My name is Kyle Damian. I live with my mom, Dorothy Damian. My dad passed away when I was five. I've faced the mafia, a demon—but never high school popularity or pretty girls.
"Hey, Kyle." Clara greeted him with a slight smile.
Kyle barely had time to respond before she reached into her bag and pulled out four glossy tickets. "Now that we're all here," she announced, "I brought you guys tickets to my costume party tonight."
Each of them took one. Bart turned his over skeptically. "A costume party, huh?" His tone was laced with suspicion.
Clara held her ground. "Yeah. There'll be food, drinks, and I even got a live rock band. It's going to be fun. You don't have to come if you don't want to."
"Sounds like a great time. We'll be there." Kyle's eyes lingered on Clara, his voice a little softer than intended.
Bart cleared his throat loudly. "Cough, cough—awkward." Trish jabbed him in the ribs.
Michael, who had been eating quietly, finally spoke up. "I agree with Bart. Can you two stop acting like you're the only ones at this table?" His tone was gruff, almost like a grumpy gnome.
Kyle gave him a side glance. "Still wondering what you're doing here, Michael."
Before he could get a response, the world around them warped.
The cafeteria fell into unnatural silence.
The air turned dense, pressing against Kyle's chest. A creeping darkness slithered from the corners of the room, curling like smoke around each frozen student. Kyle tried to move—tried to scream—but his body refused to obey.
A deep, guttural growl echoed through the stillness. Then, from the black fog, Raknar emerged.
His monstrous face flickered into view—the top of his skull ablaze in hellish fire. His crimson eyes glowed with malice, his jagged teeth bared in a wicked grin. A forked tongue slithered from his mouth, dripping with an inky black essence.
"Kid, I must advise you..." Raknar's voice slithered into Kyle's mind like poisoned silk. "If you want your friends to live, you must let me in. Our meeting can only be fate."
Kyle struggled to speak, his lips barely parting, his breath caught in his throat.
Raknar leaned closer. "Now listen. I'll only tell you this once... Decide what to do. Otherwise..." His grin widened. "I might possess Clara instead."
And then—he vanished.
The darkness recoiled, curling away like mist in the morning sun. The cafeteria returned to normal, students chattering, eating, laughing. But to Kyle, everything had changed.
Clara, however, had noticed. Her gaze locked onto him, sensing something that no one else could—his darkness had thickened.
"I have to go," Kyle muttered, rising abruptly from his seat.
Bart blinked. "You haven't even finished half—"
Kyle was already gone.
The school rooftop—a haven for students avoiding their problems.
Kyle exhaled sharply, kicking a stray pebble with enough force to send it vanishing into the horizon.
"Damn you, Raknar!" he growled.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. His mind was in turmoil. Personal devil, my ass. Make your dreams come true? He scoffed, shaking his head.
Then, exhausted, he dropped onto the ground, staring at the vast blue sky above. Why am I so angry? He exhaled. Is this his influence?
A shadow suddenly blocked the sunlight. Kyle squinted up to see a familiar round figure looming over him.
"You know classes are still going on, right?" Bart remarked, arms crossed.
Kyle huffed. "Meh. What's a few classes in the grand scheme of the universe?"
Bart sat down beside him, following his gaze toward the clouds. "You ever wonder if Heaven is real?"
Kyle blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Just looking at the sky," Bart continued, his tone unusually thoughtful. "I think Heaven must be real, right?"
Kyle didn't answer right away. He had seen hell with his own eyes. But Heaven? He wasn't sure.
"Yeah," he murmured. The thought lingered. If I've met a devil... could I meet an angel?
The school day breezed by like a passing cloud, uneventful yet strangely heavy with anticipation. When Kyle finally got home, the quiet of his room was broken only by the buzz of his phone.
A text from Bart lit up the screen:
Bart: Sorry man, I won't be able to make it to your girlfriend's party tonight.
Kyle smirked and tapped back a reply.
Kyle: No problem. What you up to?
Bart: Playin' Darkrise. And you?
Kyle: Nothing really.
With that, Kyle powered off his phone and slid it into his pocket. There were other things on his mind.
Out in the backyard, the cool breeze of dusk whispered through the trees as Kyle stood over a patch of disturbed earth. His hands were already dirt-stained, a shovel resting against a tree nearby. He knelt down, brushing away the loose soil to reveal a pair of buried katanas—Raknar's blades—silent and forgotten since the chaotic fight with Borgov.
He pulled them out, their handles still slick with dried dirt, the metal cool to the touch and humming with a dark, dormant energy. A half-grin formed on his lips.
"They'll look cool with my costume," he muttered, slinging them onto his belt.
The party was already in full swing by the time Kyle arrived.
Music thundered through the night, pulsing from massive speakers set up in the yard. Lights flashed in dazzling patterns—blue, purple, red—casting dancing shadows on a sea of masked and costumed teens. The scent of alcohol and sugary cocktails drifted through the air, mingling with the occasional wisp of smoke and laughter.
Kyle stepped through the front gate, dressed in a sleek black suit—clean lines, crisp collar—and two katanas strapped boldly to his hips. He tugged at the collar, feeling the eyes of the crowd—or so he thought. But no one really seemed to care. Everyone was too busy being someone else for the night.
Well, almost everyone.
"Yoooo dude... are those real katanas?" a mellow voice oozed from behind him.
Kyle turned to see a tall guy with flowing chestnut hair, sunglasses on indoors, and the strong scent of menthol clinging to his oversized hoodie. He had the chill vibe of a hippie from a beach town somewhere—slow movements, words stretched like elastic.
The guy reached out, fingers drifting toward one of the blades.
"Hey—careful. Don't touch that," Kyle said sharply, stepping back a little.
The stranger chuckled, unfazed. "Far out, man. You got the whole vibe going on."
Before Kyle could respond, a voice cut through the crowd.
"Kyle! Kyle!"
He turned to see Clara waving him over, her smile gentle but confident. She looked stunning in a midnight-blue velvet gown that shimmered under the lights, her long hair styled in loose curls. Beside her stood Hector, her ever-present bodyguard—but tonight he looked more like a butler from a fantasy novel, complete with white gloves and a stoic gaze.
Kyle made his way through the crowd, grabbing a drink from a passing waiter without taking his eyes off her.
"Hey," he said, his voice slightly softer than usual.
"Glad you made it," Clara said, her eyes briefly drifting to the swords on his hips. "Nice touch."
Kyle gave a sheepish shrug. "Thought they'd match the vibe."
Clara smiled—small, subtle, but genuine.