Hansel woke up when he was about to fall off his chair after dozing off during class. He grabbed at his desk reflexively, then glanced around with bleary eyes, trying to blink the sleep out of them. Class must have ended. There was no teacher present. Students all around were picking up their books and study materials from their desks, preparing to leave.

Buttery sunlight sieved in through the window to his left. For the briefest second Hansel's stinging eyes drifted to the school grounds one storey below: a green strip of land hemmed in by a broken fence and overgrown with weeds; concrete rectangles painted over to make tennis and basketball courts; scarred trees with gnarly roots and scruffy, chest-high hedges.

"Oh, he woke up on his own," someone remarked from the side.

Hansel turned towards the sound. Two girls in ponytails were watching him from the desk nearest to him, but he wasn't sure which of them had spoken. One of the girls was Lydia, the class representative. The other was—Hansel didn't know her name.

What surprised him most was seeing them both watching him openly. Most students treated him like a ghost at school. He even looked the part—a sickly white boy with a shock of achromatic hair, soft-boned and frail like a wisp. To the others he was barely there, a mere presence that haunted the classrooms and hallways at school, a shape you caught out of the corner of your eye. They left him alone, gave him his space, because ghosts were not to be engaged with.

Perhaps his own grim attitude was to be blamed for the others behaving this way around him. Hansel never smiled or stopped to talk. He did not encourage friendly overtures from anyone. He had made himself out to be someone unreachable and unknowable. He was too quiet. Too aloof. Too indifferent. Much less a boy than the concept of one.

"He's looking this way," hissed the other girl to Lydia.

Hansel almost sighed. People always did that. Speak about him right within his earshot as if they thought he couldn't hear them.

What's the deal with Hansel Schwein?

Why doesn't he talk?

Is he crazy to voluntarily move to Heart?

Doesn't he ever get hot, always wearing those long-sleeved shirts?

He looks queerly pretty, doesn't he, in an Undead sort of way?

If the others thought Hansel couldn't hear them, naturally, Hansel pretended he couldn't hear them either.

Getting to his feet Hansel began collecting books from his desk. Most students had left the classroom by now. The corridor outside was flooded with the sounds of scuffing shoes and ceaseless chattering, all meshing together and interleaving to make this rushing, rumbling noise, like the sound of trains passing through a tunnel. Hansel himself was about to leave when Lydia interrupted him.

"I was wondering if I'd have to wake you up," Lydia said. Her chocolate hair shone like bronze in the slanted sunlight, a few blonde streaks standing out in stark relief. Her mist green eyes were like a sinkhole, pulling him into its depths. Gentle eyes; warm, honest, unassuming eyes. He looked away. "You have cleaning duty today. I thought you might have forgotten."

Oh. That was all.

"I will do it," he said quickly. Truth was, Lydia had guessed right. He had completely forgotten it was his turn to clean the classroom today. Things didn't usually slip his mind like that. He guessed it was happening because of Felix; his shadow took such assiduous care to turn all his nights into horrors that these days Hansel was sucked dry of all energy. If someone asked him what two plus two was right now he'd probably stutter.

Even now his head was lost in a drugged haze from lack of sleep and all he wanted to do was lay himself down somewhere and fall into the deepest slumber. He would have loved to bunk classes so he could stay at home and catch up on all the pending sleep. But Felix had given him another order, a specific one, which was to never skip any classes. Hansel did not know if Felix had any means to find out whether Hansel obeyed  him or not—he glanced at his unmoving daytime shadow suspiciously—but it was better to be safe than sorry.

After the two girls had left the classroom Hansel picked up chairs and placed them upside down on their respective desks. Then he unhooked a broom from a nail on the wall behind the door and began sweeping the floor.

Cleaning the room was such a toil. His arms felt rubbery and weak even before he had begun, and he was so exhausted his legs seemed unable to hold his own weight. Hansel tried to sweep faster, to not drag out the job. He was going to go straight home after this and get that much-needed sleep. He hadn't skipped any classes, so Felix can't complain, can he?

After he was done cleaning Hansel dumped all the dust and trash into a black plastic bag. He'd have to throw this bag into the larger trash bins at the back of the school later.

The corridors were empty when Hansel left the classroom with the trash bag in hand. But through the intermittent windows he passed he glimpsed a few students lingering in scattered clumps here and there, playing basketball or chatting with friends.

He tripped on his way out of the school building, his foot catching on the sill of a small door. He caught himself before he could fall. "Sorry," he muttered automatically, apologising to the door.

The doorway lead to the back of the school, and Hansel stepped out through it into dusky light. Drainpipes gurgled on the wall, spewing out stale air from their curved spouts. A narrow moss-grown yard spanned the space between him and the crumbling fence farther away, and beyond the fence, a cluster of pines fanned out to form a thin evergreen forest. The forest was a shortcut; he could get to his house faster if he followed a trail through it, although, frankly, driving a car to the school would be the fastest.

But driving a car during daylight was out of option; he didn't have a license yet.

Hansel's shoes kept sinking into the thick carpet-like cover of moss as he headed for a collapsed region of the fence. That was where the trash bins were, hidden behind a slant-roofed storehouse with crumbling, mudstained  walls. Patches of weeds swept in through the break—clumps of crabgrass and chickweed, nutsedge and fleabane—slowly beginning to encroach upon the rest of the yard.

Voices reached Hansel's ears as he neared the storehouse, some gruff, some dour, some lofty, all male. He continued walking until he reached the bend of the wall, then turned around it to find a group of boys gathered by the trash bins. The boys were his age; but he didn't know any of them by their names, except for one.

Donovan Maguire had left a sufficiently huge impression on him—on the entire school, really—after he spray painted swearwords across the school entrance in his freshman year, replaced the school mascot with a creepy scarecrow and unleashed a pack of hyperactive ferrets into the midst of a morning school assembly.

All the rumours about Donovan indicated that he was a boy with a broken moral compass—ruthless and incorrigible. His reputation preceded him the same way lightning preceded a thunderclap. But one needn't give ear to rumours to know Donovan Maguire was a walking talking danger zone.

Donovan it seemed, had fully embraced the thug life. He hardly ever attended school. He couldn't be bothered with rules and regulations. He did not respect his elders and held no compassion for the weak. On the days he was suspended from school—which was an astonishingly large number of days—he hung out with a biker gang, racing down the streets, vandalising public property, street-fighting, brewing meth or chainsmoking.

Keeping away from Donovan was a good choice to make on any day.

Tall trash bins stood between Hansel and Donovan's gang, the latter's view to Hansel further obscured by a folded aluminum ladder and a bunch of steel pipes leaning against the side of the storehouse. Through a crack in a window he could see inside the crumbling building: a muddle of cardboard boxes, wires and stacked answersheets of bygone exams. Hansel inched closer. If he was fast enough he could dump the trash and get away before the boys noticed his presence.

However he had only put a single step forward when he witnessed Donovan shove one of the other boys to the ground hard. Hansel stopped mid-motion. Without thinking he pressed himself closer to the wall of the storehouse.

The boy who got pushed did not get back to his feet immediately. He was clutching a thin book to his chest, his longish red hair grazing his shoulders and his wide eyes watching Donovan's every move with unbroken vigilance.

"Well, Linus, I haven't seen you in a while," drawled Donovan, his back turned to Hansel. He prodded the fallen boy with the tip of his boot. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? Hasn't anyone taught you it's good manners to stop and greet an old friend?"

"We are not friends," mumbled Linus, climbing back to his feet gingerly. He tried to put distance between Donovan and himself, but Donovan moved fast.

"Of course, we are not friends," said Donovan, grabbing Linus by the collar of his shirt. "We could never be friends. How could we when I am here." Donovan levelled his hand palm down with the top of his head. "And you are here." He tapped twice at the ground with his foot.

Donovan's cronies who were hanging back laughed out loud at this.

Something inside Hansel twisted sharply. Bile rose to his mouth. He knew this scene very well.

Linus tried to loosen Donovan's grip on him, attempting to drag himself away. "Let me go. I need to go."

Even from where he stood Hansel could hear the vile mirth in Donovan's voice. "Like I asked, what's the hurry?"

Hansel closed his eyes. He breathed through his mouth. The familiarity of this routine was grating him raw. Hunter and quarry; predator and prey.

"He's probably running to the hospital. Isn't his mother admitted in Ermo?" piped in one of Donovan's friends.

"Ehhhh?" Donovan asked, sunlight glistening upon his fake leather jacket. "Your mother is in the hospital, Linus? How very sad." He kicked Linus's legs from under him, causing him to fall again. "What do you say to me sending you to meet her? Wouldn't that be lovely? Of course, you'd have to be taken in an ambulance."

The other boys guffawed at this like a pack of hyenas.

From this angle the only face Hansel could see was Linus's. He watched the red-haired boy from his hiding spot, noticing how each of Donovan's words seemed to shatter him.

Stay away, Hansel advised himself, biting his lips. Don't involve yourself in Donovan's mess.

Immediately, Hansel felt a rush of hatred for himself, searing him from inside out. The trash bag shook in his hand. Coward.

Linus's voice cracked. "Let me go. Please."

"If I let you go who else could I use for a punching bag?" asked Donovan, mimicking puzzlement. "After all, Linus dear, no one takes my punches as gracefully as you."

Linus's eyes shook, but he said nothing.

"Look how piteous he looks," commented one of the boys, wagging a finger at Linus.

"True," seconded Donovan. He gestured at the trash bins behind him. "Let's shower him with more pity, shall we?"

The other boys let out a shout of assent. They took the lids off the trash bins and dug shovels into them, scooping up the trash inside zealously. They then swung the shovels, showering Linus with the garbage.

"Now he looks very very piteous," noted one of the boys, shovelling a banana peel into Linus's lap.

"Now he looks very very very piteous," chorused another, turning it into a sick game.

Linus hunched up, curling in on himself, gripping the book in his hand tightly as though it were a talisman.

Hansel could feel his blood churn. He wanted to step forward. He wanted to make this stop. But he couldn't move his feet. He was afraid. Was he afraid of Donovan? He didn't know. Possibly.

Coward, Coward, Coward.

"Hey, what's that in your hand?" asked Donovan suddenly, signalling the other boys to stop. They obeyed immediately. Donovan held out his hand for the book Linus was holding. "Let me see."

Linus clutched the book tighter.

"I said, let me see," snarled Donovan, ripping the book out of his hand.

"Give it back," Linus said panicked, reaching for the book, but Donovan punched him hard in the face, cutting off his plea.

Donovan stood up and began leafing through his new prize.

"It's a sketchbook?" asked one of the other boys in surprise.

A few more pages turned. "Wow, Linus. I never knew you were such a fine artist."

Linus glared at Donovan.

Move, Hansel commanded his feet. His feet wouldn't obey.

Donovan turned a few more pages. Then stopped. All of a sudden, his voice grew colder than ever, brimming with venom. "Why is Lydia's face in here?"

Hansel saw fear flash across Linus's face.

"Answer me! Who gave you permission to sketch her?"

"I-I-she was just so pretty," stammered Linus.

"How could you sketch her when she is the girl I like?" Donovan slapped his face hard. The book in his hand was shaking. "Let me show you," growled Donovan, furious. Hansel heard paper tear.

As he watched in horror Donovan began ripping out pages from the sketchbook one by one, scrunching them up and tossing them to the ground.

Please, someone, stop this, Hansel prayed desperately.

"I think this won't do," said Donovan abruptly, dropping the book in his hand entirely. He took a threatening step towards Linus. "I think I will break your dirty artist fingers. I think that is how I will punish you."

The look on Linus's face was pure, unadulterated terror. He tried to crawl away, but suddenly, Donovan stomped down on his right hand with a heavy boot.

Linus cried out.

And Hansel couldn't bear it.

He moved without thinking, rushing forward, diving to shield Linus before he was even aware of his action. He placed himself between the two boys, then hissed up at Donovan. "Don't touch him."

Donovan looked taken aback for a moment, then rage contorted his face. "Who the hell are you?"

Seeing face to face with Donovan was not the same as watching him from the back. Up close he looked scarier, his face rugged, a scar running through his left eyebrow, stopping millimeters away from poking out his eye. His lips were rough and chapped, his hair dark and spiky. The violence his eyes alone promised would be enough to convince anyone to turn tail and run. Hansel swallowed, his palms sweating. Donovan possessed a fearsome presence, too overwhelming for him to deal with on his own.

"Bullying is wrong," Hansel blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. Then he bit his tongue. What right did he have to lecture other people about bullying? What right did he have when he was the one with the log in his eye? Blood rushed to his face and he took a quick, steadying breath.

"Oh wow, what do we have here?" asked one of the other boys mockingly.

"I spy a goody-two-shoes," returned another, grinning wide.

"Look here," Donovan barked at him, pulling Hansel's attention back to himself. "I don't know who you are or what you think you are doing. But if you scram right now I'll forget you ever dared to butt into my business."

Hansel's breath rasped as he inhaled. How could he convince these ruffians to back off?

"Every sin you commit helps the shadows grow stronger," he said, now grasping at straws. Hadn't Felix said something along the lines once? That he had taken form because of Hansel's sins? "Every time you bully someone, you are feeding the shadow that will kill you."

One of the other boys laughed aloud. "Is that the newest theory out now about those monsters?" His smile was condescending. "I thought people said that the shadows happened because of overpollution?"

Someone else chuckled. "Nah, man. That's definitely not true. The shadows were created by a mad scientist. That's what happened."

"No, no," chirped another. "It's all a government conspiracy to control the people. They are lying to us. Shadows doesn't really exist."

The entire group of boys burst out into raucous laughter.

Donovan smirked in triumph. "See? You just can't win with crap like that." He tried to push past Hansel. "You want to get away before I decide to break your leg?"

Hansel held his ground obstinately, knowing very well that he wouldn't be able to stop Donovan from doing anything he set his mind on doing. "You will stay away from Linus."

"Or what?"

Then two things happened in rapid succession. Donovan pushed Hansel out of the way and lunged for Linus. Hansel whirled around, the trash bag in his hand coming up, opening above Donovan's head and raining him with dust and junk.

Everyone went absolutely still. Hansel could see the horror on Linus's face, on the faces of every single one of Donovan's friends.

Flakes of dirt and paper crumbs tumbled out of Donovan's hair and sprinkled his face, which had promptly turned the colour of puce. He rocked backwards on his feet, as though he had been stung by a scorpion.

Hansel winced at what he had just done. He had gone and dug his own grave—that was what he had done. What fool would ever throw trash on Donovan Maguire no matter how dire the situation was?

Should he say it was an accident?

Wouldn't work. Donovan knew better.

Maybe he should just try and apologise—

The blow came out of nowhere. Donovan's fist connected with Hansel's mouth with the weight of a firetruck, snapping his head back. The punch had been too much for Hansel's overwrought body. He stumbled backwards and fell in a heap next to Linus. He touched a finger to his lips. It came away bloody. Donovan pulled Hansel back to his feet before he could manage to catch a single breath, then rammed his fist into his face once more.

Stars exploded behind his eyes, blinding him. The ground had turned into a giant ribbon, undulating beneath his feet. If Donovan relinquished his grip on him, Hansel was going to fall again.

Donovan got in a few more hits before Linus clambered to his feet and threw himself at him, but Donovan could not be deterred. He diffused Linus's amateur attack effortlessly and aimed his fist for another punch.

Hansel squinched his eyes shut. His heart was drumming in his chest. Getting punched in the face was a new experience for him, one for which he was nearing the limits of endurance.

"Donovan Maguire, what do you think you are doing?" demanded a new voice from the side.

Hansel's eyes flew open. He swivelled his head to the source of the voice.

Lydia stood a few yards away, face white, storm in her eyes.

Didn't she leave yet?

Donovan released Hansel hastily, his hands jerking away as though Hansel were a scrap of hot iron. Hansel swayed, about to fall, but Linus put out a hand to steady him.

"Isn't that Hansel Schwein?"

"You mean that mysterious kid from year two?"

"Did you see him throw that bag of trash on Maguire?"

"Man, that surprised me for reals. I'd totally pegged him for a weakling."

Hansel stared straight ahead, not heeding their questions or comments. Could they talk any louder?

With a swish of her ponytail, Lydia turned on Donovan, fixing him under a death-stare. Her voice was stern and self-assured when she spoke. "Hasn't anyone ever told you bullying is wrong? I better not catch you picking on other kids again. It won't make me happy if I do."

Donovan gave her a mocking bow, the ends of his lips hitching up in an amused smile. But it didn't escape Hansel that there was a trace of sobriety in his eyes. He cared about what Lydia thought of him.

"Tell him," rasped Hansel, dredging up words from the depths of his beleaguered brain. "Never to hurt Linus again."

He felt Linus go still beside him. But right then he was more concerned about the spots of grey in his vision. He tried to blink them away, but they just wouldn't disappear.

"You heard him." Lydia raised his eyebrows at Donovan.

Donovan gave Hansel a look of wrath, resenting that he was being manipulated. Nonetheless he forced his lips into a cooperative smile, spitting out his next words. "Fine. I will keep in mind to leave Linus alone."

Next to Hansel, Linus seemed to have stopped breathing.

Lydia gave Donovan a small smile. "That sounds so much better."

Her smile appeared to distract Donovan, smoothing out a few angry lines on his face.

"I will watch you leave." Lydia nodded towards Donovan. "Go ahead."

Donovan narrowed his eyes, but still motioned to his friends to leave with him. Lydia stayed in her spot until every last one of them had dispersed. Once she ascertained there would be no more trouble, she glanced towards Hansel and Linus.

"Take care," she said earnestly. Then she turned and hurried away before either of them could open their mouths.

It left Hansel alone with Linus.

Hansel stooped down to gather the torn pages from Linus's sketchbook, fishing them out from the other trash scattered about. Linus joined him silently. The sketches were all made in charcoal and spoke of an artist with real talent. Hansel was no artist himself, but he could still recognise beauty when he saw it.

"Thank you," said Linus softly when Hansel handed over all the sketches he had picked up.

"Don't thank me," said Hansel succinctly.

He straightened and was just about to walk away when he felt a wave of weakness come over him. Maybe it was the steady buildup of exhaustion over the days, or the sudden influx of noradrenaline. Cold rushed to his head and his vision swam. He felt his knees folding beneath him.

Then Hansel Schwein fainted for the first time in his life.

                                                                *********

The class was unusually subdued the next morning at school, suffering from a general lack of energy. Even though the homeroom teacher had yet to arrive, most students were already sitting in their designated seats, minding their own business. A spiral notebook lay open on Hansel's desk, and Hansel doodled along its margins with a mechanical pencil while his other hand held up his foggy head.

He had regained his consciousness quickly enough after he had blacked out last day, opening his eyes to find himself lying on his back on the grassy ground next to the storehouse, Linus leaning over him anxiously. Linus had suggested he go to the hospital with him, but Hansel had declined the offer, claiming that he was fine. Then he had made a beeline for his house and fallen into the lime green sofa in the living room, sleeping until the stars came out and Felix woke him up with a bottle of water he had grabbed from the fridge.

"Did you play basketball with your face?" Felix had asked when he saw the bruising, not the least bit sympathetic about his condition.

"Walked into a door," Hansel had answered, then shrugged as if none of it mattered.

Hansel continued drawing in his notebook, scratching out stickmen and sunbursts and baby crocodiles. He didn't raise his head when the homeroom teacher walked into the classroom or when everyone else sang out a greeting to her. He didn't raise his head when he heard her say a new student was to join their class.

"Why don't you introduce yourself to everyone else?" the homeroom teacher asked the new student cheerily.

Then a voice Hansel knew very well spoke in reply, his words carrying across the silent classroom. "Hello. My name is Julian Angeles. I'll be sharing classes with all of you from today."

The tip of Hansel's pencil broke. His head snapped up.

There, at the front of the classroom stood Julian, the boy who was once his friend, and the boy who now hated his guts.

Julian's eyes met Hansel's all the way at the back of the classroom, shock painting his face once the moment of mutual recognition had passed. He gazed at Hansel unblinking, taking him in. There was coldness in his expression, mingled with festered repugnance and bitter condemnation. Julian still possessed the same intense eyes Hansel remembered him having a long time ago—angry and tempestuous and full of things unsaid.

Fiery eyes, hostile and unforgiving.

Eyes that seemed to want the world to burn.