10:17 AM.
The Biology exam was over.
Voltase set his pen down slowly. His movements were mechanical, like a robot running out of battery.
The answer sheet before him was filled with neat handwriting.
Too neat.
Every letter was formed with unnatural precision, as if his hand moved independently of his wandering mind.
Outside the classroom window, the city sky was still gray.
Thick clouds hung low, holding back rain that refused to fall.
The faint sound of St. Mary's church bells echoed in the distance.
Ten times.
Heavy. Resonant. The sound drifted among the old red-brick buildings that had witnessed hundreds of years of history, yet remained silent to the suffering of individuals like him.
Voltase let out a long sigh.
His chest felt tight. Not from pain. More from emptiness.
Like there was a hollow space inside his ribcage. A space that should have been filled by something, feeling, meaning, or simply the will to live like other children his age.
He glanced at the wall clock.
Still morning.
And this morning, like the mornings before, his body and mind were on different paths.
His body sat on the hard wooden chair, in a classroom smelling of chalk and old paper.
His mind? His mind was still on the blood-soaked battlefield.
Still feeling the cold hands strangling his neck.
Still seeing the face of the pale blond man, a face frozen in surprise as the bullet pierced his skull.
Why do I keep going back there?
The question spun in his head like a broken record.
Repeating. Without an answer.
He rose from his chair slowly. Almost reluctantly.
The other children had already scattered out, their cheerful voices flooding the hallway with laughter and chatter that felt foreign to him.
A boy with fiery red hair ran past him, nearly bumping Voltase's thin shoulder.
Girls in neat uniforms huddled near the window, discussing concerts and celebrities with names he had never heard.
They lived in a different world.
Voltase reached for his canvas backpack. Black, worn, with stitching beginning to unravel at the bottom.
He slung it over his narrow right shoulder, feeling its light weight, only a few books and a pencil case.
I do not carry much.
I do not need much.
Outside the classroom, the hallway stretched long and white.
Tiled floors reflected the flickering neon lights, old lamps long overdue for replacement, but never replaced.
The walls were adorned with portraits of past headmasters, their black eyes seeming to follow his every step.
Voltase walked without purpose or rather, he walked with one vague purpose.
To find answers.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
The screen lit up with a pale blue glow, displaying a row of app icons he had never touched. His small fingers, still retaining their childish roundness, not yet hardened and calloused like the ones in his dreams, began typing into the search bar.
Dreams.
Recurring.
Death.
He pressed search. A list of results appeared. Scientific articles, discussion forums, psychology blogs, all offered different explanations.
But none felt right.
"Recurring dreams are often caused by unresolved trauma..."
"Dreams about death can symbolize major life changes..."
"Some experts believe dreams are the brain's way of processing information..."
Voltase frowned.
His jet-black eyes, like two bottomless pits, scanned every word with an intensity unusual for a child his age.
But I do not have trauma.
I have not experienced any major changes.
Then why do I keep dreaming about war? About dying?
His fingers moved again. This time, he typed.
meaning of dreams about war.
More results appeared. Some spoke of internal conflict. Others about fear of failure. Some linked it to feelings of helplessness.
He read them all, none matched what he was feeling, He was not in conflict with himself, not afraid of failing exams.
He did not feel helpless, at least not in real life.
All he felt was utter confusion.
Like a detective finding puzzle pieces that did not connect. With no idea where to begin.
He walked through the second hallway, toward the east wing.
Here, it was quieter.
Only a few students passed by. A girl with thick glasses sat on a bench near the window, reading a thick book. Two boys stood near the vending machine, arguing about football.
Voltase kept walking, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"In Jungian psychology, death dreams often relate to self-transformation..."
"Some studies suggest highly realistic dreams can be caused by sleep disorders..."
No. No. No.
All those explanations felt shallow. None touched the core of what he was experiencing.
He felt the bullet enter his chest, blood flow out. Hands strangling his own neck, It was not just a dream. It was too real like a memory.
The thought came suddenly. Voltase stopped walking.
Like a memory.
Like something that actually happened to me.
But when?
He had no answer, only deepening darkness inside his mind, like a bottomless chasm. And then, he collided with something.
Or rather, someone.
The impact happened so fast that Voltase had no time to react.
His light body, too light for a child his age, bounced backward like a rag doll. His backpack flew off his shoulder, sailed through the air, and landed with a thud on the tiled floor.
Voltase himself fell.
His butt hit the hard, cold floor first.
A jolt of pain shot from his tailbone up through his lower back.
"Ouch..."
He winced, his hand instinctively reaching for the sore spot.
For a moment, the world spun. The neon lights on the ceiling seemed to flicker faster. The sounds around him echoed from afar.
And then, he realized something else.
His phone.
It had slipped from his grip when he fell. Now, it lay face-down on the floor.
Voltase reached for it with trembling hands. He turned it over slowly.
And a crack.
A thin crack spread from the upper right corner of the screen, like a spiderweb creeping across the glass.
Not too severe, still usable, but enough to make his chest feel tight.
"I just replaced the screen protector last month..."
But the complaint soon faded when he heard a voice from above.
"What are you doing?"
The voice was deep. Resonant. With a... strange tone.
Like someone trying to be gentle, but with tension coiled behind the words. A tension he could not fully hide.
Voltase looked up.
For the first time that morning, his onyx eyes met the face before him.
The man was tall.
Not extremely tall, perhaps around 180 centimeters, but with an upright posture and broad shoulders, he seemed to dominate the space around him.
His hair was light brown, almost golden, neatly combed to the side. A bit of gel gave it a professional look.
His brows were thick and sharp, lending a serious expression to his otherwise handsome face.
A firm chin. A strong jaw.
And his eyes.
Hazel green.
They looked down at Voltase with a mixture of surprise and... something else.
Perhaps concern or curiosity.
A bulge.
Voltase's attention suddenly shifted.
Beneath the man's white shirtsleeve, right near his right wrist, there was a strange protrusion disrupting the straight line of his arm.
Its shape was oval with a pointed front end, and a blunt, rounded back.
Like a bullet.
The thought shot through Voltase's brain like a lightning strike.
The fog that had clouded his mind all morning vanished instantly. His drowsy eyes snapped wide open. Focused. Sharp.
He stared at that mark. Could not stop staring.
It looked exactly like what he had seen in his dream.
The same shape. The same size. Even the position on the right arm, near the wrist, felt familiar.
But that was impossible.
There was no way a bullet was lodged in a teacher's arm.
It did not make sense.
"What are you looking at, kid?"
The man's voice broke his trance.
Voltase flinched. He realized his hand unconsciously had been reaching toward the man's arm. His index finger was almost touching the strange mark beneath the fabric.
Quickly, he pulled it back.
His face flushed with embarrassment. Or awkwardness. He was not sure.
All he knew was that he had nearly touched a stranger's body part without permission.
"Sorry, sir," he said quickly, his voice slightly hoarse.
"I, I was not watching where I was going."
He pointed to his cracked phone, then shook his head.
"I was just... not paying attention."
The man stared at him with an unreadable expression.
Silence.
For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, neither spoke. Only the sound of other students' footsteps in the distance, and the hum of flickering neon lights.
Then, the man extended his hand.
"Get up first."
His hand was large.
Larger than anyone's Voltase had ever seen up close. His palm was wide with long, strong-looking fingers. On the back of his hand, prominent veins stood out, physical signs of someone used to hard work.
Voltase accepted the outstretched hand.
The grip was firm, but not painful. With a gentle pull, the man lifted his light body from the floor.
"Thank you, sir," said Voltase, rubbing his still-sore backside.
The man nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips.
A smile that felt... forced.
Unnatural. Like someone who had not smiled in a long time and had to remember how.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, sir. Just a little startled."
"Good."
The man looked down, noticing the cracked phone.
"Your screen is cracked."
Voltase nodded, slightly embarrassed.
"Yes, sir. I just... fell earlier."
"You should be more careful," said the man, his tone softening.
Yet there was still something behind his words.
Something that reminded Voltase of adults talking to small children, hiding things they did not want them to know.
"Walking while staring at your phone is dangerous. You could bump into someone, or worse, get hit by a vehicle."
"I know, sir. I am sorry."
Voltase lowered his head.
His eyes involuntarily glanced at the man's arm again.
The mark was still there. Still disturbing. Still like a bullet lodged beneath the skin. Questions crowded his head.
Is that a bullet?
How could a bullet be in someone's arm?
Was he ever shot? When? Where? Why?
But Voltase held back.
He was still a child, but he was not stupid. He knew that asking such things to a newly met adult was inappropriate. Rude. Even dangerous.
"Kid?"
The man's voice broke his thoughts.
Voltase looked up, trying to put on his usual blank expression.
"Yes, sir?"
"You look confused. Is something wrong?"
"No, sir. I was just..."
He stopped. The words felt heavy on his tongue. He wanted to ask. So badly.
But what came out was only,
"...does it hurt?"
The man frowned.
"What?"
Voltase pointed to the man's arm. To the bullet mark still hidden beneath the shirt.
"The wound on your arm, sir. Does it hurt?"
For a moment, the man's face changed.
His neutral expression, almost friendly, turned rigid with jaw tightened. His hazel green eyes suddenly seemed sharper. More alert.
"How do you know there is a wound?"
"I saw the wound in your arm, sir," said Voltase honestly. "Its shape looks like..."
He stopped before the word bullet escaped. Instinct told him that was not the right word to say.
"like something strange. I was curious."
The man fell silent.
For a while, he just stared at Voltase with an unreadable gaze. A gaze that made Voltase feel like he was being interrogated.
Then, the man sighed. His face softened again, but his smile still felt stiff.
"It is not a wound, kiddo. It is just... an old accident scar. Nothing to worry about."
He pulled his sleeve, covering the mark completely.
"And no, it does not hurt. It healed a long time ago."
Voltase nodded.
But in his heart, he did not believe him.
An old accident scar?
Since when did an accident scar look like a bullet?
Since when did an accident scar look like metal lodged beneath the skin?
The man seemed uncomfortable. He looked left and right, as if making sure no one had heard their conversation.
"You should get to class, son. Your next exam will start soon, right?"
"Yes, sir. The Social Studies exam."
"Well, go on then. Do not be late."
The man patted Voltase's shoulder with an awkward motion, like someone not used to physical contact.
"And next time, look ahead when you walk. Your phone can wait."
With that, the man turned and walked away.
His steps were slightly hurried, as if he wanted to get away from Voltase as quickly as possible.
Voltase stood there, staring at the man's retreating back.
He lied.
That is not an accident scar, that is a bullet. I know it is a bullet. It just I saw a bullet exactly like that in my dream.
New questions began to crowd his head.
Who is he? Where did he come from?
And more importantly...
Why did I dream about the exact same bullet last night?
Voltase bit his lower lip, tasting a hint of metal on his tongue.
Something is happening here, something is wrong, and I have to find out what it is.
He looked down at his cracked phone.
The screen was still on, displaying his last search results, images of bullets of various calibers and sizes.
With slightly trembling fingers, Voltase began typing a new keyword.
"Bullet in arm."
Search results appeared. Most were medical articles about projectiles remaining in shooting victims' bodies.
Some discussed removal surgery. Others about infection risks. Others about long-term effects.
Voltase read them all quickly, his eyes scanning every word with razor-sharp focus.
Then, he found something.
An image.
A bullet with specific dimensions.
Voltase stopped his finger. His heart beat faster.
This is it.
The shape is exactly what I saw on that teacher's arm.
The size is the same. Everything is the same.
He compared the image on the screen with his memory of the wound. No doubt. No difference.
This is the same bullet.
He closed his phone quickly, slipping it back into his pocket.
In the distance, a bell rang. Break was over. The next exam would begin soon.
Voltase walked toward his classroom with quicker steps than usual.
His mind swirled like a whirlpool, trying to connect seemingly unrelated dots.
Dreams about war.
Dreams about death.
A bullet in a teacher's arm, and I dreamed about the exact same bullet. This cannot be coincidence.
But how?
How does my dream connect to a teacher I have never even seen before?
Or... have I seen him before?
The question stopped him for a moment.
He tried to remember. Had he ever met that man before? Perhaps in the school hallway? In the cafeteria? In the library?
No. His face was not familiar. He was sure he had never seen that man before.
But how could I dream about the bullet in his arm before seeing him?
This does not make sense.
This is impossible.
He entered the classroom, his head still full of questions.
The room was already half full. Other students sat in their seats, speaking in hushed voices or reading last-minute notes.
Voltase walked to the desk in the back corner. The same desk he always chose.
A place where he could observe everyone without being noticed. He sat down. Placed his backpack on the floor. Took out his pencil case.
And on the desk, he spread out a blank sheet of paper.
He did not intend to write anything on it. No.
All he wanted was to think. Process all the new information. Voltase closed his eyes. His head felt heavy, as if an invisible weight pressed down on his skull.
Should I tell someone?
But who?
They think I crazy and I do not want to be thought of as crazy. Not here, in this school.
Voltase opened his eyes. He stared at the white, cracked ceiling.
The neon light flickered again, this time longer.
In front of him, exam papers began to be distributed by the supervising teacher, a middle-aged woman with gray hair and half-moon glasses that always slipped to the tip of her nose.
"The Social Studies exam will begin in five minutes. Please prepare your writing tools."
Voltase picked up his pen. His hand moved mechanically, as usual.
But his mind was not here.
Not in this classroom. Not among questions about history and geography. His mind was still in the school hallway
And in his still innocent heart, too young to understand the complexity of the world, a seed of new fear began to grow.
Not fear of exams, angry teachers, or even fear of the nightmare that would come tonight.
But fear of something deeper. Something he could not name.
Fear that all of this, the dreams, the deaths, the bullet, that man, were all connected in ways he did not understand.
And that the connection might be more dangerous than anything he could imagine.
The exam began.
Voltase stared at the paper before him.
"Explain the causes of World War I and its impact on the European political order."
He knew the answer. He knew history well, probably better than most children his age.
But his hand did not move.
All he could think about was the war in his dreams. He bit the end of his pen, a bad habit he could never break.
Think about the exam.
But his mind refused to cooperate.
The questions kept spinning. Like a wheel that would not stop.
He let out a long sigh. Tried to calm himself.
It is not important now. What matters is the exam. Finish this. Later, I can find out more.
He began writing. His hand moved across the paper, forming words about military alliances, rising nationalism, and the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
But in his heart, a small voice kept whispering.
Thirty minutes later, Voltase finished his exam.
He set his pen down calmly, staring at the paper with a flat expression. His answers were complete, perhaps not perfect, but good enough.
But he did not feel satisfied.
He felt empty.
Like a part of him was missing. Left behind in the school hallway when he bumped into that man. Left behind in the dreams that kept haunting his sleep.
He glanced at the wall clock, there was still time left before the exam ended.
Nothing to do but sit and wait.
He let his gaze drift out the window. The sky was still gray. Trees in the schoolyard swayed gently in the cold morning breeze.
In the distance, he saw a group of students playing football. They ran, shouted, laughed, living in a way he never had.
He envied them.
Envied how easily they enjoyed life. Envied their indifference to unimportant things.
They never woke up in the middle of the night feeling like they were being strangled.
Never felt a bullet enter their chest.
Never saw corpses scattered around them.
They did not know how lucky they were.
Voltase closed his eyes for a moment, trying to rest his weary mind.
But rest did not come.
What came was the memory of the dream.
His final moments. The pain spreading from his neck throughout his body. Darkness slowly creeping in, swallowing his consciousness.
Bang.
He opened his eyes suddenly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
No. Do not think about that.
Now is not the time.
You have to focus.
But his mind would not listen, and in the darkness, the whisper began again.
You will go back. Tonight.
You will go back to that place.
And you will die again.
The bell rang, and exam was over.
Other students began collecting their papers with rustling sounds and quiet conversations. Some looked relieved, others anxious.
Voltase remained seated. Not moving.
The supervising teacher walked past his desk.
"Are you finished, Watt?"
"Yes, ma'am."
He handed over his paper slowly.
The teacher nodded and walked to the next desk.
Voltase let his gaze go blank for a moment. Then, he stood up. He picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the classroom.
The hallway was already crowded.
Students scattered everywhere, talking loudly about the exam. Some laughed, some complained, some walked silently while staring at their phones.
Voltase walked past them all, paying attention to no one. He stopped in front of the bulletin board at the end of the hallway.
There, hanging, was a list of teachers and school staff. Their photos were neatly displayed in plastic frames, with names and positions beneath.
Voltase scanned the list with his eyes.
Searching for the face he had just met.
Mr. Anderson, Mathematics.
Mrs. Bennett, English.
Mr. Clarke, History.
Mrs. Davis, Art.
Mr. Evans, Science.
Nothing.
No face of a man with light brown hair and hazel green eyes. No name matching his description.
Maybe he was a new teacher? Maybe his photo had not been put up yet?
Or....
The thought made his skin crawl.
Maybe he was not a teacher.
Maybe he...
He shook his head, trying to banish those thoughts. Do not be too paranoid.
His photo has not been put up yet. Or he is a substitute teacher. That is a reasonable explanation. But even as he thought that, a part of him did not believe it.
Nothing made sense anymore. Since he started dreaming about war, or when he felt a bullet enter his chest.
He walked to the school library.
The room was silent, as usual. Only a few students sat at the long tables, reading or working on assignments.
The librarian, an old woman with white hair and thick glasses, sat behind the front desk, reading a novel.
Voltase walked between the bookshelves. Searching for something, anything that could help him understand.
He stopped in the psychology section.
Books about dreams. About the subconscious. About trauma and memory.
He took a thick book titled "The Psychology of Dreams, A Clinical Approach."
He opened it to the first page and began reading.
"Dreams are a universal phenomenon that have fascinated humans since ancient times..."
He read further, looking for sections about recurring dreams. About dreams that felt real. About dreams involving death.
"Recurring dreams are often associated with unresolved traumatic experiences. The brain attempts to process the trauma through dreams, but because the trauma is too heavy to process all at once, the brain repeats it over and over..."
Voltase frowned.
I do not have trauma. Nothing happened to me. My life is ordinary. Boring, even.
Then why do I keep dreaming about war?
He read further.
"Some researchers argue that highly realistic dreams could be manifestations of genetic memory, memories inherited from our ancestors through DNA. This theory is controversial and not scientifically proven, but interesting to consider..."
Genetic memory?
Could I have inherited memories of war from someone in the past? From my grandfather? Or my great grandfather?
But my family was never involved in war. At least, as far as I know. Because I do not even know who my family is.
They left me at the orphanage when I was a baby.
He closed the book in frustration. No satisfying answers. Only unprovable theories.
He put it back on the shelf, then walked to another section.
This time, he stopped in the medicine section.
"Projectiles and Gunshot Trauma, Medical and Psychological Management."
He pulled the book from the shelf, opening it to the page about bullet types.
Detailed images of various calibers. Descriptions of size, weight, and effects on the human body.
Voltase scanned the pages quickly, searching for something that matched what he had seen.
And then, he found it.
"9x19 mm Parabellum. Also known as 9mm Luger. One of the most common bullet calibers in the world. Widely used by military and police forces. This projectile has a diameter of 9 mm and a casing length of 19 mm..."
This is it exactly what I saw, I am sure of it. He read further about its effects.
"The 9x19 mm bullet has significant penetrating power. At close range, this bullet can penetrate bone and cause severe tissue damage. Bullets that lodge in the body without hitting vital organs are often left in place because removal surgery can pose greater risks than benefits..."
So the bullet might have been deliberately left in his arm, because removing it was too dangerous.
But how did he get shot?
The questions continued spinning. Without answers.
Voltase returned to his dormitory at 3 PM.
His room felt quiet and cold, as usual. The window curtains were tightly drawn, leaving only a small gap for gray light to seep in.
He took off his shoes. Placed his backpack beside the wardrobe. Sat on the edge of his bed.
The room felt smaller than usual. More cramped. More suffocating.
He stared at his cracked phone, still displaying his last search results, gripping his phone tightly, feeling the cold plastic and glass in his palm.
Something is happening.
Something is wrong, and I have to find out.
Outside the window, the sky began to darken.
Gray clouds moved slowly, covering the remnants of sunlight trying to break through. Rain would fall again tonight.
Voltase could feel it in the air. The rising humidity. The scent of damp earth beginning to seep in.
He lay on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. In his head, one question kept repeating.
Who is that man?
And what does he have to do with my dreams?
He had no answers.
All he had was a bad feeling. A feeling that everything was about to change. A feeling that his ordinary, boring life was about to end.
And a feeling that tonight, he would return to that battlefield.
For the third time.
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