He was beyond irritated. He didn’t even clearly remember if the man who had killed him was named Alexander Clifford. They hadn’t exactly been close back then, and now it mattered even less. But this Alexander Clifford—who had killed him without hesitation—was now interfering with his path to peace, forcing him to live. It seemed today wasn’t the day he’d die. He wanted to die as soon as possible, but if not today, then tomorrow would do. Alexander Clifford clearly wasn’t going to leave him alone tonight, so Kalix decided to focus on escaping the immediate situation.
“You’re just going to waltz in through the front gate like nothing’s wrong?”
He had no idea why Alexander kept interfering, or what he expected to achieve, and it only frustrated him more. Glaring without hiding his annoyance, Kalix watched as Alexander led him forward. He immediately shook off Alexander’s hand—the touch was repulsive—but Alexander ignored it and kept walking.
“Kalix Blackwood, do you really want to parade through the front gate, the lobby, and into your room in that state, soaking wet, in front of everyone? At least clean up your act before you go in. Unless you want your family called on the first day.”
At the mention of family, Kalix’s expression darkened. Alexander already knew, but if someone else found out and stopped him from dying, that would be a problem—especially if it was his family. If they were notified, not only his parents but his brother, Cyrus, would come running. The thought of Cyrus made his stomach twist.
But Alexander acted as if Kalix’s concerns were irrelevant, dragging him somewhere. Kalix decided that since today’s attempt had failed, he’d lie low and try again tomorrow.
He realized they were heading toward the dormitory. Alexander moved with practiced ease, scaling the exterior of the building up to a second-floor balcony. Very practiced.
“You can climb up here, right? Your strength should be enough.”
After effortlessly pulling himself onto the balcony, Alexander looked down at Kalix, who scowled.
“How do you know my strength?”
Now that he thought about it, Alexander had called him by name from the very beginning. Had Alexander known him before? Kalix hadn’t paid much attention to the details of his death, but they hadn’t exactly been acquainted then either. So how did Alexander know him? When had he decided to kill him?
“I figured it out when I carried you earlier.”
The fact that he had been killed by Alexander didn’t feel real—what stuck with him more was the indignity of being slung over his shoulder like a sack. Thanks to Alexander dredging up memories he’d rather forget, Kalix’s only goal now was to escape this situation as quickly as possible.
“Hurry up. You’ve got to clean yourself up before curfew.”
Kalix followed the path Alexander had taken, climbing up to the second floor. Even when Alexander reached down to help, Kalix ignored it, and Alexander withdrew his hand without a word.
“Here.”
Alexander then opened the balcony door with familiar ease, rummaged through a drawer, and tossed Kalix a towel. Before Kalix could react, Alexander walked straight to the wardrobe and started undressing.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Kalix’s voice dripped with disdain, but Alexander casually stripped off his wet clothes and pulled on dry pants he’d grabbed from the wardrobe. He slung a shirt over his shoulder and headed for the door.
“You’re just going to walk out like that?”
Kalix stared, stunned, as Alexander—still shirtless—opened the door. Did the male dormitory have no standards? Why wasn’t he dressing inside the room?
He had no idea where Alexander had left his manners. The Academy was supposed to cultivate people, but Alexander was a perfect counterexample. As Kalix questioned the very purpose of the institution, Alexander strode confidently down the hall and stopped in front of another door, knocking before opening it.
“What?”
A sleepy voice came from inside, but Alexander asked calmly:
“Is Philip next door?”
Shouldn’t he have apologized for waking someone up? Or at least knocked first? Alexander, of course, had done neither. Kalix didn’t want to know how dysfunctional this dorm was, but it was clearly a mess.
“Yeah. Please, just—”
Judging by the voice inside, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. If it was so common, why didn’t they lock their doors? None of this made sense. But before Kalix could dwell on it, Alexander turned the doorknob of the next room—again, without knocking. When it didn’t open, he simply pried it loose.
Kalix didn’t even want to know how he’d learned that skill. It didn’t matter anyway—he wouldn’t be here long.
“I only keep one spare set in this room.”
Even though this clearly wasn’t his room, Alexander rummaged through the drawers as if it were, handing Kalix clothes like they were his own.
“Uh… should I turn around?”
Alexander actually did turn around, and Kalix, too exhausted to question anything further, just changed clothes.
“Curfew’s soon. If you don’t want your family called on the first day, behave yourself.”
After changing, Kalix moved past Alexander to open the door, but Alexander followed him anyway, unfazed by being ignored.
“I’ll get your clothes tomorrow. I’ll come find you.”
At that, Kalix finally stopped and turned to face him.
“You know where my room is?”
When he died, he had almost been grateful. He’d assumed that after death, his body would return to him—or at least be gone for good. But no. The next one to take over had been that thing again.
The shock of it had been so great that he hadn’t bothered to question why Alexander had killed him. He had a vague idea of the reason, but he hadn’t cared to dig deeper into Alexander’s thoughts or motives. Yet Alexander seemed to know him—the real him—quite well. Had there been some prior grudge? The current Kalix—himself—had never done anything to earn such hatred.
Kalix studied Alexander carefully. Even at a glance, his striking appearance would have left an impression if they’d met before. But he had no memory of it. Which meant their first encounter had been when Alexander killed him.
“Clifford.”
Then, a realization struck him. Clifford. Alexander’s surname. As soon as he recalled it, other pieces fell into place.
“Calling me that will just confuse you more.”
Alexander was right. Clifford was why Kalix hadn’t entered his room earlier. Jasper Clifford—his roommate. The one who had been with his body when it was stolen.
“Kalix Blackwood.”
Alexander stopped at the floor where Kalix’s room was and continued:
“Don’t make a scene about today.”
Alexander Clifford. Jasper Clifford’s brother.
The one who, after discovering that Kalix had been with Jasper, had slept with others as well—and then, without hesitation, had killed his body.
“If you’re going to die, do it at your house. Or your estate, your villa, hell, even at an exhibition. But not here.”
He had questioned Kalix about Jasper at the valley—where Jasper had lured him with a note about a shooting lesson. Alexander had asked if he’d slept with Jasper, if he’d slept with others, if Jasper knew about any of it. But he had never asked why. Not once. He could have at least asked why Kalix had betrayed his brother, but he hadn’t.
Only afterward did Kalix realize why he’d been called to the valley. The sound of the waterfall had drowned out the gunshot.
***
“Hi. I’m Jasper Clifford. Just call me by my name.”
The moment Kalix entered the room, that voice greeted him. He ignored it.
“Where’d you go? Did you already know someone here? Or were you just sightseeing?”
The tone was sickeningly sweet. From what Kalix remembered, Jasper was easy. They were stuck as roommates, and Jasper was the type to cling if treated kindly—weak, easily cowed, and desperate for affection. Being a bastard of the Clifford family already made him a target of gossip, and his pretty face only fueled the rumors.
And in reality, he was fragile and timid. A little kindness, a little feigned devotion, and he’d fall right into your lap. After that, no matter who else Kalix saw, Jasper would never leave as long as Kalix kept up the pretense of caring.
It was pathetic. Disgusting. And worst of all, infuriating. Because that body—his body—had been touched by someone who wasn’t him. Jasper might not have known, but that didn’t make it any less revolting. Every single person who had been near him during that time made his skin crawl.
“Are you tired?”
When Kalix ignored that too, the voice finally stopped. Soon, a knock came at the door. The dorm supervisor stood there, looking between Kalix and Jasper.
“Kalix Blackwood.”
“Yes.”
Jasper subtly glanced at Kalix from beside him.
“Jasper Clifford.”
“Yes.”
The supervisor pointed to the paper taped to the door.
“All new students must attend the dormitory orientation on the first day of classes.”
“Yes.”
As Jasper answered, Kalix weighed the risks—should he skip the orientation, or should he go? If he went, it would strengthen his connection to Jasper. If he didn’t, he might end up meeting someone else. Deviating from the schedule always led to unpredictable encounters. He hated both options.
“Clifford.”
“Yes?”
At the supervisor’s sudden call, Jasper responded, and Kalix glanced at him.
“Don’t pick up bad habits from your brother.”
The usually stern voice softened slightly, and the supervisor chuckled before moving on to check the next room. Jasper watched him go, bewildered. He clearly had no idea what kind of things his brother got up to. Not that Kalix cared.
***
Kalix lay in bed, not asleep, just staring at the ceiling. The problem with lying still was that it gave him too much time to think.
His life—his life—should have been smooth, flawless, everything falling into place as it was meant to. But it wasn’t.
Coming to the Academy had been his own choice. But if he’d known this would happen, he would have gladly, happily, spent the rest of his life locked away in his estate.
The problem had started a few days before he left for the Academy. There had been no warning. He’d gone to bed as usual, and the next morning, he’d woken up as someone else.
If the one who had taken over had been sane, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. Even if losing control of his own body was horrifying, if the other had been a decent person, perhaps Kalix could have learned something from it. Back then, he’d been more optimistic, more hopeful—maybe he even would have agreed to share his body.
But that was ridiculous. His body. His. Why should he have to share it?
Yet Kalix had been powerless, forced to watch as someone else used his body. Maybe ignorance would have been better. But no—he’d had to see everything. And it had been a nightmare.
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
