The geography teacher stood at the front of the cssroom, gesturing toward the rge world map pinned to the wall. She spoke with enthusiasm about the formation of mountain ranges, expining in detail how tectonic ptes collided and pushed nd upward over thousands of years. The students sat in quiet attentiveness, some taking notes, others merely staring bnkly ahead, waiting for the lesson to end.

  In the front row, a student rose to his feet. He was tall, with neatly combed dark brown hair and striking green eyes that held a certain sharpness. His uniform—a crisp navy bzer, white shirt, and neatly knotted tie—was immacute, his entire demeanor exuding an air of cool composure. He moved with purpose, crossing the room from the front row to the opposite end, his polished bck shoes tapping lightly against the floor.

  Without hesitation, he reached into the breast pocket of his bzer, withdrew a sleek bck pistol, and aimed it at another student sitting at the far end of the same row. The boy in the line of fire had soft blonde hair that curled slightly at the ends, deep blue eyes wide with confusion as he registered the weapon pointed at him. His mouth opened, perhaps to speak or gasp, but the words never came.

  The gunshot shattered the silence. A single, deafening crack. The bullet struck the blonde-haired student in the forehead, snapping his head backward as blood sprayed across the wall behind him. His body jerked violently before slipping off the chair, colpsing onto the cold cssroom floor in a heap.

  Screams erupted from all corners of the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as students bolted from their seats, scrambling toward the far end of the cssroom in a desperate bid to distance themselves from the scene. Boys and girls huddled together, their faces pale with horror.

  The geography teacher stood frozen at the front of the css, her mouth slightly agape, eyes locked onto the lifeless form sprawled on the floor.

  The shooter, unbothered by the chaos, took slow, deliberate steps toward the fallen student. He raised the gun once more and fired five more shots—two into the head, three into the torso. The body twitched slightly with each impact before falling completely still. The shooter then delivered a firm kick to the lifeless face, a brutal final insult. Teeth scattered across the floor like discarded dice.

  Satisfied, he slid the pistol back into his bzer and turned his gaze toward the teacher, then to the students pressed tightly against the far wall, their breath ragged with terror.

  “There’s nothing to fear, guys,” he said, his voice calm, almost soothing. “After all, this is just a dream.”

  ***

  Jet Ragnarsson's eyes snapped open to the dim light of his bedroom. He turned his head to the digital clock on his bedside table—5:55 AM. Five minutes before his arm. The dream clung to his mind like a thick fog, the memory of it unnervingly vivid. He could still feel the cool metal of the pistol grip against his palm, the slight resistance of the trigger beneath his finger. The moment of firing—so smooth, so effortless.

  With a deep breath, he pushed off the covers and stepped out of bed. The cool morning air met his skin, but he didn’t shiver. His room was rge and meticulously arranged, a testament to the wealth of his parents. A dark wooden desk sat near the window, stacked neatly with textbooks and a silver ptop. A sleek bck gaming chair was tucked beneath it, its leather surface untouched by dust. Across from the bed, a walk-in closet housed rows of neatly pressed clothes, organized by color and occasion. The deep navy-blue walls gave the space an air of quiet sophistication.

  Jet walked to the adjoining bathroom, stepping onto the heated tiles. Turning on the shower, he let the water cascade over him, standing still beneath the stream for several minutes. The warmth enveloped him, washing away the remnants of the dream. He always took longer showers after a particurly heavy Dream. It felt like a cleansing, a quiet rebirth, as though he could rinse away the lingering guilt.

  After drying off, he dressed in his school uniform—crisp white shirt, navy-blue bzer, striped tie, and tailored trousers. He smoothed out any creases and buttoned up his bzer. His reflection stared back at him from the full-length mirror as he combed his dark brown hair, ensuring not a single strand was out of pce.

  A final check—sharp colr, straight tie, polished shoes. Perfect.

  Grabbing his school bag, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen. The house was quiet, the polished marble floors reflecting the morning light. The kitchen itself was spacious, with high-end stainless steel appliances and sleek countertops of bck granite. Jet began to prepare breakfast—two slices of bread into the toaster, strips of bacon sizzling in the pan, a gss of cold milk poured precisely to the halfway mark. He picked an apple from the fruit bowl and set it neatly beside his pte.

  As he sat down to eat, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, a small smile pying at his lips as he gnced at the screen. A message had popped up in the group chat.

  The test message was from Ms. Nightmare.

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Yo! I got that guy at the petrol station to give me his phone number!

  [INTERCEPTOR] IRL or Dream?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Dream, obviously. Too shy IRL

  [INTERCEPTOR] Bruh...chicks can literally go up to any guy and ask for his number

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] I’m shy, ok? I’d freeze up and act awkward

  [INTERCEPTOR] You’re wasting your ability on bullshit fr

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Alright dude, who made you the boss of how I use my power?

  Jet’s smirk widened slightly as he typed out his response:

  [VIEWFINDER] Mare’s right. She can use her power however she wants

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] View understands me best!

  [INTERCEPTOR] She’s being maniputive, man. If a guy enters a chick's dream to get her number, we’d call him creepy. Talk about double standards

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] That's coz men are more violent. I'm cute and caring and non-violent

  [INTERCEPTOR] Whatever. I got more important things to use this gift for

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Yeah, we know. You’re pnning to stop the Illuminati or whatever fictional entity you think is running the world

  [INTERCEPTOR] They're real

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Wait...are they in the room with us right now?

  [INTERCEPTOR] Fuck you. Keep using your power for stupid shit. I'll use mine for things that actually makes a difference in the world

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] OMG, Ceptor, my pussy's so wet for you right now! You’re so noble and heroic, using your gift for humanity’s sake. Hope you get a nobel prize for Best and Most Selfless Human in all of Human History!

  [INTERCEPTOR] Don’t patronize me, bitch

  Jet exhaled through his nose, already knowing what was about to happen. 'Bitch'. Mare hated that word.

  As expected, her response came quick and loaded.

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] You did not just type that

  [INTERCEPTOR] I call a dog a dog, a cat a cat, a bitch a bitch. Got a problem?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Oh, that’s the time you on? You think I won’t pull up in your dream tonight and push your shit back in?

  [INTERCEPTOR] lol, stop talking like you're a gangster. Your dad's white, you live in the suburbs, and you go to a private school

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Say less. Imma see you

  [INTERCEPTOR] Truth hurtin? Be like that sometimes...bitch

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Cool, cool. Wait till I find a pic of you online. We’ll settle this In Dream. Fuck you. I hate you now

  [INTERCEPTOR] You take shit way too seriously. It was just a joke

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Imma see you at 3AM. Sleep tight, motherfucker

  [INTERCEPTOR] OMG, can we just drop this?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Nah

  [INTERCEPTOR] Mare, I’m sorry, OK?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Oh, you scary now?

  [INTERCEPTOR] What?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Shove your ‘Sorry’ up your ass with no lube. Imma scrawl the internet extra hard today – on my sleuth shit fr. Wait till I find some info on you. Paying your whole household a visit tonight, you misogynistic fuck

  [INTERCEPTOR] View... a lil help here, man?

  Jet sighed, setting down his empty pte:

  [VIEWFINDER] You shouldn’t have called Mare a bitch, Ceptor

  [INTERCEPTOR] I know…

  [VIEWFINDER] That was way uncalled for

  [INTERCEPTOR] I know. I said I was sorry

  Jet hesitated for a moment before adding another message:

  [VIEWFINDER] And Mare, you were patronizing. Don’t do that. And stop trying to Dream-jack Ceptor

  A pause. Then—

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] Fine… Whatever. I’m going offline for a bit. I’m pissed off

  [VIEWFINDER] Don’t Dream-jack Ceptor, ok?

  [MS. NIGHTMARE] I won’t

  [MS. NIGHTMARE has gone offline]

  Jet exhaled, running a hand through his hair

  [INTERCEPTOR] Thanks, man. I forgot how scary she gets when she’s mad. Sheesh