hell was he doing? Moping here? Pushing everything aside? He still had things to do. Questions to ask.
He looked around at the students. The laughter. The smiles.
None of it's real right?
He knew that now. The real thing had to be earned.
Mason looked back at Claire, his scowl softening into a small, tired smile.
Mason: I'm such a dumbass, right? How many life lessons am I gonna learn today?
Claire nodded, extending her hand to him.
Mason took a step forward, reaching out to take it.
But as his fingers neared hers, he froze, his breath catching as his body crumpled to one knee. Blood dripped from his mouth, staining his tux.
His hand drifted to his chest, an unsettling feeling creeping over him. And then—he felt it.
The cold.
His fingers brushed against the cold steel of a blade, a knife, buried deep in his chest. Blood. His blood. It seeped through his shirt, warm and sticky, pooling beneath his hand.
Deja vu?
He turned his head, trembling, only to see her.
Rachel Parker, her hand gripping the blade.
Rachel: If you'd just been a good boy and stayed put for a few more minutes, this could have all worked out. What a big waste of time.