J leaned back into his seat, completely at ease, his posture a picture of unwarranted confidence. One arm draped over the back of his chair, the other resting lazily on the table. He looked as if he owned the place, as if this room had been his long before she ever stepped foot in it.
The girl, however, wasn't impressed. She stared at him, gaze unreadable, lips pressed into a firm line.
J finally broke the silence, tilting his head slightly. "So, what's this room for anyway?"
She exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to entertain him at all. "We have one more member."
That was all she said. No elaboration, no explanation.
J arched a brow, tapping a finger idly against the table. "And?"
Before she could respond, the heavy iron door groaned open, a slow, deliberate sound that seemed to drag itself through the air.
And then—he walked in.
The definition of contradiction, a paradox wrapped in skin. A man who looked as if he had stepped out of a dream conjured by a poet in the midst of an existential crisis. Romance and the chaos warring in his very essence.
Tall, lean, draped in black with the kind of effortless elegance that belonged to men who never truly belonged anywhere. His coat—a long, midnight thing, tailored to perfection but worn with a devil-may-care ease—moved like liquid shadow with every step.
Beneath it, a waistcoat of deep charcoal hugged his frame, its fabric kissed with faint, intricate embroidery that only caught the light when he shifted just so. His shirt, crisp but slightly undone at the collar, hinted at both refinement and rebellion, as if he had once been expected to follow rules but had long since stopped caring.
And then there was his face—sharp, striking, the kind of face that made people look twice for reasons they couldn't quite place. A jawline carved with intent, cheekbones that cast shadows, lips that seemed forever on the edge of a smirk that could turn cruel or amused at a moment's notice. His eyes, though—those were the real thing. Saying something along the lines of Don't trust me. But that's the part where things got interesting. Because regardless of whoever stood before him, it's impossible for them to find their heart not beating irregularly, bodies beginning to trust a man they had just met. Because his eyes had a shade of something between gold and ruin, bright yet unreadable, like they had seen too much and decided to make a joke of it all.
A single ring adorned his finger—silver, aged, inscribed with something long forgotten. A watch, elegant but slightly worn, sat against his wrist, its ticking nearly imperceptible, as if it, too, was waiting for the moment he'd stop playing and start doing.
He was a paradox, a man who moved like a whisper but carried the weight of something heavier. A ghost that refused to fade. A swan that refused to drown. A thing that shouldn't exist, yet somehow did—and made damn sure the world knew it.
He moved with the kind of elegance that belonged in tragedy, yet carried the ghost of a smirk that suggested he found the whole world amusing. His coat swayed with a careless grace, dark fabric whispering against the floor, while his eyes—sharp, knowing—flickered like they held both a love letter and a death sentence within them.
J tilted his head, a slow grin tugging at his lips.
"Well," he muttered under his breath. "Aren't you a sight."
The door had barely swung shut behind him before the words slithered through the air.
A slow, measured chuckle unfurled from his lips—low, rich, like the sound of silk slipping through calloused fingers. He stood there for a moment, as if savouring the way the room held its breath, the way all eyes were now tethered to him. The dim lighting carved sharp angles into his face, shadowed the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, made him look like something that had stepped out of a fever dream—part myth, part menace.
Then, he moved.
Not rushed. No, that would be too predictable. Too mundane. Instead, he walked with a careless sort of elegance, the kind that belonged to ghosts and kings alike. His coat swayed, a dark whisper against the floor, and when he finally stopped, his gaze flicked up—sharp, amused, dissecting.
"Well, aren't you a mouthful. What's your name?"
"J." He smirked. For a single letter name, the man could tell there was a story behind it.
He exhaled the words like smoke, his voice dripping with something between mockery and intrigue. One hand adjusted the cuff of his glove with meticulous precision, while the other found its way to his pocket, fingers tapping idly against the hilt of something unseen. A blade? A gun? A promise?
Didn't matter.
What mattered was the moment—the electricity in the air, the delicious tension of uncertainty.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Tell me J, do you always greet nightmares with flattery? Or am I just special?"
J let out a low, amused hum, tilting his head as if he were admiring a rare painting—or a particularly entertaining joke. His smirk deepened, not unkind, just sharp, a thing without warmth but not without mirth.
"Oh, now that's interesting," he mused, eyes flicking over the man like he was trying to peel apart the layers of whatever contradiction stood before him. "A nightmare that plays the jester. The paradox of it. You don't tear the house down—you make it dance till the walls cave in on their own."
A slow grin curled at the edge of his lips, not forced, not hurried—just the kind of thing that unfolded when amusement met understanding. His eyes, sharp and laced with something unreadable, caught the light in a way that made them seem almost alive with it.
"Ah, but isn't that the fun of it?" he murmured, voice smooth, deliberate. "Tearing things down is so... crude. Inelegant. No artistry in a wrecking ball."
He took a step closer, languid, unbothered, the weight of his presence settling into the room like a shadow stretching at dusk.
"But a dance?" A chuckle, dark and rich, tumbled from his lips, like he had just let a secret slip. "A dance is intimate. You don't just destroy, you make them part of it. Let them think they have a rhythm, a step, a choice—" He lifted a gloved hand, twirling his fingers through the air as if conducting some invisible orchestra. "—until, eventually, they don't. Until the music swallows them whole."
His eyes flickered, locking onto J's with something between amusement and warning.
"And the best part?" He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something quieter, something dangerous. "They always beg for one more song before the end."
J clicked his tongue, leaning back, arms spreading across the chair like he sat on a broken throne. His eyes flicked between the two, lingering on the man who spoke of ruin with rhythm, of collapse with cadence.
He exhaled, slow, almost disappointed. "You talk like a magician." A pause. A smirk. "The real trick's making them pull the trigger themselves. Give them the gun, the rope, the blade—hell, gift-wrap it, tie a little bow—and watch them think it was their idea all along."
His gaze sharpened, something between amusement and calculation. "But I gotta say, I do love a good dance."
Then came the girl, stepping in like a referee at a knife fight, waving off the tension with that dry, unimpressed tone.
"Okay, you two lunatics can measure your metaphors later. We've got work to do."
J stared at her in amusement.
"And what is it?" He asked, humming while at it.
"Oh right...," she looked at the other man, who smiled in a way that appeared eye-catching because of his face but J knew better. That was the smile of a man about to flick his view on these boring extra class hassles.
He continued humming, tilting his head, half-listening, half-bored—until the man spoke again.
He exhaled slow, like savouring a cigarette he hadn't lit, eyes gleaming with the kind of amusement that only came when a man knew the answer would change something.
"What do we do here?" A chuckle, low, rich, curling at the edges of his lips like smoke from a dying fire. "Oh, J… we play a game."
He took a step forward, coat whispering against the floor, the air thick with something unspoken—something alive.
"Not the kind of game with rules. Not one you win." He tilted his head, eyes flickering with a glint of something just shy of madness. "No, no. That would be too simple, wouldn't it?"
Another step, slow, deliberate. His voice dropped to something softer, more dangerous.
"We pull at the seams of the world, J. We find the strings they tied to their throats and we tug. We whisper truths so sweet they curdle the mind. We gift people their deepest desires and watch them choke on the taste. And when they break—when they see—" He pressed two fingers to his temple, mimicking the sudden explosion of something unseen.
"We laugh. We dance. And then, we do it again."
A pause. A breath. And then, a grin, slow and knowing.
"Tell me, J. How much madness can you stomach?"
And then—then, the words landed.
J stilled.
For a moment, a fleeting moment, he almost laughed. Not out of mockery. Not even out of disbelief. But out of something raw, something sharp, something that sunk its teeth right into his ribs and twisted.
He let the silence stretch, let it breathe. Then, finally—
"Oh," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "You people are out of your goddamn minds."
And then, grinning like he'd just found his new favourite game, he leaned in.
"Tell me more."
***
The scent of dark roast lingered in the air, curling through the old wooden shelves that lined the principal's office. A clock ticked somewhere in the background, slow and steady, a quiet metronome to the tension that had settled between the two men.
The principal took a sip of his coffee, unhurried, as the man in front of him shifted, arms crossed.
"The South is stirring," the man finally said. "There was an altercation earlier—small, nothing catastrophic yet, but it's only a matter of time before things spill over."
The principal let out a soft hum, setting his cup down with deliberate ease. "And what do you expect me to do? Hold their hands?"
"I expect you to control your students before Hains loses a limb."
The principal chuckled, more amused than concerned. "You and I both know that control is an illusion in this place. We don't shape them—we redirect them."
The man exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't argue. He knew better.
Still, his brow furrowed, as if something else weighed on his mind. He hesitated, then glanced at the principal again.
"And… what about the new one? Code named Price, I mean."
The principal's expression shifted—just slightly. A flicker of something softer.
"Price?" He tilted his head, contemplative. "Ah. He's… surviving." A small, melancholic pause. "He reminds me of a dog left out in the rain. So drenched, so beaten, but still standing. Still showing his teeth."
The man caught that pause. The way the word was carefully chosen.
"That bad?"
The principal leaned back, fingers steepling. "Not in the way you think. If anything, the boy's enjoying himself."
A beat of silence.
The man frowned. "You're serious?"
"Oh, quite." The principal's lips quirked. "In fact, he even has a group now."
That only deepened the man's confusion. That insufferable boy was too cold and apathetic to bother with other normal people.
"Already? Which one?" He asked, having a weird feeling.
The principal picked up his cup again, watching the steam curl upward, before speaking the word with all the weight it deserved.
"R07."
Silence.
The man stood there for a moment, perfectly still. Then, very slowly, he let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face.
"You put Price—the bastard of Vermis—in that room?"
His head ached just thinking about it.
R07. The walking impossibilities. The ones who defied reason, control, even the institution itself. The students Hains couldn't reform—only repurpose. They were either weapons or miracles. There was no middle ground.
And now, amongst them, was him.
"This is going to be a catastrophe," the man muttered.
The principal only smiled.
"Or," he murmured, eyes gleaming over the rim of his cup, "it's going to be a masterpiece."