The clean, sterile air of the school bathroom wrapped around Zain like a suffocating blanket. He crouched in the corner of the last stall, knees pulled to his chest, trembling. The pristine tiles and steady fluorescent light above him felt as though they were closing in. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"It's fine... I'm fine. He wouldn't check the bathrooms," he whispered to himself. "He won't find me here."

His fingers dug into the sides of his uniform pants, clenching until his knuckles turned white. He repeated the words like a mantra, convincing himself it was true. But deep down, doubt gnawed at him.

The bathroom door creaked open, then—

SLAM.

Zain's heart jumped to his throat. A voice followed, deep and laced with impatience. "Whoever's in here... come out. Now. If I have to check the stalls, I won't care who I find."

Zain froze. He recognized that voice. It wasn't a teacher or staff member. They wouldn't be saying such things in the current situation. It was the boy he dreaded the most.

"No one else is here. Just me," Zain thought, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He wished someone was there with him. At least this madman would get them first and he would have a chance since that wouldn't continue to check.

Silence. The footsteps echoed, slow but deliberate. Zain pressed further into the corner, trying to make himself disappear.

Crash!

The stall farthest to him flew open. Zain flinched at the sound, teeth chattering. The next stall groaned as it was kicked open with force. Each door that slammed brought the footsteps closer.

Zain's silent tears streamed down his face, his body trembling uncontrollably. "Please... please just leave."

Another door opened.

Then another.

Finally—silence.

A sigh echoed through the room. "Tch. Waste of time."

The footsteps retreated. Zain exhaled shakily, his hands covering his mouth to stop any sound. Relief washed over him, and the tears of terror slowly turned to quiet sobs of joy. He had survived.

But then—

SLAM.

The door to his stall swung wide open.

Zain's gaze shot up. Standing before him was a teenager his age, short dark hair framing a pale face, wearing a plain black shirt and trousers. In his hand, he held a pulse gun.

Zain's lips trembled as he tried to speak. "P-please... I'm sorry—"

The boy's eyes darkened. "You never cried and begged like this the days you tormented me."

"Disgusting that we even share the same name when you don't even have the backbone to fight back." He said with a spit right on Zain's face.

The gun's barrel lifted.

Bang.

Zain's body crumpled, lifeless.

The real Zayn—lowered the gun, staring at the corpse with cold disinterest. A small notebook emerged from his pocket, and with a pen, he neatly crossed out a name.

Thirteen down. Four to go.

He flipped to a rough map drawn in smudged ink, portions scratched out where he had already searched. Only a few unmarked areas remained—the principal's office and a few classrooms among them.

Zayn clicked his tongue in irritation. "They're here somewhere."

He hated how efficient they were at hiding the students. Gave him to much work to do.

Sliding the notebook back into his pocket, he stepped away from the body and left the bathroom without a second glance, heading down the hall towards the principal's office, the gun still warm in his hand.

The hallways stretched endlessly, each step echoing faintly. The almost still bodies scattered along the path barely registered in his mind—crumpled by lockers, slumped against doors.

A girl he vaguely remembered lay near the art room, head facing the bloodstained wall she had been slammed against. Another boy sat propped against the vending machine, blood smeared down the glass.

Zayn's focus stayed elsewhere. The memories tugged at him as he walked. The whispered insults, the mocking laughter, the constant reminders that he didn't belong.

He could remember it like it was yesterday, but it was only just an average week.

Every day almost on routine, his locker busted through, trash poured on his head, face slammed on toilet seats, homework hacked into and corrupted even his small apartment had been lit on fire once.

There were lesser ones among them but to Zayn at this moment, they were all the same. A mark that you had struck him. Struck him when he was low and weak. Struck when he had no way to fight back and keeping quiet kept him alive.

But now those small things were a mark for him to get his get back. A mark that let him know who he wanted to suffer. To suffer pain that he had been dealt his entire life just because he was an orphan.

An orphan. Funded by the Empire. The pitiful waste of money.

That was all they ever saw. And in practicality they were right.

Being funded by the Empire meant the Empire took care of your every need. From food to water, to shelter all the way to education. This sounded like a good thing until you realized that it meant being funded meant you were their property.

You had no autonomy. You can choose what food you eat, where you live, what you wear, what work you do, and even who you procreate with. The Empire decided everything about you when you became their dependent.

This had been Zayn's life for as long as he could remember.

He never had friends as the Empire did not choose so. He could have enjoyable meals because the Empire chose so. He couldn't even end his own life unless the government said so. Believe him, he tried.

One may ask why he still receives assistance if he is forced to live like this and the answer is simple.

Debt.

The Empire had a debt system, where every single Credit they used on you, you owed. This was on the belief that everything is worth something and the Empire made sure to keep you in Debt.

It was common to find Dependants living in high-quality homes, wearing high-quality clothes, and studying high quality schools all so they could put more expenses under your name.

And if you thought you could freeload, it was mandatory that every Dependant produce a certain amount of income every month or they would be tossed into the Wastelands. And that was not somewhere you would want to be.

So every Dependant, whether orphan, crippled soldier or sickly elderly where put under this plan to effectively use the 'useless' class of society for something useful.

And that was why he understood why he was treated the way he was. To them he leeches of they and their parents had earned money which no one would be happy with.

He remembered the snide comments—'charity case,' 'government pet,' 'leech.' They sabotaged his projects, and ruined his schoolwork, but Zayn never let it break him. What gnawed at him wasn't the bullying. It was the fallout every time he fought back.

He had lost twelve part-time jobs because rich brats whined to their parents. One confrontation in particular led to his funding entirely being revoked, sealing his fate. Senior high school was no longer an option. His chance at a future was gone.

He was going to be tossed into the Wastelands. To inevitable die an utterly painful death.

So Zayn decided the rules no longer mattered.

They had taken what little he had left from him. Now he would take something very big from them.

Their lives.

His hand tightened around the gun as he approached the next classroom. The door was locked, lights off inside. Zayn sighed. The twentieth one to do this.

Bang. Bang.

"Stop wasting my time," Zayn called out. "I know you're in there. Ask the other dead bodies if hiding behind the door helped them."

A voice—frail and shaking—responded from inside. "Please, stop... think about the innocents. Don't throw your life away."

Zayn laughed bitterly. "Throw it away? There's nothing left to throw. Now send whoever is on the list out. Or I open this door, and no one makes it out."

Silence followed.

Zayn wasn't doing this all out of a whim. He had planned it thoroughly ever since his funding was revoked. He had even made sure to send a list of those he was after earlier that day, not to spare innocents but to waste less time.

He had even made sure to pick a day everyone was in school and picked the perfect time for none to escape. If anything it was the school's fault so many people died as collateral.

It was originally two pronged plan to send them into hiding as since he was not being funded the Empire was not even properly keeping tabs on him till it was time to toss him out.

It would have left them cowering in their homes like the rats and worms they are, even if it would ensure his death.

Even causing them a little fear would have made his pain a little bearable, but who knew the school would think he was messing around.

They should have taken him seriously.

Zayn raised the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. The door creaked open.

His eyes narrowed. This was the first time anyone complied since he started.

A blonde girl stepped out. Recognition flared in his chest. One of his main tormentors. The one among the many he really wanted to be dead.

The one who made sure he would never attend senior high. To never have a real life.

She trembled, hands clasped as she begged. "I can fix it, Zayn. Please, I'll talk to my father. You can have another chance."

Zayn's lips curled in disgust. He said nothing, raising the gun slowly.

His gaze shifted. Through the half-open door, he caught a glint.

A sniper.

The realization struck too late.

Without hesitation, Zayn pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out like thunder in the confined hallway, but Zayn barely registered the sound. His eyes locked on the sight of his own glowing bullet slicing through the girl's eye, a burst of crimson painting the wall behind her. Satisfaction flickered for a brief second—before his world exploded into searing red.

The sniper's bullet tore through his skull with merciless precision, sending him sprawling onto the cold, unforgiving floor. The pain wasn't a sharp stab but a deep, dull throb that seemed to engulf his entire being. His limbs felt disconnected as if his body was slowly floating away from him. Warm blood pooled beneath his head, seeping into his dark hair, while the distant echoes of panic and footsteps swirled around his fading consciousness.

Zayn lay still, eyes fluttering. He knew death was close, its icy hand inching toward him. His breath hitched, uneven, and shallow, as he cursed silently.

"Three more," he thought bitterly. "Just three more... and I would have been done."

He forced his trembling arms to push against the ground, barely lifting his head. The strain sent fresh waves of agony crashing through him, but he persisted. He needed to see. He had to know if she was dead.

Through blurred vision, he spotted the crumpled form of the girl. Her face was twisted unnaturally, a dark hole where her eye once was. Kneeling beside her, the elderly teacher sobbed uncontrollably, clutching the girl's lifeless body to her chest. A blonde boy—her brother—hovered close, trembling as he begged her to wake up. Zayn didn't know the exact trajectory of his shot, but he could tell by the devastation painted across their faces that he hadn't missed.

Good. One less.

The ache in his head pulled his gaze downward. His blood smeared the ground beneath him, pooling like ink on paper. He turned his head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the sniper, but darkness crowded the edges of his sight. His strength faltered, and his head dropped limply back to the cold floor.

Staring at the ceiling, he felt a strange sense of peace despite the throbbing pain.

"I got most of them," he thought. "That's enough. The others... may they rot."

He was perfectly okay with even getting to kill one of them, especially fourteen. Now he could die in peace.

His heart slowed as the blood loss sapped the last remnants of his vitality. His eyelids grew heavy, the fluorescent lights above blurring into hazy streaks.

He braced himself, expecting his life to replay before his eyes—every miserable second of it. But nothing came. Instead, his mind drifted back to a different time. A time when he wasn't twisted by hatred and vengeance.

He saw a younger version of himself, small and fragile, sitting alone in the orphanage's courtyard. The world then seemed vast and full of possibilities, untainted by the weight of betrayal. Back then, he hadn't yet realized how cruel life could be.

"Was there anything... that could have changed all of this?" he pondered, his thoughts unraveling slowly. Family? No. Friends? Unlikely. A better personality? He scoffed inwardly. None of those things could have mattered.

His mind stumbled over a quote—a distant memory, one that surfaced with startling clarity. He couldn't recall who said it or where he had heard it, but the words lingered.

"Power is a simple thing in a world full of complicated things. It can give one the most complex items and the most meaningful of relationships. It is the only constant in an ever changing world we. That is just what power is."

"Power is the one truth in a world of lies."

Zayn's lips curled faintly. Yes. That was it. Power. If he had possessed it from the start, or at any point, perhaps everything would have been different.

As the last of his strength ebbed away, his vision dimmed. The weight of death pressed heavily on his chest, but a strange calm washed over him.

And just as the darkness claimed him, a voice echoed softly in the void.

Very Well.