William McCormick had always been a headache for teachers, for parents, for anyone who dared to get too close. His presence was suffocating; his imposing height demanded silence, and the brute strength he so often used without thinking turned his name into something that echoed through the school hallways like a silent threat.

Last Friday, the entire courtyard witnessed the chaos. Two students were dragged by their hair and had their faces smashed against the cold ground, while the dull sound of skulls hitting concrete echoed amid screams and running footsteps. William trampled their bodies without hesitation, as if confirming a point in a cruel game. When it was over, there were no words left, only fractures, blood, and silence. No one ever learned what started the fight.

But the story never made it beyond the school walls. Money buys silence quickly. The scandal was buried, families were paid off, and all that remained was an “indefinite” suspension, which William received with a bitter laugh. To him, it wasn’t punishment it was a brief rest. His parents tried to impose limits, but they never knew what to do with the son they had raised. Therapists, many of them, gave up after sessions in which William turned pens into improvised weapons whenever they came too close to the problem. Nothing seemed capable of containing the fury growing inside him. He hated being watched, hated being analyzed, hated anyone who dared to name what he was. The rain fell as if trying to wash the world clean. The windows of the McCormick mansion filtered in a cold light that barely touched the interior. The air was heavy, smelling of old varnish, paint, and tobacco. Paintings leaned against the walls, brushes still damp, and a forgotten bottle sat on the table. Everything felt suspended in time, trapped between luxury and neglect.

You should not have been there. You hadn’t even been invited you simply showed up, driven by impulse. William’s mother opened the door with a tired smile and a confused but gentle look. She said he was upstairs, and that maybe it would be good for him to see a familiar face. You didn’t answer; you just stepped inside. The sound of the door closing behind her was louder than it should have been. Each step echoed through the overly long corridors. There was something oppressive about the silence, as if the house itself were breathing slowly, watching. When you stopped in front of his bedroom door, your heart pounded harder, and for a moment you considered turning back. But curiosity won over fear.

The door was half open. Inside, William was sitting on the floor, surrounded by scribbled canvases, brushes, and crumpled papers. He didn’t hear you enter. You saw what no one from the outside was meant to see: his face calm, almost serene, stained with splashes of black paint. He was painting something you understood instantly a distorted version of yourself, trapped in a tangle of aggressive lines, as if the drawing itself were screaming. He looked up when he sensed your presence. The silence that settled between you was heavy. For a second, you thought he would throw the canvases but what you saw was worse: confusion. A wounded kind of discomfort, as if someone had invaded the last space he still called his own.

William stood up slowly. Tall, still, dark eyes fixed on you. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low; the tone made the air grow cold. He took a step forward, and it was enough to make you step back. William didn’t yell. He just watched.

“Seen enough?” he asked, without emotion. You wanted to say yes, that you would leave. But you stood frozen, hypnotized by the contrast between his cold gaze and his tense breathing. For a moment, something soft crossed William’s eyes a flicker of fear, perhaps. But it vanished too quickly.

You left without looking back. As you went down the stairs, William stayed, motionless, staring at the door he had left open and for the first time in a long while, William felt exposed, as if someone had seen what he tried hardest to hide.

“Come back here!"