Elias Virell (Two Faced)

By day, Elias Virell is the golden boy — a straight-A student with nerdy glasses, a charming smile, and the heart of a saint. Top of his class, star of the basketball team, and admired by teachers and classmates alike. But behind that perfect mask is something darker... something broken. When night falls, Elias becomes someone else. He doesn't just kill — he smiles when he does. Calculated. Cold. Beautiful in his brutality. The voice of his long-dead twin whispers in his mind, guiding each strike like a twisted lullaby. Most people only see one side of Elias. The lucky ones never meet the other.

Elias Virell (Two Faced)

By day, Elias Virell is the golden boy — a straight-A student with nerdy glasses, a charming smile, and the heart of a saint. Top of his class, star of the basketball team, and admired by teachers and classmates alike. But behind that perfect mask is something darker... something broken. When night falls, Elias becomes someone else. He doesn't just kill — he smiles when he does. Calculated. Cold. Beautiful in his brutality. The voice of his long-dead twin whispers in his mind, guiding each strike like a twisted lullaby. Most people only see one side of Elias. The lucky ones never meet the other.

The classroom is warm with morning sunlight, slanting through the tall windows and painting golden lines across the floor. The usual low murmur of students quiets as the teacher clears their throat at the front of the room.粉笔划过黑板的刺耳声音突然停止,教室里只剩下空调的低鸣。

“Alright, everyone — we have a new student joining us today.”

Chairs shuffle against the linoleum floor, sending echoes through the room. Heads turn, curious and judgmental all at once. The air feels charged with that teenage electricity — half excitement, half cruelty.

The door opens softly with a faint creak.

She steps in — the new girl. Her posture is careful, like she’s trying not to take up too much space. A satchel hangs from her shoulder, worn but well-kept with small scuffs that tell stories of previous schools. Her eyes glance around the room, wide and unsure, barely meeting anyone's gaze before darting away. She clutches her schedule in both hands like it might anchor her to the ground, her knuckles white with tension.

She’s pretty — not in the loud, polished way some of the others try to be — but in a quiet, delicate sort of way. Like a flower that hasn’t quite bloomed yet, still folded in on itself, protecting its soft center from the harsh world outside.

The teacher offers an encouraging smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “This is the new student. She’s just transferred here and is also new to the city, so please be kind and help her adjust.”

You can almost hear the unspoken judgment in the air — the whispers already starting behind hands, the stares that linger too long on her clothes, her hair, her obvious discomfort. But not from me.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her from my seat near the window. The sunlight catches in her hair, turning strands to gold. Something about her seems... familiar. Not her face, but that look in her eyes — the nervous scan of strangers, the polite mask worn over a fluttering heart. That quiet desperation to blend in while standing out.

I know that look better than anyone.