"Bro! Where the hell have you been?"
The door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall, and Marco stormed inside like he was entering a battlefield instead of a cramped college dorm. He was wrapped in a long black cloth that draped over his entire body like a poorly assembled cloak, heavy and dramatic, as if he had stolen it from a theater prop room and refused to return it.
But it wasn't the outfit that made Thaddues pause.
It was his face.
Or rather… what his face was trying to be.
Pale. Too pale. Almost sickly white, like someone had drained every bit of color out of it. His nose looked wrong—flattened into something barely there, more like slits than an actual structure. His cheekbones were sharp, exaggerated, almost skeletal, giving him a gaunt, unnatural look. His eyes, wide and unblinking, carried this strange intensity that didn't belong in a college dorm at all—cold, focused, and unsettlingly serious.
He looked like someone trying very hard to be terrifying… and almost pulling it off, if not for the fact that he was Marco.
Thaddues squinted at him. "Who the fuck are you now?"
Without waiting for an answer, he walked past him toward his locker like nothing had happened. He had long learned that the best reaction to Marco was sometimes no reaction at all.
But Marco wasn't done.
He turned slowly, following him.
Very slowly.
Like he was performing on a stage only he could see.
Thaddues opened his locker, already mentally preparing for work, but the presence behind him didn't leave. In fact, it felt like it got closer.
Too close.
"What?" Thaddeus muttered.
Then—a hand touched his face.
Just like that.
Cold fingers pressed lightly against his cheek.
"I can touch you now…"
Thaddues froze, he blinked.
Then he slowly turned his head toward Marco, expression dead flat.
"…What the fuck, bro. Are you gay?"
Marco immediately recoiled like he had been stabbed.
"What?! No! That's not the point!"
"What is the point then?" Thaddues asked, already pulling his work shirt from the locker.
Marco inhaled sharply, trying to regain his dramatic energy. He straightened his back, lifted both hands, fingers slightly curled like claws, and raised his chin.
"Do you not recognize me?" he said, voice low and theatrical.
Thaddues stared at him.
"No."
Marco held the pose for an extra second, as if waiting for realization to strike.
Nothing.
Thaddues just blinked again.
Finally, Marco gave up subtlety entirely.
"I am Lord Voldemort," he declared proudly.
Then he immediately broke character and laughed.
"Avada kedavraaaa!"
He even tried to mimic a magical blast motion with a stick in his hand, like he was throwing invisible energy across the room.
Thaddues paused mid-buttoning his uniform shirt.
Slowly looked at him.
Then sighed.
"Yeah. Okay."
That was it.
No shock. No confusion. Just acceptance.
Because at this point, Marco doing this kind of thing was just part of life.
Thaddues continued changing like nothing happened, slipping into his crew uniform—a plain black polo with a stitched logo on the chest. Simple. Functional. The kind of uniform that said, you will stand for hours and no one will care how tired you are.
Marco watched him like he was waiting for applause.
When none came, he dropped onto the bed dramatically.
"You're no fun," Marco muttered.
"You're insane," Thaddeus replied.
"Same thing."
Thaddues grabbed his bag and checked his phone. Almost six. Three hours of shift ahead. Not long, but enough to drain whatever energy he had left.
Still, it was routine he had gotten used to.
As he headed toward the door, Marco suddenly sat up.
"Oi, don't leave yet, muggle."
Thaddues stopped. "Don't start."
"I bought food."
That got his attention.
Marco pointed lazily at a cardboard box on the table.
Inside were a couple of sandwiches wrapped in uneven paper.
Thaddues raised a brow. "You stole that?"
"I bought it," Marco said offended. "With legal money."
"Suspicious."
"Eat or don't."
Thaddues stared at it for a moment longer, then walked over and grabbed one. He didn't overthink it. Food was food.
"Thanks," he said simply.
Marco grinned. "Remember me when you become rich."
"Yeah, I'll put you in my hallucinations."
"That's disrespect."
"That's reality."
Marco leaned back like a satisfied villain. "Go now, servant of capitalism."
"Goodbye, failed wizard."
"RESPECT YOUR DARK LORD!"
Thaddues left before Marco could continue the argument.
The door shut behind him.
And the dorm fell quiet again—except for Marco humming something that sounded suspiciously like a villain theme song.
The evening air outside was warm, slightly humid, the kind that clung to your skin but didn't quite suffocate you. The street was already alive—students walking in groups, tricycles passing by, vendors calling out cheap meals for tired workers.
Thaddues walked with his hands in his pockets, sandwich still wrapped in one hand.
He unwrapped the sandwich while walking, warmth seeping through the paper. He raised it to take a bite—then stopped.
He saw an old man sat by the roadside under a flickering streetlight. Hunched forward. One hand pressed lightly against his stomach. The other resting on the ground, not quite steadying him.
Thaddues didn't move at first.
A passing group went by behind him. Noise, footsteps, distance.
He looked at the sandwich.
Then took a step toward the old man.
Another.
He crouched.
Held it out.
"Here."
The man looked up.
Confused.
Thaddues reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded ten-dollar bill, and placed it beside the sandwich without ceremony.
"Take it."
He stood.
The old man hesitated… then slowly reached for both with trembling hands.
Thaddues had already turned away.
He walked on.
The wrapper was gone from his hand.
The street swallowed him back into movement.
TBC
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