Acrilis

The Stalker

Salvor dashed through the glade, tearing past branches and stumps, his breath heaving with every frantic step. His feet pounded the forest floor in rhythmic desperation, and though he kept his eyes on the figure ahead, it remained as blurry as the motive behind the chase itself.

He pushed harder, tried to quicken his pace, but it was like running after a shadow—every stride only drew the silhouette further from reach. His legs began to give, wobbling beneath him, each one threatening collapse. But he urged them on, spurred by something deeper than reason. Something about this pursuit... it felt personal. The silhouette wasn't just evading him—it was mocking him, teasing him, taunting his every failure.

His pursuit led him into unfamiliar territory—a twisted terrain cloaked in shadow and ruin. Charred, gnarled trees pierced the ground like ancient bones. Vultures screeched from somewhere within the abyss as dark thunderclouds roiled above. He slowed, realizing too late he had lost sight of his quarry. And then—

A sudden hiss.

Before he could react, a three-headed viper burst out from behind a tortured tree. He didn’t get a good look—only a flash of scales and snarling jaws—but fear froze his bones. He stumbled, caught a root beneath his heel, and crashed into a pile of dead leaves. The world spun violently, the sound of his heartbeat thundering like war drums in his ears.

This was it.

He braced for the bite.

“Salvor!” A voice pierced through the haze.

Was that his name?

“Salvor!” Louder now. Closer. It didn’t sound like fear—it sounded like music, a soft, sweet cadence that curled around his name like a lullaby.

“SALVOR!”

His eyes flew open.

A face hovered above his. And it wasn’t just any face—it was divine. In fact, it was the face. The most beautiful face he had ever seen. It made every other face, no matter how artfully crafted or tenderly remembered, appear grotesque by comparison. Her jawline held flawless geometry, her forehead unlined and smooth as starlight. And her eyes—hazel, glowing, almost golden in the dark—bathed him in an aura of peace and awe. He fell into them. Completely.

Until—

Reality snapped.

The light changed. The softness faded.

His mother’s confused and unimpressed expression came into focus.

For a moment, even she seemed like a part of the dream—until her frown deepened and her voice shattered the illusion.

“Salvor,” she said, enunciating each syllable with an unusual accent, as if checking whether he was even human.

“Mmh?” he replied groggily.

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, stepping back with a glare that held years of practiced maternal disappointment.

He turned toward the table clock. His eyes widened.

“Oh s**t!”

The words flew from his lips as he flung the covers aside and scrambled from the bed with chaotic urgency.

“Mmh-mm,” his mother hummed mockingly, already leaving. “Make sure you pick up your breakfast from the kitchen.”

The door closed softly behind her.

Salvor stood frozen for a beat longer, somewhere between dreams and daylight, between a three-headed snake and a face he couldn’t quite forget.

**********************

Salvor had to take a bus today, which was unnatural. Normally, he rode with Mr. Willshereford, the eccentric neighbor who had a religious habit of leaving home at exactly 7:00 A.M. in his sleek Bentley Continental GT. It was a routine that kept Salvor reliably punctual. But today? Today was a disaster.

He had woken up a little past 9 A.M.

Now, as the rickety bus screeched to a halt, he could already feel the imaginary (or maybe not so imaginary) eyes of fellow students boring into him from the corridor—some with judgment, others with barely-concealed amusement.

"Just here!" he called out, and the driver grudgingly veered to the side lane. Salvor hopped out quickly and, without pause, rushed into Justin’s Mart, a narrow convenience store tucked just beside the bus stop.

Justin Kendrick, the store’s owner, was a relic from his mother’s past—a childhood friend who had apparently once hoped to be more than that. His dreams had been abruptly crushed when Salvor's dad—now off somewhere in Scotland on another of his mysterious "official missions"—swooped in and married the girl of Justin's dreams.

Justin had, more than once, admitted to Salvor that he still burned a little with jealousy. Still, he had always been kind to the boy. “I love whatever came from your mom just as much as I loved her,” he had once said, his eyes glassy with regret.

That statement, innocent or not, had given Salvor a sort of... license.

Now, whenever he snuck off with some of Justin's stock—usually mangas or snacks—it wasn’t theft. Not in his mind. It was a “borrow,” a lease that would never be repaid. What could poor old Justin do? Say no to his "stepson"?

Today, Salvor burst in like a boy on a mission. He barely acknowledged Justin’s presence behind the counter. His hand flew toward a fresh volume of Makiti’s Return, then to two fruit drinks helplessly lying on the counter like sacrifices. Then, with practiced speed, he made for the door.

“See ya, Justiano!”

“Hey!!” came the startled cry.

Salvor pushed through the automatic glass door and bounded toward the next bus stop, but then—

“Salvor!”

The shout cracked the air like a whip. Even a flock of nearby birds scattered.

He halted abruptly and turned, already preparing a sarcastic defense.

“What is it now, Justiano?” he groaned, trying to sound as scrawny and unbothered as possible.

“I need you to deliver a message to your mom,” Justin said, breathless, as he jogged over.

Salvor rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “My mom’s married, Justin. You lost that battle years ago. Why can’t you just let it go?”

Justin looked away, toward the street, chewing on his lower lip like it held the answer to his problems. His shoulders sagged.

“Yeah…” he murmured, then louder, “Yeah, you don’t have to remind me, boy. I’m quite aware of that.”

He turned to face Salvor fully now, his eyes a little firmer.

“But I need you to deliver this.” He shoved a small, brown-wrapped parcel into Salvor’s hands. “Will you help me out?”

Salvor raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. He chuckled as he looked at the package, gripping it properly.

“You know,” he said with a smirk, “instead of using me like your personal delivery boy, you could try actually buying her attention back. Might cost you, but hey—at least it’s honest.”

Justin offered a weak laugh, half pride, half pain. “Come on, man. Just do this one for me.”

Salvor imagined Justin’s eyes glistening then—though he wasn’t sure if it was sentiment or just bad lighting.

“Sure. Not a prob. You owe me,” he said casually, and the two of them locked into a friendly shoulder bump.

It was in that moment—that very moment—Salvor caught sight of her again.

Her.

She was standing at the front of a kiosk a few meters away, half-blended into the crowd. People surged past her, brushing her shoulders, yet she remained impossibly still. Watching him.

Her eyes—those eyes—held something dangerous. Not rage. Not madness. Something worse. Something… ancient.

She smiled. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement or mockery. Then the crowd thickened, a tide of faceless bodies crossing her path—

—and when it passed, she was gone.

Again.

****************************

Heliot bumped against Ricky, a lanky little boy, barely older than his younger brother, Nathan. The boy skimped to the left, trying to avoid more infliction. That was his cue. He picked up pace, chasing the ball towards the center of the field. He could see Mathew and Brian charging from the corners of his eyes. Yes—bring the heat. He needed this kind of confrontation.

The duo hadn’t even gotten any closer when Heliot swerved dangerously to the left with the ball and, almost immediately, slightly losing his balance, shifted his position and retreated to the right—taking his opponents off guard.

Too easy.

“Now, Heliot!” Leonard—their number 7—was screaming beyond what his lungs could actually allow.

Not yet.

Heliot kept pacing with the ball, accurate and agile. Yells echoed from both ends of the field. Another challenger emerged—Kelly, the assistant Sports Governor. As if the title could dress and adorn his actual skills. Heliot made an attempt to pass the ball—except it was a ghost move. Another trick from Heliot’s bag. The poor boy hadn’t even registered what was happening when the ball was trickled gently between his legs.

A loud cheer.

A louder jeer.

Heliot received the ball again and kept up the pressure. He was now just a few feet from the box.

“Damn you, Liot! If you’re gonna make that goal, now’s the time!” Leonard was visibly yelling now.

Not yet.

He pressed on. But the defense was thick: Andrew—a short, puffy, rowdy player. Eduardo—one of their elite defenders who had bagged Best Time Defender three years in a row. And Daniel—a ruthless player with a muscular build who had received a red card in every single match he ever played.

Still, Heliot charged in mindlessly.

He glanced at the byline and spotted Leonard waving like mad—but Leonard was cornered. Kelly had hurried back to cover, keeping him at bay.

Heliot’s breath thickened, rippling at an uneven rhythm. He swung his body for a dribble, but Eduardo was too fast. He jabbed Heliot gently in the torso, knocking him off balance. The ball slipped from his control. Heliot staggered, unsure of how it had all unraveled.

He could hear the spectators groaning, mocking. It was like watching a great castle collapse—his legacy in ruins.

He knew how this would go. It would become the next best gossip for an entire generation.

Not this time.

He spun back, fueled by blind agitation, and spotted Eduardo taking control of the field. He was prepping to pass—to someone.

Who?

Kelly? No—too far, too off-position.

Andrew? Definitely not—Eduardo was too smart to risk that.

Then it hit him.

Daniel.

Ruthless, reckless—but with the most powerful shot in the team. It made sense. Eduardo would turn to him to clear the ball out of the box.

Eduardo was just about to hit the ball when—

Heliot twirled, dazzling the field with his speed, and raced through the narrow intersection between Eduardo and Andrew.

Thwack!

The ball bounced off Eduardo’s misstep and rolled—harmlessly but perfectly—right back to Heliot’s waiting feet.

Without thinking, Heliot sent it flying toward Bran—their number 11—who was already strolling back to defense in visible disappointment. The change in events caught even him by surprise, but who’s to deny a good old deus ex machina?

He stopped the ball clean and turned to face the now grief-stricken goalkeeper.

The poor boy rushed toward him in a last-ditch effort to stop the shot.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bran growled—and with that, slammed the ball into the net.

Beyond reach.

Beyond redemption.

Beyond salvation.

The crowd exploded in a symphony of cheers. They had won the match.

Bran had scored.

But Heliot?

Heliot had saved the day.

********************

After the match, Heliot made his way to the boys’ dressing room to clean up and change. He had barely turned off the faucet when he noticed someone enter.

He sensed the presence before he heard the footsteps.

The scent hit first—a sharp, expensive cologne that announced status and style. Heliot grabbed a towel from the rack and stepped cautiously out.

Standing right in front of him—staring straight into his face—was Magnus.

The school’s Dreamer Boy.

He was like the school’s golden platter, polished and praised. Everyone—everyone—had fallen in love with him. Every guy wanted to be his friend. Every girl wanted to bed him. He was the definition of a semi-god.

Unlike Stephan, Magnus was unique. Mysteriously so.

He barely showed up for class and still topped every grade sheet. He didn’t chase girls—probably because he had too many to manage. He drove the most expensive car. Had the most expensive friends. Threw the most expensive parties.

He was the undisputed golden boy of the school. Even Salvor’s Melisandre—even her—would answer his bidding without question.

“Hey, Heliot,” Magnus said in that deep, dark voice of his.

Heliot had to do a mental rotunda.

First: Why the hell was Magnus alone?

That in itself was a violation of reality. Magnus was never by himself—it was practically illegal.

Second: How the hell did he know my name?

It wasn’t that it was impossible... but to hear it from Magnus? The boy whose spotlight existed on a different plane?

Sure, Heliot had his own following. His name wasn’t exactly invisible. But Magnus?

Magnus’s fame was mythic.

“I saw you on the field,” Magnus continued. “You were magical.”

“I…”

Magnus took a step forward.

Heliot instinctively took a step back.

A grin flickered across Magnus’s face—small, unreadable. Then, slowly, he extended a hand.

In it was a golden ticket.

“I don’t know if you’d be interested…” he said casually, “but I’m throwing a pool party at my villa tonight. It’s going to be one of a kind. Trust me.”

Heliot’s throat tightened. He gulped.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“No pressure.”

Magnus downshifted his voice to a soft bass, gave a rough half-smile, and without another word, turned and walked silently out of the room.

The scent lingered.

The silence deepened.

And the only thought echoing through Heliot’s deafened mind was—

What the f**k was that?

*********************

Salvor strolled through the school hall, taking lesser note of his colleagues as he moved, occasionally throwing glances over his shoulder—as if being followed.

And perhaps… he was.

He pushed open the dining hall doors and was immediately swallowed by a wave of murmurs and hushes—a thousand voices whispering, teasing, trolling, gossiping, gisting... the usual.

Nothing unexpected.

His eyes shifted toward Heliot’s table.

There he was, nibbling quietly on bacon, eyes locked onto something in his hand—motionless, almost entranced.

Salvor hurried toward him, nearly colliding with Margaret—one of the dorkiest, sheepish girls he’d ever met.

“Watch it, Salvor!” she yelped, flashing him a deeply embittered look.

He didn’t even notice.

He slid into the seat beside Heliot like he was carrying explosive news.

“She’s real!”

Heliot didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on whatever that thing in his hand was.

“Are you listening?” Salvor demanded, his face twisting into a classic are-you-kidding-me expression.

“Hm?” Heliot finally looked up, as if breaking out of a trance.

Salvor shook his head, irritated.

“I said she’s real… I saw her again!”

“Who’s she?”

“The girl from the woods the other night.”

Salvor’s eyes narrowed as he finally got a better look at the thing in Heliot’s hand.

“…And what the heck is this?” he asked, snatching it.

Heliot didn’t stop him.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“The Golden Boy?” Salvor blinked. “Like—seriously?”

“Trust me… I haven’t even figured it out myself. It all happened so fast.”

Salvor stared at the ticket, stunned.

“Well… you have to come with me to the woods tonight. You have to see for yourself.”

“See what, exactly?” Heliot asked, a note of unease sneaking into his voice.

“The girl, of course. I mean… she’s something out of a dream.”

Heliot gently took the ticket back.

“I’m sorry, Sal… but I don’t believe in fairytales. This though—” he said, lifting the ticket in his hand, “—this is real.”

“Are you saying I’m delusional?” Salvor’s tone was rising, sharp-edged now.

“No—no. I’m not saying that.” Heliot leaned back a bit. “I just think you’ve been a little too obsessed with the fictional. Maybe it’s time we did something different. Focused on reality.”

He waved the ticket lightly in front of Salvor’s face.

“This, Salvor… this is reality.”

Salvor looked like he’d just swallowed poison.

“You know what you are, Heliot?”

“Now—now, calm down. I haven’t—”

“A motherfucking opportunist,” Salvor snapped, his voice suddenly louder, more bitter than anyone nearby had heard before.

“…and a shrewd loser.”

“Salvor… I—”

Heliot was stuck. Frozen. Whatever apology he had melted in his throat.

“Just go on,” Salvor muttered, standing abruptly. “Have your time with your new best friend.”

He started walking off.

“I guess you were always looking for a way out anyway.”

His shoes squeaked on the polished floor as he left, and with each step, the silence between them stretched into something breaking.

**************

It was pouring.

A continuous rush and splatter of icy drops lashed down from above. The trees swiveled and whistled, caught in the storm’s wild dance, while thunder roared a frightening, almost mocking song.

The ground was soaked—drowned in puddles—echoing the prints of countless wandering, lurking creatures.

One, in particular, trotted on through the dark, cloaked, hooded.

Each flash of lightning exposed him—wedged between scattered, skeletal trees, their wet leaves flapping as if pleading for help… or laughing at the idea of it.

Salvor walked with a distinct, deliberate pace.

His feet sank into soft, sunken soil and heaps of fallen leaves.

His jaw was clenched. So were his fists.

He could feel his teeth grinding together, and yet—

The drowning world didn’t matter.

He actually chose him over me.

The thought echoed louder than the thunder.

It wasn’t just a choice.

To Salvor, it was betrayal.

And every call to reason—every sensible thought—melted into the blur of the storm.

His rage led him back to the Old Man’s cottage.

He needed answers.

And now, with a bosom friend turned stranger…

He was electrified—consumed.

The cottage door was ajar, left swinging by the wind.

The windows were wide open, letting the storm pour in, unhindered.

He stood outside, his coat billowing wildly—caught in the storm’s cruel excitement.

Or maybe it was agony.

Where is he?

He rushed in and slammed the door shut. Inside was chaos.

Furniture tossed about.

The fireplace—soaked and useless.

A portrait on the wall swung violently from a single nail.

On the table lay a half-eaten dish—bushmeat—the old man’s usual. It smelled stale. Rotted.

Salvor gagged and quickly dumped it into the sink.

He shut the windows tight and began moving through the cottage with urgency.

“Mr Woodsworth?” he called, half-hoping, half-dreading.

He searched the small kitchen.

Then the storeroom.

Nothing.

He glanced at his watch.

6:00 PM.

Mom’s going to be worried sick.

And staying here? Not an option.

He stepped outside again—immediately greeted by the howling wind, slapping him with cold and grief.

Today had been the worst.

He’d come this far… only to be turned away by fate.

“Humph,” he grunted and kicked a small rock in frustration.

It went soaring into the rain—skidding to a stop a few feet away…

…at the feet of someone else.

Salvor froze.

Then lit up. “Mr Woodsworth!”

But no.

That wasn’t him.

It didn’t move like an old man.

Didn’t stand like one either.

The figure stood maybe five, six meters away—tall, still.

And it looked… younger. Healthier.

Too healthy.

It wore a hooded cloak—identical to Salvor’s.

The only visible skin: the fingers.

Pale. Almost white.

So white, they looked almost leprous.

But the most chilling thing?

The eyes.

From within the darkness of the hood, a pair of hazel eyes stared at him—unblinking.

Piercing.

Unmistakable.