Chapter 5: Elimination
1237 Words
The plan was simple.
Not perfect.
Not genius.
Just… simple.
Scare her.
Break her shield.
Let her see something worse than herself for once.
Maybe then she’d learn.
Maybe then she’d shut the f**k up.
Lucien stared at himself in the mirror that morning — half-smile, hair neat, shirt creased with just enough dishevel to feel real.
The look of a quiet kid trying.
Nobody ever looks twice at the quiet kid until it’s too late.
He opened the second drawer of his mother’s dresser. Slid his hand beneath the clutter of old makeup, pills, and tucked-away regrets.
There it was. Unopened. Generic brand of Condom.
He took it without a thought, dropped it into his pocket like gum.
Not because he planned to use it.
But because someone else needed to feel a certain fear.
And when this scene would be ongoing, he wanted options. Misdirection. Ambiguity.
He had a mission in mind and by all means he intended to teach someone a lesson they are going to remember for the rest of their lives.
He left the house like he always did.
“Mom I'm heading out !” he called.
No response.
Good. That meant she was still drunk.
Back at School, It felt slower today.
Thicker.
Lucien moved through the halls like he was gliding — footsteps light, posture relaxed. He checked his watch every 40 minutes,
Syncing with class switches, club meetings, which staff member was where. All the chess pieces are aligned.
Even Anthony and Christy didn’t catch anything unusual.
He smiled at them. Laughed at the right moments. He practiced normalcy like perfection.
Stay normal.
2:17 PM.
West Wing. Classroom 25W
The still functional classroom smelled like wet chalk and decay. Probably the only part of the whole wing still used, also it was kinda close to the washrooms.
Paint peeling.
Desk legs rusted.
Windows fogged and shut tight.
Lucien entered quietly and shut the door behind him lightly.
Then he waited.
His fingers drummed silently on the desk.
Inside his pocket, his hand touched the condom wrapper.
Still sealed. Still pointless.
This was just supposed to be a scare.
He ran it through again in his head.
Get Rae here.
A note in her locker. Fake handwriting.
“Meet me. Urgent. West Wing. Classroom 25W, 2:20. Alone.”
She was dumb enough to come here alone.
Vain enough to think someone had something to confess.
2:22.
Footsteps.
Lucien stepped back into the corner near the supply cabinet. Darkness helped.
The door creaked open.
“What the f**k is this place?”
Rae.
Alone.
She stepped in, nose wrinkling.
Lucien didn’t speak.
Not yet.
She walked toward the window, confused, scanning.
He let the silence sit.
Let the dread crawl.
And then—
He stepped out.
Just a little.
No mask. No weapon.
Just… him.
And it was enough.
She flinched like she saw a ghost.
“What the—you?”
Lucien said nothing.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
He just stared.
Unmoving. Unbreathing.
The silence pressed in like water.
Rae backed up slightly. Her voice rose, more brittle.
“You think this is funny? That I’d come running here? You’re f*****g pathetic, Thorne.”
Still, he said nothing.
That was the point.
He wasn’t here to fight.
He was here to haunt.
“Say something, freak!”
Lucien stepped forward.
One slow, heavy step.
Rae reached for her bag instinctively.
He kept walking.
No rush.
Just inevitability.
She deserves this, the voice in his head whispered.
She brought it down on herself. She dragged Broon into it. She killed the last good part of you.
Lucien didn’t raise his hands.
Didn’t lunge.
He just let the dread rise between them like smoke.
And Rae,
For the first time—
Looked afraid.
He calmly walked to the door and turned the lock.
A soft click.
The kind that ends a conversation forever.
The key slid into his pocket like a secret.
He pulled the Condom wrapper and put it on one of the desk.
When he turned around, Rae’s face had already begun to shift.
“What… what are you doing?”
Lucien didn’t answer.
He just stared.
Not angry.
Not smiling.
Just there, like a shadow had grown bones and stood still.
“If this is some kind of prank, it’s not funny,” Rae snapped.
“Let me out. Right now.”
Lucien took one slow step forward.
Then another.
He tilted his head, gaze scanning her like a puzzle.
“You ever think about how quiet this room is?” he asked.
Rae blinked. “What?”
“No one uses it. That frequently, no one hears it. No one even remembers it exists.”
She backed up a step. Her voice rose.
“Open the f*****g door, Thorne.”
Lucien smiled faintly.
Like he was watching her lines in a play.
Like this had all been rehearsed before.
“You sent your little boy band to kill the last living thing that loved me. And then you laughed, you laughed again and again, You don’t even know what you broke, Do You ?.”
Her posture shifted. She wasn’t scared — not yet.
She still believed in her role.
Still thought she could bark louder than the wolf.
“You’re insane.”
Lucien closed the distance.
One moment she was spitting words,
the next—
Crack.
Her hand across his face.
And again.
Crack.
He stood still for a second, his head turned.
The side of his cheek was blooming red.
His fingers twitched.
And then…
Something inside him snapped.
No screaming. No yelling.
Just silence.
Like everything else in his world — collapsed inward.
We don’t see what happens next.
We hear something — a chair tipping.
A drawer slamming.
Two loud thumps.
"Wait, Lucien Dont."
A breath choked down.
And then—
Darkness.
Something that signified that salvation was out of the question now everything was over, Done and Dusted.
Dust filled the air, faintly smelling like blood.
Rae’s figure slumped near the wall.
Clothes torn, skin bruised.
One shoe missing.
Hair tangled like a fight had swallowed her.
Lucien crouched in the center of the room, pulling on his shirt.
There was no rush in his movements.
No guilt.
No panic.
He stood and walked to the door.
Unlocked it.
But Then, He looked back.
Her shirt was in pieces.
Her mouth was slightly open.
Eyes staring nowhere.
A smear of blood down her temple from where she must’ve hit the desk.
And she wasn’t moving.
Lucien stood over her, chest rising.
Falling.
Rising.
Then—
“Fuck.”
The word slipped out like a secret broken at the edges.
He took a step back.
His heel crunched over snapped plastic — a broken pen, maybe.
“FUCK.”
His own voice startled him.
He dropped to his knees beside her, shook her shoulder.
Nothing.
No pulse.
No breath.
His hands trembled.
He pressed them to his head.
“This wasn’t the plan. I didn’t mean—”
She was supposed to cry.
To scream.
To break.
Not this.
Not a f*****g corpse on the floor of a forgotten room.
Not this.
He stood. But fell back against the wall.
Then he tried to stand again.
“Okay. Okay. Think. You’re not done yet.”
His breath hitched.
The clock on the wall ticked like a bomb.
Rest was History
- Writer
