t be his way of reclaiLance didn't go to school the next day.
He lay in Reese's bed, staring at the perfectly painted ceiling—eggshell white, no cracks, no stains. It looked like the kind of ceiling that never had to witness a breakdown. He'd watched it for hours. Time didn't pass in Reese's room—it hovered.
No alarms, no knocks on the door. Just silence, the way rich families like Reese's preferred it. He realized with bitter clarity: this was the kind of house where parents left before sunrise and came back long after dinner. Maybe Reese wasn't so cold for no reason.
That thought made Lance angry.
Not at Reese.
At himself.
You gave him that life. You made him this way.
He sat up.
His chest was tight, his eyes dry, but his mind was sharp now—numb, maybe, but clear. The panic was gone. The guilt wasn't, but it had receded beneath something colder. Something cleaner.
He stood and walked to the mirror above Reese's dresser.
The reflection stared back.
Sharp cheekbones. Permanent smirk. The kind of face that knew it could get away with things.
"You're not me," Lance whispered.
But you are, the reflection seemed to say.
He leaned in.
If Reese was written as a villain, maybe the answer wasn't to fight it.
Maybe it was to be it.
Not cartoonishly. Not like some cackling madman. But smart. Quiet. Calculated. The kind of villain that understood the rules of the story because he wrote them.
Maybe that was the only way to survive.
He brushed a hand through his hair and stared at himself like a character sheet. Arrogant. Detached. Dangerous. But now, there was an addition: Self-aware.
He smirked—his first genuine one since arriving.
"Fine," he said. "Let's play."
***
By the time he returned to school on Friday, rumors had already started.
"Reese skipped for no reason. Think he got suspended again?"
"Nah, he'd brag about it."
"He looked off this week. Like… not scary-off. Just weird."
Lance walked into the building wearing Reese's usual leather jacket, but this time, he owned it. Every step was confident. Not forced. Not trying. Just him.
People noticed.
Branley slapped him on the back in the hallway.
"Where the hell you been?"
"Clearing my head," Lance said. "Had to remind myself who I am."
Branley blinked. "...Cool, man."
Kai was at his locker when Lance passed by.
He didn't speak.
But he watched.
That was fine.
Let him watch.
Let him wonder.
In English class, Lance raised his hand.
The teacher blinked.
"Reese?"
He nodded. "Just had a thought about the theme in Frankenstein."
Murmurs stirred in the class.
The teacher hesitated. "Go ahead."
Lance leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"It's not really about ambition," he said. "That's the easy answer. It's about control. Victor wanted to control life. The monster wanted to control meaning. Both failed. Miserably."
The room was silent.
Even Kai had turned to look.
The teacher stammered. "That's… a very compelling interpretation."
Lance shrugged. "Monsters make the best readers."
Kai didn't say anything. But his eyes narrowed slightly, like he'd just seen something crack in the wall he'd been staring at all year.
Good.
Let him think the villain was getting comfortable.
After school, Lance found himself alone in the old band room. No one practiced there anymore—budget cuts, bad acoustics. It was a graveyard of sound: old chairs, abandoned music stands, a cracked drum set in the corner.
He sat at the upright piano.
Pressed a single key.
It echoed in the emptiness.
That's what Reese would never do. Sit still. Touch something that could produce beauty. That wasn't part of the script. But Lance didn't care about the script anymore. He was writing a new one.
And in this one, maybe the villain played piano.
He let his fingers move. Awkward at first, then smoother, drawing from muscle memory that didn't belong to him. Someone in Reese's past must have played. A ghost in his fingers.
The door opened.
He didn't stop playing.
Kai stood there. Just inside the frame.
"How long have you played?" Kai asked.
Lance didn't look up. "Since this afternoon."
"That's not how that works."
He finished the melody. Let the last note hang. Then turned.
"I'm full of surprises."
Kai leaned against the doorway. "You're not acting like yourself."
"Maybe I'm just acting better."
They stared at each other.
Then Kai said, "I looked into your file."
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Creepy."
"I volunteer in the office," Kai said. "I can see attendance records. You haven't missed a day of school in two years. Not one. Until now."
Lance's smirk slipped.
"And?"
"And now you skip school, quote Frankenstein, and play the piano like you're searching for your soul. That's not normal."
Lance stood. Slowly.
He walked toward Kai, stopping just a foot away.
"Maybe I'm evolving," he said. "You think villains stay flat forever? That's bad writing."
Kai blinked. "What?"
"Nothing." Lance turned to leave.
As he passed, Kai said quietly, "If this is another game, I'll see through it."
Lance paused at the doorway.
"I hope you do," he said. "It's more fun when someone's watching."
***
That night, Lance opened a new document on Reese's laptop.
Blank. Waiting.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then, with steady fingers, he typed:
"A villain is someone who understands the story too well—and decides to burn it anyway."
He leaned back in his chair, smiling.
Let Kai have his revenge plot.
Let the guilt stay where it was.
He wasn't going to be the terrified writer anymore.
He was the villain now.
And villains?
They write the endings.