The first time I saw him, he was covered in blood.
Not his own.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a ghostly hue across the hallway. The walls were a pale, peeling shade of green an old school building, forgotten by time and untouched by warmth. But none of that mattered. Not when the boy at the end of the corridor was standing there, drenched in crimson, his eyes staring straight into mine.
I should've turned back. I should've screamed.
But I didn't.
I stood there, silent and stiff, like something had crawled beneath my skin and anchored my feet to the floor. My heart thudded—not in fear, not exactly but in a twisted kind of curiosity. That same curiosity that draws people to crime scenes, to car wrecks, to everything they're not supposed to look at.
He didn't speak. He only brought the cigarette to his lips, trembling fingers brushing against his mouth. His knuckles were scraped raw. The scent of blood, sweat, and burnt tobacco hit me all at once harsh, bitter, intoxicating.
His eyes glowed beneath his bangs, dark and deep… but stained with something else. Something colder. Something feral.
"Are you scared?" he finally asked, his voice calm, steady—too steady for someone who looked like a nightmare in human skin.
I shook my head slowly, unsure if I was lying.
He tilted his head to the side, studying me like I was an interesting experiment. "You should be."
Then, without warning, he walked past me—close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. My breath caught. My skin prickled. And as he passed, I caught a glimpse of something tucked into his coat pocket.
A switchblade. Still dripping.
I didn't move until he disappeared around the corner.
And I didn't speak of it to anyone.
Not that anyone would've believed me.
I went home that night with his face burned into my memory. The strange calmness in his voice, the way the blood seemed to belong to him even when it wasn't his, the glint in his eyes like he had seen things no one should.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself like I was the one who changed.
Was I scared?
No.
I was intrigued.
The next morning, I found him in my class.
He sat at the back, slouched like he didn't give a damn about anything. His uniform was wrinkled, his collar stained with something dark—maybe ink, maybe something else. He didn't look at anyone. Didn't speak. Didn't even blink when the teacher introduced him.
"Class, this is Raven Akiro. He's a transfer student. Treat him well."
Raven.
The name suited him.
Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.
He didn't look at me that entire day. But I looked at him. Every moment I could. Like a magnet pulling me closer to something I knew I wasn't ready for.
And then, after school, he finally spoke to me again.
I was walking through the gate when I heard his voice behind me.
"You followed me last night."
I froze. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did," he said. "You watched me."
"I-I just saw you by accident."
He stepped closer. "There's no such thing as an accident."
I swallowed hard, unsure whether I should feel threatened or thrilled. "What… happened to that person?"
"What person?" he smirked.
"The one you were—covered in blood for."
He paused, then leaned closer, eyes boring into mine.
"Some things are better left unanswered," he whispered. "But you'll learn eventually… You always do."
Then he walked away again, leaving nothing but confusion and the echo of his voice in my chest.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Raven's voice kept repeating in my head. His eyes haunted my dreams. And worse—I liked it. The way he made me feel. Terrified. Curious. Wanted.
Even though he never said it, I could feel it in his gaze:
He saw me. Not just my face. Not just my body. But the part of me I kept buried—the hollow, broken part.
And something told me… he liked that part of me too.