"Good job everyone! Wrap it up. Mr. White, you've done exceptionally well today."

Crescent receives a small pat on the back from the gym instructor as he walks past. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he notices that the other end of his towel hangs neatly around his neck. With only twenty minutes before his next class, he decides it's time to change and head back to the dorm for a short break. He gives a nod to the teacher as he makes his way to a quieter area.

As Crescent push through the heavy wooden doors, he's immediately struck by a wave of fresh air that contrasts sharply with the fading odor of feet, sweat, and various other body scents lingering behind. The refreshing breeze wraps around him like a warm embrace, filling him with a soothing sense of satisfaction. 

Today had been particularly challenging; they worked relentlessly, pouring their energy into every maneuver as if they were wild animals. Yet, amid the grueling exertion, he discovered a delightful thrill in the sport—a much-needed escape from the complexities of life swirling around him.

Inside the gym, the air conditioning unit struggles against the heat generated by the intense physical activity. To accommodate the demands of extreme sports, the temperature is deliberately set lower, keeping the athletes cooler and less prone to illness. However, the increased perspiration from so many participants creates a stifling atmosphere. The air feels thick and heavy, and as more people squeeze into the space, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Today, in particular, the conditions seemed unbearable, further accentuating the dedication and passion everyone exhibited in pursuit of their shared love for the sport.

During afternoon P.E. more students changed their schedules to this set time. Having P.E. in the morning or at the end of the day isn't ideal. Either because of being too tired or not awake, students prefer to put up with the fight around lunchtime.

Sneakers scuffing the ground due to a lazy stride, Crescent almost trips from the friction. He turns towards the locker room, a single light to guide him through a small winding hall. The walls are painted a dull grey, and the black tile floor has been buffed recently.

The reflection is clear because of a massive amount of polish. Without much else in the decoration department, the lockers are either white or black resembling piano keys.

Bringing a fun musical atmosphere to a sports location remains a mystery, but he did not build this school so how can he complain? Still, it is unappealing.

Walking up to his locker, he flicks the latch before pulling the door open. Inside Crescent's locker only harbors a bag he brings to every session.

A change of clothing. 

He doesn't like using the showers down here. They expose the private areas and he does not want to share with other students. A lot of the men in the school consist of muscles, something he lacks. Having a hard time looking at how developed other men are, he chooses to hang back. Real street bodies on top of hardened personalities. Criminals. If someone looks at him, they will never be able to tell he has skills.

Crescent raises his towel once more, the fabric rough against his skin as he scratches his forehead. As he wipes away the sweat that has gathered at his hairline, droplets trickle down his face, creating a tingling sensation that travels along his skin. It's an uncomfortable itch that demands his attention.

With a sense of urgency, he unfurls the towel and reaches into his bag for his clothes, pulling out a crumpled shirt and a pair of shorts. He quickly stuffs the damp towel inside the bag, the fabric heavy with moisture. Crescent moves swiftly, his heart racing as he feels the strain in his muscles. The day's activities have taken their toll, and all he wants is to return to his dorm and collapse onto his bed for some much-needed rest.

As he hurriedly gathers his belongings, a stray flyer, forgotten and crumpled, slips from the bottom of his locker. It glides through the air and lands silently beneath a nearby bench, lost amidst the chaos of the gym's bustling atmosphere. Crescent pays no mind to it, focused solely on escaping the weariness that weighs him down.

He sighs, holding his clothing in one hand and his bag over his shoulder. The locker door slams, he turns, and what he sees startles him. A student, dressed in all black, leaning against a locker in his path.

He averts his gaze, wary that the other person may be mentally ill. A ski mask obscures their face, clearly indicating an attempt to hide their identity. Judging by their posture, it seems they are poised to say something. The atmosphere grows increasingly awkward for Crescent. He tightens his grip on the bag handle, focusing all his senses on the man just a few feet away.

He begins to walk, keeping his eyes forward. The figure beside him remains stiff, arms crossed, head down, and eyes closed. He knows that to make an impact and make the stranger think twice about attacking, he must project strength. He wants the man to see that he's not easily fazed by his antics, but he also feels weary. A knife, easily concealed and pressed against his side, could spell death for Crescent.

After the raid, it was hard to imagine the troubling plans these gang leaders might have for him. Crescent knew he had to stay vigilant, not just for his own safety, but to navigate the uncertainty ahead.

"You're in danger." The stranger whispers. 

Crescent ignores the words and continues to exit the room as if unbothered. He worries more about being attacked than some silly threat. The light taps of his shoes, almost near the exit cause the heavy thumps in his chest to turn into excitement. A few more steps and he's going to run as fast as he can until he has returned to his dorm.  

He doesn't get far before the man's hand reaches out, gripping his shoulder. Crescent stops instinctively but quickly retorts, pulling away from the grip. He glances at the man, fearing this might lead to an attack. Startled, but trying to steady his broken breaths, Crescent shakes his head to dismiss any nonsense the man tries to impose on him. 

"I don't care. Get off me," he says firmly.

Crescent tilts his head to one side, pushing his bangs out of his eyes as he takes a soft breath. He can feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, mingling with the instinct to stand his ground. In the chaos of street battles, striking first is often deemed necessary. Unfortunately, honorable preparations were frequently dismissed as signs of weakness, leading to lost lives. Yet, he reminds himself that if this situation turns into a fight, he still has the energy to defend himself.

"No, you have to listen, Crescent."

"And who the fuck are you?" Crescent's angered expression handed to the male.

A small smirk from the individual before the sound of pitter-patter met the air.

"The Phantom." The calm voice resonates in the empty room. The deafening silence that follows his introduction only heightens the tension—it's eerie. The creepy tone combined with the mysterious figure sends a chill through Crescent. His heart begins to race, anxiety creeping in as he realizes the potential consequences of this encounter. He can read the situation: someone is a few steps ahead of him, and the Phantom is in control. Knowing his name raises more questions about who this man is and who might have sent him. That uncertainty frightens Crescent the most.

"And why do I have to believe you?" He still has his defiance at least.

The sound of a paper unfolding extends into Crescent's peripheral. He doesn't grab the paper but looks it over. WANTED, written in plain bold letters. Beneath that, an image of someone dressed in black, staring straight into a camera.

He draws his lips into his mouth with disappointment. It's him. Labeled as the raid leader, Crescent's front and center. Beneath the picture in a paragraph,

"Come out. Come out, wherever you are. If you do not come to me, I will find you instead." The Phantom finishes reading aloud.

Crescent snatches the paper, slightly crumbling it in his palm. No use in crying over spoiled milk to a stranger. Crescent tries to keep composure, but thousands of questions resonate through his mind. The only words that came out were that of a hard tough interior,

"Then let them come for me."

"Insolent jester. Do you think Asho's the only one rumored as a murderer? You're expendable, so do not for one moment believe you're invincible. If not for you, think of Ahni."

The clear threatening tone causes Crescent to whip backward, glaring into the eyes of the phantom. It's ok to talk about his life, but Ahni's innocent. He hated when situations always dared to pull his brother into the fray. This is a choice Crescent decides alone. Ahni prefers to put his mind to his studies, as he wants to excel and become something. Dark grey eyes met his own with a parched stare. If nothing else is serious, this situation turned dire. He isn't sure if this phantom is the one behind it all or a messenger of justice. 

"So I'm a target," Crescent rolls his eyes. "Ahni has nothing to do with this... I'll just report to this D.A. leader then myself if that's the case. I'm not afraid of anyone in this school if you're thinking so?"

Suddenly a heavy squeeze at his shoulder as the male leans in closer to his face. It's obvious that the solution isn't one so simple and Phantom is unsatisfied with his answers. A heavy breath at Crescent's cheek before the lowered tone, smelling of old lunch grazes itself into his senses. 

"No. Go to Kisha..."

The words make Crescent frown instantly. Kisha? What will Kisha have to do with any of this? They aren't best friends, nor did they have some extended background, not enough for him to go crawling to the anti-social grump. He's better off requesting more security from the short psychopath.

"If it's that important, you tell him," Crescent answers back.

"Hmph. I'm not the one who might end up six feet under. You have a key player standing in your field and I'm going to need you to utilize this player to the best of your abilities..." Phantom chuckles. "Put an end to suffering, a story written with words that will change this school. Something I... couldn't do... Til ashes, ashes, we all fall down."

Crescent can only receive the hunger in those eyes. Glistening beneath the dangling light above which sways eerily from the AC vent, a fiery passion inside. The ashes part of his speech spoken with truth and a desire to hurt bled out like a pool. This individual is either truly crazy or something fueled this hatred. Crescent has a tougher time believing anything before seeing it, he'll take his chances.

"You're speaking in riddles and I'm not into plays, so could you speak normally--"

"A figure of passion meets a figure of might. The actions of a beast protect that with its life." Phantom begins to click his tongue in a rhythmic tune. Attempting to follow his own devised poem. "Twist together, twirl it better, bound by something unseen. Create hatred strong enough to brew... my Vindictive Requiem. That is the last class for this school." The Phantom starts to chuckle again.

"Crescent, a motherless child, who had to pull his beloved brother away from a once-happy home. An aunt, filled with anguish, spent years searching for her sister's children after their tragic loss. It's heartbreaking to think that through all this, it felt like you didn't care, did you?" Phantom's laughter softens as he speaks again, allowing Crescent to truly take in his words. He notices each of Crescent's breaths, aware that what he's saying has deeply affected him, yet he feels no remorse for the pain it brings.

"You brought unnecessary struggle to your brother. Labeled as runaways. You hid like a rat in the sewers exposing Ahni to a horrid life of grime, dirt, and sickness. No wonder he's a scared little baby..."

Crescent balls up his fists, knocking the hand from his shoulder he spins around, aggressively pushing Phantom into the locker. Surprisingly, it's easier to do. Phantom loses his balance, back slamming into the metal, but his face remains stiff. Crescent holding his collar jacking him against the locker, his other hand releases his bag. The Phantom's build is lanky and tall, enabling Crescent to easily overpower him. 

"Don't fucking talk as if you know me!"

The words come from his lips like a growl from a defensive animal. Even though those words are true and they rubbed him in ways he didn't like, it isn't this 'Phantom's' place to bring it up. The past is in the past for Crescent and the only time he had to listen to those memories is when Ahni decides to reminisce. What Cresent did as a kid he regrets exposing Ahni to. They are better off on the streets,

"You don't know what went on in that house! What those people did to me!"

"Of course I do..." The Phantom whispers.

Crescent instantly let him go, backing up. He shakes his head slowly in disgust, face slightly crunched from the truth-spit words. His guard is broken and no amount of anger can help the shattered feeling pulsing through Crescent. That isn't just information anyone knew. 

Phantom fixes his clothing, clearing his throat. He's proud of the nerve he hit.

"Tomorrow is that infamous field trip that happens every year. You've seen the advertisements. Because you belong to Kings, Asho has agreed to take you along. Both you and your brother will be safe as long as you go. The other gangs will be coming too. No one will touch you there. There's a flyer in your bag. When you get Kisha alone, tell him." A quick subject change, Phantom has Crescent right where he needs him.

Crescent rolls his eyes, turns, and hastily picks up his bag before walking from the locker room. He had enough. There are things in his life he chose to forget. The only person who knows about their past is the person he shared it with. If Phantom has spoken to Ahni before, Crescent's screwed. His brother is very friendly.

At that time in their lives, they had a social worker. She would always be there during her appointments and she'd always come with a book. Once they ran away without a trace the news released an article about them and how everyone was looking for them. Some of the things that were supposed to be confidential were in the article according to what Ahni said. Crescent refused to read it.

Was the truth out there? The darkness that resided in that home. Ahni at least is loved.

As Crescent pushes open the large double doors to the hall, a wave of unease washes over him, causing him to momentarily freeze. His eyes dart around the room, taking what seemed to echo the weight of despair now clinging to his body. What is happening? Flyers cluttered the floor and plastered the walls, a chaotic display of ripped and crumpled papers that feels suffocating—like a sideshow exhibit turning grim.

Groups of students huddled together, their whispers and laughter mingling with the tension in the air. They gossiped, pointed, and vented their frustration about the images, each expression a reflection of their confusion and concern. When Crescent entered, all eyes turned toward him, and an uneasy silence descended, leaving him feeling isolated and disoriented as if he'd suddenly been cut off from the noise of the world around him. The Gauntlet King, a known fighter, a face they were all taught to appreciate has become The Raid Leader. 

It drives Crescent mad to the point where he envisioned eyes all watching him in a pitch-black room, but their colors glowed every inch of the ceiling above. Guilty! Guilty! They scream. All dilated, locking on him in severely uncomfortable focus. 

He lowers his head, kicking his legs and dashing as fast as he can. The pitch-black room turns to a hallway of eyes judging him, fearing for him as if he's now facing impending doom, laughing at him. Is this because of D.A.'s leader? Someone he had yet to know. 'Asho isn't the only one rumored to be a murderer...' Those words rings in his mind with haunting repetition.

The day he rushed away from the burning trucks, he pressed his body in the same fashion now. Until his lungs stung from lack of oxygen, his huffing deep, dried throat. He coughed but continued. This is all Asho's doing.

Crescent rushes to a single location, driven by adrenaline to save himself. He shoves through doors, treading on heaps of flyers that flutter in the breeze he created, nearly losing his balance and stumbling.

He feels the cramping in his calves but ignores the pain as he presses on. Time is of the essence; class is about to begin.

Finally, he reaches his destination, flinging open the door and nearly falling flat on his face from exhaustion. He collides with the desk, propping himself up with both palms. Doubled over and panting, Crescent hopes Asho is already here. He looks up, one eye squinting as he catches his breath, feeling a small amount of drool accumulates at the edge of his bottom lip.

Asho, who has been staring at a flyer, lowers the paper when the door suddenly bursts open. Seeing it's Crescent, he leans over, hands brought to his chin, head tilted.

"You're rude..." He announces unamazed.

"A-Asho! What's happening?! The news of the raid? Why... does the flyer say I'm the raid leader for The Pack? I belong to... Kings. And who is... D.A.? I wasn't the only one and I didn't even do the amount of damage as those other guys." Crescent's voice is a bit frantic.

Asho dips his head, drawing his mouth down to the back of his hands. He looks around as if his attention catches a bug in the air and his focus is temporarily cut from Crescent's frantic expression. Just as it fleets, it returns with a blink, his stare becoming settled.

"If you do as you're told... You'll be fine."

"What? That's all I have been doing! I need answers!" Crescent throws his frame forward, slamming his palm against the desk.

He isn't leaving this time. The secrecy is becoming dangerous. Before he can muster another word, beside Asho on the floor something caught the corner of his eye. A stack of newly printed flyers. The same ones are placed all over the school.

"Why do you have so many of those...?" He asks, worried, filled with uncertainty.

"What I do has nothing to do with you! You do not have the authority to waltz your ass into my office! Demand anything from me when I'm the boss! You listen like a good dog and you set every plan in motion! Just keep Kisha unguarded..."

A crunch of both Asho's hands, suffer the paper from his wrath, as his features twist in a psychopathic glare before he releases a manic-type grunt. He begins to sing maniacally,

"Ashes, Ashes, you'll all fall down!"

The words strike Crescent deeply; they are the same ones The Phantom had just recited moments before. Crescent blinks and then closes his eyes. Had his past failures been a result of Asho wanting him to fail? He realizes he has been taking everything in stride, blindly accepting it all as a newcomer. He desperately wants a name, but as Saikai has pointed out, why is Asho sending a goon to handle his bidding?

There's no way Saikai could've known about him being there unless his location was leaked. Kisha came straight for him. That was a water tester. Drugs are sold at a constant flow in this school, who honestly gives a damn if a gang leader exchanges goods? During the raid, a spotlight landed directly on him as if it knew exactly where to go. He ran and it followed. 

These weren't coincidences. Crescent didn't grow up on the streets not knowing when someone was toying with him.

"Asho, I joined your gang because I wanted to... but why do I feel you're using me for a bigger reason?"

"You're my best soldier. You listen and I've seen you in your other interactions. You're interesting to me. You see, the motion has started. We could not put it all together. The screw that was missing was you! Now, we play the game. The ultimate..."

Asho inhales deeply, releasing a satisfying moan. Pushing his pointer finger into his mouth, he bites down until the tip turns white.

"... gambling game..." Sacrifices are to be given, and the outcome will depend on how well Asho controls the situation. Those who entered the ring signed themselves over. Placed their life on his book. A wild, crazy laugh burst from his lips, throwing his frame back into the chair and kicking his legs straight up.

"Aaahahahaha! Ahahahah! I will be number one!"

Crescent backs up, looking down at his hands. This moronic fool. Did he orchestrate all of these things just for power? Foolishly, he followed Asho without questioning anything, but it's clear this guy is more than just weird and loud. Crescent underestimated who he had got himself involved with. 

"Don't get silly ideas, Cressy. You belong to me and I will do as I wish with you! Think about leaving and you will face dire consequences!" Voice now high in pitch, Asho squeals in excitement.

Crescent turns around, tucking his hands into his pockets. Speaking now will only put him in more trouble so he decides to remain silent. Even though Asho's using him, he's sure of it, he doesn't know what to do. These gang leaders are more powerful than he can even fathom, and being beneath them fuels his hatred. As Asho begins to laugh even harder, he walks away in defeat, something rarely ever felt without a fight first. 

Walking out of the office, Crescent fails to watch where he's going, as his attention remains on the haunting sound bellowing from Asho's throat. He bumps into something, nearly stumbling, and only then does his focus stray as a weary lost child, looking up instantly to see Vergyl has stopped in his tracks. His hand pulls up to his face, Vergyl fixing his glasses with one finger before his gaze travels to the emotionally battered Crescent.

"Even if it means murder... Those are the rules." Vergyl whispers, vanishing behind the office door.

Crescent balls up his fist, taking in a deep breath. How is he supposed to do that? He's facing enemies he knows nothing about, being told to run to people he still knows nothing about. Crescent is never one to rely on the shoulders of others. For his selfish gains, he'd do everything himself. What's the point in bringing people who had nothing to do with it into this? He's done enough dragging with Ahni. This never-ending battle piles too much on his shoulders. 

It seems like the only likely ally in this all is the man he feels both fire and ice towards, Kisha Locklear. But even then Kisha will not stand in his way of becoming God Of The Academy.

((A/N

Introducing The Phantom!

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