The walls of the counselor's office were soft beige, almost too gentle for the storm that brewed inside Dominic Manon's mind. Sunlight filtered in through half-closed blinds, slicing across his face like thin prison bars. Across from him sat Dr. Evelyn Marek, a woman with kind eyes, tight silver curls, and a clipboard that could end or prolong his surveillance.
Dominic sat still, perfectly composed, a ghost wrapped in school uniform.
"I saw them," he said, his voice cracking just enough to be believable. "In the light."
Dr. Marek leaned forward slightly. "You saw… your family?"
Dominic nodded, blinking as though holding back tears. "They weren't angry. They weren't in pain. They looked... relieved. Like they'd finally escaped it all. My mother reached out. She told me to keep going. Said... they're free now, and I can be too. If I just choose to live."
The doctor scribbled something on her notepad, her brows rising with curiosity and guarded optimism. "That's a very powerful vision, Dominic. Do you believe it was real?"
He looked down, forcing a tremble into his hands. "I don't know what's real anymore, but... it felt more real than anything I've felt in weeks."
Dr. Marek set her pen down and leaned back. "And you want to live now?"
Dominic's eyes met hers. They gleamed with a concoction of pain and practiced sincerity. "I want to live. Just... not in grief. Not in fear. I want to honor them. I don't want to die."
She nodded slowly, pressing her fingertips together. "That's good, Dominic. That's very good."
He exhaled deeply, like a burden had lifted—though in truth, the only burden released was the pressure to maintain this mask for a little while longer.
"I think... it's time we let you return to your dorm," she said. "Still under light monitoring, of course. But I'll write the report. You've made remarkable progress."
Dominic murmured a soft "thank you," then rose to leave, his movements slow, deliberate—just enough fragility to be convincing. He stepped out of the room and into the empty hallway, the soft creak of the door closing behind him. The moment it latched shut, the flicker of emotion in his face disappeared like breath on glass.
They bought it.
The performance was over.
The silence of his room was a relief. Curtains drawn. Lights off. The cameras—disabled. For now.
Dominic sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, eyes hollow but mind sharp. He let out a long breath, reached under the frame, and pulled out a black zippered pouch. Inside was a folded piece of notepaper—creased, faintly damp. He unfolded it with care, the scent of greenhouse soil still clinging to it like a ghost.
The flashback began as if summoned by the ink.
Twenty minutes.
That's all the window he had bought himself.
As lightning split the sky in crooked veins, Dominic watched from the shadows, counting down each second like the slow drag of a blade across skin. The academy's security grid had blinked off exactly as predicted—weather interference layered atop his internal buffer hack had left the system momentarily blind. No cameras. No tracking. No digital breath to mark his movements.
And he moved like a whisper.
Dominic slipped through the garden perimeter, slick in his black coat, raindrops falling in fat rivulets from his hood. The path was familiar—one he had memorized years ago, a trail from the main campus to the forgotten greenhouse near the north fence. No students came here anymore. Not since the administration repurposed the space into a storage shell. But he remembered.
Because his grandfather once taught him to never forget the places people overlook.
At the base of the structure, a rusted panel shifted beneath his hand. He pressed against it, hard. It groaned open—just enough for him to slide through.
The air inside smelled of rot and moss. Broken glass littered the floor. Overgrown vines curled along the tables like dead snakes, and the storm raged above, casting shadows across the fractured ceiling.
But Dominic's eyes were fixed on the object at the center.
A waterproof case—black, rectangular, wide enough to carry something... or someone.
He approached slowly.
Raindrops tapped the glass panels above like fingernails.
Beside the case sat a folded note and a small, outdated two-way communicator. Dominic reached for the note first, hands steady despite the way his pulse throbbed in his ears.
One sentence.
"I don't know much of your situation, but I know enough to give you this."
No signature. No instructions. No time for doubt.
He turned to the bag.
Unzipped halfway.
He pressed a hand to the surface—it gave slightly. The shape beneath was unmistakable: limbs. A torso. A head.
It's a body, he realized.
Yet it was light. Far too light. Like something was wrong—or staged.
He didn't open it further. Not now.
There was no time.
He scooped up the communicator, slung the bag carefully over his shoulder, and ducked back into the rain. He could feel the storm masking his heat signature, the electric interference scrambling motion sensors. Everything had gone silent for these few precious minutes.
He didn't intend to waste them.
Dominic reached his dormitory door just as the storm's fury hit its peak.
The bag was slung low, heavy with soaked fabric and mystery. He ducked inside, shut the door silently behind him, and locked it—not out of panic, but ritual. One lock. Two. Slide the desk in front of it. Pull the curtain. Cut the room from the world.
Inside, he was alone.
He didn't switch on the light.
Instead, he placed the bag gently on the bed, stared at it for a breath too long, then turned away. He wouldn't unzip it. Not yet. The weight of its presence was enough. What it symbolized... what it could become... that was more valuable than knowing its truth right now.
He pulled off his soaked jacket, tossed it aside, and reached under his bed. His fingers found the case he had prepped two nights prior—a nondescript box with what he needed: waterproofing tape, blood-like dye, a timer chip, his grandfather's old analog watch, and a compact water bladder for the next step.
He moved with clinical precision.
The suicide illusion had to be convincing, not theatrical.
No blood. No slit wrists. That was too messy. Too unreliable. Too easily questioned.
Drowning.
It was quieter. Tragic. Clean.
And more importantly—believable in a storm.
Dominic unzipped the water bladder and began drinking. It was the worst part of the plan—swallowing nearly a liter of water, forcing his belly to bloat, stretching skin unnaturally to mimic a corpse's fluid-swollen look. It made him nauseous. Made his gut ache. But he pushed through.
He remembered the exact moment the idea struck—two nights ago, staring at the pool from his window, lightning flashing across the water.
And he remembered the lesson that had seeded it long ago.
Flashback. Seven years prior.
A younger Dominic stood in a jungle riverbank beside his grandfather, deep in one of the training retreats only the two of them knew about. The old man was shirtless, leathery skin covered in old scars. He looked like a relic from a war museum.
"You know what saves more soldiers than bullets?" his grandfather had asked.
Dominic shook his head, eyes wide.
"Deception. Making the enemy think you're dead long before you strike."
And with that, his grandfather stepped into the river and let himself drift.
Not swim. Drift.
Face up. Arms loose. Legs floating.
Still. Pale.
Dominic had panicked—thinking the old man had drowned—until he grinned, eyes half-lidded.
"The art," he whispered, "of floating like a dead log."
He taught Dominic to slow his breath, to control his muscles without tension, to let the body mimic the stiffness of death. It was a trick used during operations—especially in waters where the enemy searched bodies but rarely checked twice.
"It only works briefly," the old man warned. "A real corpse floats after a day. You want to mimic that window before they remember science—but there is already a solution for that."
Back in the present—still within the flashback, Dominic stripped to black shorts and slipped a skin-toned brace around his chest to flatten movement. His limbs had to look loose, boneless. He smeared his skin with a pale, cold-cream tint to appear blood-drained—paler in the moonlight.
He didn't need to stay there long. Just a few seconds of discovery. Enough for the illusion to spread, for the lie to root itself.
He checked his watch. Five minutes left before the buffer ended.
Just enough.
He reached for the final piece of the puzzle—an old hairpin, straightened into a key. He slipped it beneath the door, ready to flick the lock open from outside once he "resurrected." He'd practiced it for weeks.
Dominic moved to the window, slid it open silently, and let the rain pelt his skin.
The pool shimmered below, empty in the downpour.
He climbed out, lowered himself carefully down the drainage pipe, barefoot against slick stone, gripping like a spider in the dark. His body was ready. Mind sharp. Timing critical.
He slid into the water just as thunder rolled overhead.
And with practiced ease, he let himself go still—face-up, eyes glazed, skin pale, stomach bloated, motionless in the shallow edge of the pool.
Not floating.
Not yet.
But still enough to suggest a boy who had given up.
A ghost in training.
Lightning tore open the sky in jagged silence before the thunder chased it in a roar. Rain lashed at the glass and concrete of the school grounds like a warning from nature itself. But Dominic walked calmly, every step veiled beneath the chaos.
The cameras were still blind. The buffer held.
He reached the pool.
It shimmered with ghostly stillness despite the rain. He didn't hesitate. No fear. No second thoughts. He stripped down to his undershirt, the rest of his soaked clothes clinging with weight. Another bolt cracked above. Time was slipping fast.
Dominic took a final breath and swallowed another mouthful of water. It made his gut ache, but that was the point—he needed to look bloated. Drowned.
The cold of the pool bit deep as he stepped in. Inch by inch, the chill seized his limbs until he dropped flat, letting himself float just below the surface.
His body spread, arms loose, head tilted back slightly, nose barely above water. Eyes closed. Breath shallow and slow. Pale skin kissed by cold. He let the storm color him lifeless.
Then stillness.
Seconds ticked in his mind.
One… Twenty… Forty… One hundred...
Time folded inward.
He counted heartbeats. Replayed every piece of the plan. His grandfather's memory rose in the quiet of his mind—weathered hands guiding his posture in a muddy riverbed.
"Float like a dead log, boy. Loose limbs. Slack mouth. Let your breath go quiet. If they think you're a corpse… they stop looking."
That had been war. This was something more complicated.
Minute nineteen.
The sound came suddenly—boots slapping against tile. A security agent's voice rose in alarm over the storm. A second followed, more distant.
"THERE!"
A flashlight beam swept across the courtyard, cutting through the sheet of rain. It reached the pool—then stopped.
Silence.
Then screaming.
"Oh my God! He's in the pool—he's not moving!"
"Get a med kit! GET IN THERE!"
A blur of shadows converged. One dove in, splashing through the water, sending ripples that lapped against Dominic's motionless frame.
The first responder grabbed him, yelling something Dominic couldn't fully make out. He let his arms hang like ropes, his neck limp. He didn't blink, didn't stir.
"He's not breathing! No pulse—he's freezing!"
Panic broke out.
They pulled him to the edge, hoisted him up roughly, laid him flat.
Dominic remained still, his mouth open just slightly, eyes closed in the perfect mimic of death. He heard muffled sobs. Someone shouting to call the infirmary. Another muttering, "Oh God, no—he's gone, he's gone—"
Perfect.
He stayed limp for twenty more seconds, until—
A whisper of warmth bloomed against his chest. A hand, pressing. CPR about to begin.
That was his cue.
A cough. Wet. Soft. He let it out slowly, then twitched, just barely.
Gasps erupted around him.
"He's alive!"
"He's breathing—he's breathing!"
Dominic groaned faintly, eyelids fluttering but not fully opening.
That was all they needed.
They wrapped him in thermal sheets, voices urgent, reverent. He felt the stretcher beneath him, the lights rushing overhead as they pulled him toward recovery.
Return to the Present
Dominic stood shirtless in front of the mirror, the only sound in the room the slow drip of water from his soaked hair.
He stared at his reflection.
His skin was still pale, but no longer from cold—only the ghost of what he'd made them believe. A shiver crept along his spine, not from chill, but from the echo of stillness. The stillness of pretending to be dead.
He peeled off the towel draped around his shoulders. It clung to him reluctantly, as if mourning the end of the illusion. Droplets raced down the sharp lines of his collarbone and vanished at the edge of his ribs.
He looked into his own eyes.
There was no peace there. No relief.
Only precision. Resolve. The memory of control.
They believed it.
All of them.
The counselor, the watchers, the staff. The fear in their eyes as they pulled him from the water had been real. The shaking hands, the frantic voices, the momentary silence when they thought he was gone. That silence had told him everything he needed to know:
They were too busy watching his pain to notice his plan.
Dominic turned from the mirror and walked to the desk. The drawer creaked slightly as he slid it open, then reached beneath the false bottom.
The phone was still there.
Two-way. Untraceable.
He cradled it in his palm. The tiny screen lit up with a pulse of blue. Fully charged. No messages. But waiting. Always waiting.
His thumb hovered over the single encrypted contact.
The letter had said: "I don't know much of your situation, but I know enough to give you this."
And that was enough.
He slid the phone back into the hidden slot and clicked the drawer shut.
Dominic turned back to the mirror, staring again—this time not at himself, but at the edge behind his own gaze. The precipice he stood on every day now. The thin thread between mask and mission.
He smirked slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging with grim irony.
"Now they think I've come back to life."
He leaned forward, his breath fogging the glass just enough to blur his reflection. Then he whispered—
"But I never left the edge. I just learned how to dance on it."
His voice faded into the room's silence, swallowed by the quiet hum of electricity returning.
Dominic turned away.
He picked up the towel again and tossed it into the corner.
There was a plan to resume. Layers to unfold. Secrets to trigger.
"Let the game begin." Dominic said with a smirk.
At 17:17. Dominic sat at the edge of his bed, the phone resting in his palm like a weight too precise to misplace. The world outside had gone still. Not quiet—still. Like it was listening.
He pressed the encrypted contact. One ring. Two. Then a soft click.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to anymore.
He already did
A voice came through, aged but steady, wrapped in steel and sorrow.
Dominic's jaw tightened. His gaze lowered. As the voice spoke, his fingers curled slowly around the sheet.
At first visible confusion plastered his face pale and then—
No arguments. No interruptions. Just a low, clipped "I understand" when it was over.
He ended the call.
The room felt heavier, now.
He stood, moved to the wardrobe, and opened the hidden panel. The body bag stared back at him in perfect silence.
Dominic exhaled once, then reached for it.
"Time to disappear."