Chapter 21: Eastern District Gate Challenge (2)
Lanz slipped away from the main plaza like a thief, ducking and weaving through the crowd until the scent of sizzling street meat and sugar smoke faded behind him.
He found the dingiest-looking public bathroom the district had to offer — a concrete box that looked like it was constructed last minute for exactly this kind of sketchy back-alley escapade.
The fluorescent lights inside flickered in protest when he stepped in, and the cracked tiles under his shoes made a sound like bones settling into place. Which is the most perfect ambiance for his grand plan.
He pushed into the last stall, ignoring the way the door hung slightly crooked on its hinges, and kicked it shut behind him. The latch barely held, with the kind of dramatic flair that would make any soap opera villain proud, Lanz planted himself down on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, phone resting in his palm like it was the sinister artifact that would kickstart his reign of terror, or at least his new wardrobe budget.
He muttered to himself as his thumb flicked over the group chat messages, the latest notifications still buzzing in the background. "And they say I’m not friend-oriented. Look at me, a generous, supportive friend, taking my precious three idiots on a wholesome weekend trip just so they could witness my greatest performance yet." His grin curled at the edges, teeth flashing in the cold light as he rolled his shoulders back and leaned in closer to the screen. "They’re out there, thinking I’m lugging rice bags for my mom, while I’m about to drag half this district’s ego straight into the dirt. This is gonna be better than TV. Hell, this is might be the best thing I’ve ever done."
He broke into a laugh, though it’s not the soft amused kind, but the type that climbed out of his throat like it had been waiting for this spotlight all week.
It bounced around the cramped stall walls, echoing just loud enough to carry through the flimsy gaps. It felt good, like the only sensible way to let out the jittery anticipation that had been scratching at his ribs since he first saw that thousand-credit prize tag.
Outside, near the sinks, a pair of kids who looked like they’d just escaped their parents’ shopping list paused mid-handwash. One kid elbowed the other, eyes wide as they both turned their heads toward Lanz’s stall.
The younger one whispered so loudly it wasn’t even a whisper anymore, "Is there... is there a killer in there?" His friend clamped a damp hand over his mouth, eyes bulging with a mix of fear and pure playground curiosity.
Inside the stall, Lanz paused mid-laugh, head cocking slightly as he registered the tiny gasps outside the thin metal door. He let out a slow exhale, pushed himself upright, and cracked the stall door open just enough for his eyes to meet theirs.
He didn’t smile — that would’ve ruined the effect. Instead, he lowered his voice, letting it slip out low and steady like every creepy adult they’d ever been told to avoid.
"Stay in school, kids. Or else," he muttered, deadpan, like some urban legend that gave out unsolicited life advice from a grimy toilet.