Common Sense
dark heroThe man stumbled through the corridor.
His clothes were soaked, his breathing uneven, and one hand remained against the wall as if he no longer trusted his legs to carry him.
Two of the others spotted him first.
“Where’s your partner?”
The man stopped.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
The word killed every trace of amusement.
“What?”
“The kid killed him.”
One of them frowned.
“The kid?”
“The little black-haired bastard. Don’t chase him.”
“You let a kid—”
“HE KILLED HIM!”
The shout echoed through the corridor.
Several heads turned.
The survivor pointed back the way he had come.
“He set the floor on fire. Mark couldn’t reach the door. He jumped into the pool.”
He stopped.
For just a moment, he was there again.
Fire surrounding is partner.
Water beneath him.
His partner jumping.
The terrible realization immediately afterward.
“The pool was electrified.”
Nobody spoke.
“He planned it.”
“How?”
“I don’t fucking know! But he planned it.”
One of the men shook his head.
“You’re telling me some middle-school brat—”
“I’m telling you to stop thinking he’s a brat!”
The survivor grabbed him.
“He knew we’d jump.”
His fingers tightened around the man’s clothes.
“He watched us.”
That finally silenced him.
“He watched him die.”
The survivor released his grip.
“And he didn’t give a shit.”
A few uncomfortable looks passed between them.
“Tell everyone,” he said. “Nobody follows that kid alone.”
The warning spread quickly.
The story didn’t.
By the time it crossed half the school, nobody seemed entirely certain what had happened.
Someone had drowned.
Someone had been electrocuted.
The pool had caught fire.
The kid had somehow set the water itself on fire.
But one detail survived every version.
The kid had killed one of them.
That was enough.
The orders changed without anyone formally giving them.
The black-haired kid was no longer something to grab.
If they saw him, they would shoot.
Nezu already knew that.
He had been watching.
Listening.
Learning.
That was what they still didn’t understand.
Every time one of his traps worked, the next one became harder.
Not because he lacked materials.
Because his opponents learned.
The harmless tricks had taught them to watch the floor.
The pool had taught them not to chase him blindly.
Soon they would stop entering rooms after him.
Soon they would start questioning anything he appeared to want them to do.
So Nezu adjusted.
If they knew they were being manipulated, then the manipulation itself simply needed another layer.
Nezu slipped into the school kitchen.
Vinegar was easy to find.
He took what he needed and moved on.
Bleach was hardly more difficult. The school consumed plenty of cleaning products, and Nezu knew where the staff kept their supplies.
He stopped only long enough to read the label.
Then he continued toward the chemistry laboratory.
The cabinets there were far more interesting.
Nezu moved along them quickly, reading labels until he found what he was looking for.
Isopropyl alcohol — C₃H₈O.
He took the container.
Vinegar.
Bleach.
Isopropyl alcohol.
Individually, there was nothing particularly remarkable about any of them.
One belonged in a kitchen.
Another in a cleaning cupboard.
The last was perfectly ordinary laboratory stock.
But Nezu wasn’t thinking about them individually.
He was thinking about chemistry.
About reactions.
About what ordinary substances could become under the right circumstances.
His mind supplied the first formula almost automatically.
Cl₂.
Chlorine.
A poisonous gas. Highly irritating to the respiratory system.
Then came the second.
CHCl₃.
Chloroform.
Different properties.
Different effects.
Nezu stared at the containers for another moment.
Most children his age would have seen household products and laboratory supplies.
Nezu saw molecules.
He saw reactions.
He saw possibilities.
And, most importantly, he understood what those possibilities could do to a human body.
His attention shifted to the ventilation plans he had taken earlier.
One room immediately stood out.
The smoking room.
Unlike an ordinary classroom, it had been designed specifically to move contaminated air quickly.
A powerful extraction system.
Nezu studied the diagram.
Then smiled.
An extractor only extracted because the air moved in the correct direction.
Two men moved through the western corridor.
Slowly.
Weapons ready.
Neither spoke.
They had heard the warning.
Unlike some of the others, they believed it.
Not necessarily every ridiculous detail.
But they had seen the survivor’s face.
Something had happened.
Something bad enough that a grown man with a gun was terrified of a child.
The first man stopped.
His partner nearly walked into him.
“What?”
He pointed.
Something lay near the corner ahead.
A school notebook.
They exchanged a glance.
“Leave it.”
Neither approached.
They continued along the opposite side of the corridor.
Ten meters farther, a pencil case.
Open.
Pens scattered across the floor.
The second man stared at it.
“He’s leaving a trail.”
“Yeah.”
“So he wants us following it.”
“Yeah.”
Neither moved.
Then the first man smiled slightly.
“Good.”
His partner looked at him.
“We know it’s a trap.”
He raised his weapon.
“That means we don’t play his game.”
They abandoned the trail.
Instead, they took the parallel corridor.
Nezu waited.
Counted.
Then moved.
The two men reached the next intersection.
Empty.
No notebook.
No pencil case.
Nothing.
The first man smiled.
“See?”
A small figure crossed the far end of the corridor.
Both weapons came up.
“There!”
The black-haired kid looked at them.
Just for an instant.
BANG.
The shot tore into the wall where his head had been.
He disappeared.
“Move!”
They advanced.
Not running.
Not this time.
One watched ahead.
The other watched behind.
Every doorway was checked.
Every corner approached carefully.
No rushing.
No blindly following scattered school supplies.
They reached the place where the kid had disappeared.
Nothing.
“Where the fuck did he go?”
His partner pointed.
A door farther ahead was slowly swinging closed.
The first man stared at it.
Then laughed.
“No.”
“What?”
“That’s what he wants.”
They didn’t approach it.
Instead, they checked the surrounding rooms.
Empty.
A storage cupboard.
Empty.
Another classroom.
Empty.
They returned to the corridor.
The door had stopped moving.
A sign beside it identified the room as one of the school’s designated smoking areas.
The first man raised his weapon.
“Only place left.”
“Which means it’s the trap.”
“Probably.”
“So?”
The man looked around.
“We don’t go inside.”
His partner nodded.
They waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Nothing.
“Kid!”
No answer.
“We know you’re in there!”
Silence.
The second man moved to the opposite side of the doorway.
“If he comes out—”
“I know.”
They waited again.
Nothing.
The first man frowned.
Then, a noise.
Quiet.
Metal striking something inside the room.
Both men looked at the door.
The first man gestured.
Three.
Two.
One.
He yanked the door open and immediately fired into the room without even looking inside.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
His partner remained beside the doorway, weapon raised.
Silence.
They waited.
Nothing moved.
Only then did the first man risk looking inside.
A few chairs.
A table.
An ashtray.
Ventilation grilles.
No kid.
“Clear.”
His partner frowned.
“Then where the fuck did he go?”
Something shifted behind the far row of chairs.
The first man fired again.
BANG.
Something dropped.
A school blazer.
Nothing more.
“Fuck.”
He stepped inside, keeping his weapon trained on it.
His partner followed far enough to cover him.
A soft click came from behind them.
The door slammed shut.
The second man spun and grabbed it.
Locked.
“Shit!”
The first man immediately fired at the locking mechanism.
BANG.
The enclosed room amplified the shot brutally.
Both men recoiled.
“Again!”
BANG.
The door held.
“Move.”
His partner raised his own weapon.
Then stopped.
A thin grey trail still drifted from the barrel.
He watched it.
The smoke curled lazily through the air.
Then bent.
Sideways.
He frowned.
“What?”
The other man didn’t answer.
The smoke was moving toward the center of the room.
Away from the ventilation grille.
He slowly looked up.
Air brushed against his face.
Coming from the vent.
“…That’s backwards.”
“What?”
“The extractor.”
The first man looked toward it.
A low mechanical hum filled the room.
The system was running.
But instead of pulling air from the room, it was pushing air inside.
His expression changed.
“Break the door.”
They both moved immediately.
No questions.
No hesitation.
The first slammed his shoulder against it.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Then his eyes began to sting.
He blinked.
“What the—”
His partner coughed.
Once.
Then harder.
The first man covered his mouth.
There was a smell now.
Sharp.
Harsh.
Wrong.
“Fuck.”
His partner grabbed the handle again.
“OPEN!”
He kicked the door.
“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”
The ventilation continued humming.
The first man’s eyes watered violently.
Every breath scratched at his throat.
He coughed.
Again.
Again.
His chest tightened.
Then another odor reached him beneath the first.
Sweeter.
Chemical.
His head suddenly felt light.
“No…”
“What?!”
“There’s something else.”
His partner stumbled.
Caught himself against the table.
The ashtray crashed to the floor.
“Break the window!”
The first man struck it with the butt of his weapon.
Once.
Twice.
A crack appeared.
Again.
The room shifted beneath his feet.
He stopped.
Blinking.
His hand wasn’t where he thought it was.
“Come on!”
His partner shoved him aside and struck the glass.
Another crack.
Then he doubled over coughing.
The first man tried to raise his weapon again.
His arms felt heavy.
His thoughts were becoming strangely difficult to hold.
The warning returned to him.
Don’t chase him.
He looked toward the vent.
Then the blazer.
Then the door.
The notebook.
The pencil case.
The figure crossing the corridor.
The closing door.
The sound inside.
Every single thing.
“Oh, you little…”
He coughed before he could finish.
They hadn’t avoided the trail.
The trail had taught them to distrust the trail.
The kid had wanted them to take the other corridor.
He had wanted them to think they were being careful.
He had wanted them to see him.
Wanted them to shoot.
Wanted them angry.
Wanted them here.
His partner dropped to one knee.
“Help…”
He tried.
One step.
Then another.
His legs failed.
He hit the floor.
Through watering eyes, he looked toward the little window in the door.
A face appeared on the other side.
Black hair.
Small.
Expressionless.
The kid.
The man stared at him.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the man began laughing.
Weakly.
Almost deliriously.
“You…”
He coughed.
“You fucking monster.”
Nezu tilted his head slightly.
The man reached toward the door.
“You’re just…”
His arm fell.
“…a kid…”
Nezu watched.
Then turned away.
The survivor heard the gunshots.
He was already moving before the others reacted.
“Where?!”
“West side!”
He ran.
Several followed.
More gunshots echoed through the school.
Then silence.
“No…”
He ran faster.
They reached the corridor.
Notebook.
Pencil case.
The survivor barely noticed them.
Then he saw the smoking-room door.
A strange haze hung behind its little window.
Two bodies lay inside.
“Don’t open it!”
One of the others already had his hand on the handle.
He froze.
“What?”
The survivor stared at the ventilation grille.
At the haze inside.
At the men on the floor.
“Don’t open that fucking door.”
“But they’re in there!”
“I know!”
One of the bodies moved.
Then came a terrible cough.
The second moved as well.
Alive.
Both of them.
The survivor swore.
“We need to get them out.”
They forced the door and dragged the men into the corridor as quickly as they could.
The first came out coughing so violently that he could barely draw breath between spasms.
The second was conscious only in fragments.
His eyes opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“What the hell happened to them?”
The survivor didn’t answer.
One of the injured men rolled onto his side, desperately trying to breathe.
Getting him out of the room hadn’t fixed anything.
Whatever he had inhaled had already hurt him.
Badly.
His lungs were paying the price now.
“Get them somewhere with clean air! Find someone who knows first aid!”
The others moved.
He didn’t.
Something farther down the corridor had caught his attention.
The black-haired kid.
Standing at the intersection.
Watching them.
The survivor froze.
The kid looked directly at him.
For the first time, the survivor understood something.
The kid recognized him.
Not his name.
Not who he was.
But he remembered him.
He remembered that he had survived.
And he had deliberately let him see this.
“YOU!”
The kid turned.
The survivor raised his weapon.
Then stopped.
Every instinct screamed at him to fire.
To chase.
To end this now.
The kid disappeared around the corner.
Nobody followed.
The survivor slowly lowered his gun.
One of the men behind him was still fighting for every breath.
Another shouted that they needed medical help immediately.
Chaos filled the corridor.
But the survivor continued staring at the place where the kid had vanished.
The others still didn’t understand.
They thought he was hiding from them.
He wasn’t.
He was moving through the school whenever he wanted.
Showing himself whenever he wanted.
Leading them wherever he wanted.
The pool hadn’t been luck.
The fire hadn’t been luck.
The electricity hadn’t been luck.
And this certainly hadn’t been luck.
The survivor looked through the doorway at the ventilation grille.
Whatever the kid had put into that system, he had known what it would do.
He had understood the chemistry.
He had understood the ventilation.
He had understood what breathing those substances would do to a human body.
And then he had engineered a situation where two armed adults—two men who already knew he was setting traps—would walk into that room themselves.
The survivor looked at the notebook on the floor.
Then the pencil case.
Then the smoking room.
He finally understood the game.
And that was the worst part.
Because understanding it hadn’t saved the two men now lying in the corridor with badly injured lungs.
“Nobody follows him,” he said.
Someone behind him didn’t hear.
“What?”
The survivor turned.
“Nobody follows that kid.”
His voice shook.
“If you see him, you don’t chase him.”
He looked once more toward the empty intersection.
“You run.”
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