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Cheers thundered across the cricket field of Weston College. The late afternoon sun hung low, its light glinting off the polished bat gripped tightly in Herman Greenhill’s hands. His uniform was rumpled, his face set in stern concentration as he steadied himself, fingers locked around the handle with unwavering resolve.
The Green House must win this match, no matter what.
He cast a brief glance at the scoreboard before fixing his focus ahead, ready to meet the incoming ball.
Then it happened.
Right as Bluewer threw the final ball, Greenhill didn’t expect the delivery to be that fast. He instinctively stepped back and swung his bat and then the sharp crack of impact to shatter the moment.
A powerful swing. The crack of impact split the air, cutting the roaring cheers into a stunned silence. Ciel Phantomhive’s small frame was knocked backward, and the bat trembled faintly in Greenhill’s grasp from the force of the blow. A thin streak of red began to stain the smooth wood, stark against its warm brown surface.
Greenhill turned sharply. He hadn’t realized Phantomhive had been standing so close behind him. He froze. A sudden chill crept through his body as he stared at the blood on the tip of his bat.
And in that instant, the world around him faded.
The cheers dissolved into a distant echo. The green field vanished, replaced by a damp stone chamber lit only by flickering candlelight. The metallic scent of blood filled the air. Everything darkened, just like it had that night. His hands still clutched the same bat, its weight, its texture, even the small scratch near the handle exactly as he remembered.
The difference was that the blood had been far more plentiful then.
Before him lay a motionless body. Disheveled blond hair. A once-pristine uniform now ruined. That face—twisted in shock and horror—resurfaced in his mind like a whisper that refused to be silenced.
Derrick Arden.
He remembered the last look in Arden’s eyes. Rage. Fear. Disbelief. He had never imagined himself capable of something so monstrous.
Greenhill’s hands had trembled then. Panic had seized him. What had he done? Such recklessness was unbefitting of a prefect.
But his fellow prefects had steadied him.
“You were only maintaining order, Greenhill. Arden was the one at fault.”
They had clasped hands together as though celebrating a victory though what they had truly done was strike Derrick Arden’s body again and again with that very same bat.
Greenhill had repeated those words to himself countless times.
Weston College upheld honor. Prefects existed to preserve balance. And Derrick… Derrick had crossed a line that could not be ignored. Had he lived, the punishment awaiting him would have been severe. That was the justification Greenhill whispered to himself whenever the memory resurfaced.
The bat had been stained that night as well. His hands had shaken, but what was done was done. There was no turning back. Only silence and a secret buried alongside a body that no longer breathed.
At least not after they found out how to make the corpses move again.
The wind in the dark chamber mingled with the pounding of his heart. Loud. Heavy. Unsteady.
Then another voice pierced through the memory.
“Greenhill!”
Oh, Edward Midford called out to him. At the same time, the field snapped back into view. Green grass. Golden sky. Shocked faces staring at him. The bat with a faint stain of Phantomhive's blood on it was still clutched in his hand.
For a fleeting second, his eyes were empty, as though he still stood in that chamber instead of at the center of a cricket match.
Was this retribution for what he had done?
Before he could dwell on it, the field erupted once more with triumphant cheers.
Greenhill blinked and looked toward the scoreboard.
Blue House had won.
There, amid the celebration, Phantomhive was lifted by his dorm mates, blood still trickling from his head where Greenhill’s bat had struck him.
And Greenhill felt it the unsettling realization that the secret he believed long buried might not be as dead as he had hoped.
His grip tightened around the handle. Slowly, he forced his expression back into the calm, impeccable composure expected of a P4.
He needed to return to reality.
He hurried toward Phantomhive, intending to offer congratulations and an apology. But before he could reach him, Professor Michaelis appeared seemingly out of nowhere, scooping the boy up and carrying him off for treatment.
Greenhill exhaled softly. At least the child would receive proper care. He would apologize later.
He turned back to his dorm mates, assuring them they had done their best in the match.
From the very beginning after that incident, he was never sure whether he would truly be able to live his life here the same way as before, or be haunted by guilt for the rest of his days
Life at Weston would go on, as it always did. But for Herman Greenhill, time had split in two between a sunlit afternoon on the cricket field and a shadowed night that refused to release him.
Perhaps… this is the right time to talk about it again with his fellow prefects.