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Cheers echoed across the Weston College cricket ground. The low, overcast afternoon sun shone, its light glinting off the polished cricket bat held tightly by Herman Greenhill. His uniform was rumpled, his face solemn and focused as he composed himself, his fingers gripping the bat's handle with unwavering determination.
Green House must win this game, no matter what.
He glanced at the scoreboard before focusing his gaze forward, ready to meet the incoming ball.
Then it happened.
Just as Bluewer bowled the final ball, Greenhill didn't expect it to be so fast. Instinctively, he took a step back and swung his bat, only for a loud crash to shatter the moment.
A powerful swing. A loud crash ripped through the air, halting the cheers and drowning out the stunned silence. Ciel Phantomhive's small body was thrown backward, and the baseball bat trembled slightly in Greenhill's grip from the force of the impact. Thin lines of red began to stain the smooth wood, contrasting sharply against the warm brown surface.
Greenhill turned sharply. He hadn't noticed Phantomhive standing so close behind him. He froze. A sudden chill ran through his body as he stared at the blood on the tip of his club.
And in that instant, the world around him vanished.
The cheers faded into a distant echo. The green field vanished, replaced by a damp stone room lit only by flickering candlelight. The metallic scent of blood filled the air. Everything was dark, just like that night. His hand still held the same baseball bat; its weight, its texture, even the small scratches near the handle were exactly as he remembered.
The difference is, at that time the availability of blood was much more abundant.
Before him lay a motionless body. Blonde hair a mess. The once-clean uniform was now ruined. That face—distorted by 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. Anger. Fear. Disbelief. He never imagined himself capable of something so horrific.
Greenhill's hands trembled at that. Panic gripped him. What had he done? Such recklessness was unbecoming of a prefect.
However, his fellow prefects had calmed him down.
"You were just maintaining order, Greenhill. Arden was the one at fault."
They shook hands as if celebrating victory, when in fact they were hitting Derrick Arden's body repeatedly with the same bat.
Greenhill had repeated those words to himself many times.
Weston College upholds honor. The prefects exist to maintain 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 every time the memories resurfaced.
The baseball bat was also stained that night. His hands trembled, but what was done was done. There was no going back. Only silence and secrets buried alongside the body that no longer breathed.
At least not after they figured out how to make the corpses move again.
The wind in the dark room mixed with the pounding of her heart. Loud. Heavy. Unpredictable.
Then another voice pierced the memory.
“Greenhill!”
Oh, Edward Midford called out. At that moment, the field came back into view. Green grass and blue sky. Surprised faces stared up at him. A baseball bat with faint traces of Phantomhive blood still clutched in his hand.
For a split second, his eyes looked blank, as if he were still standing in the room instead of in the middle of a cricket match.
Is this retribution for what he has done?
Before he could think about it, the field erupted again with cheers of victory.
Greenhill blinked and looked at the scoreboard.
The Blue House has won.
There, amidst the celebration, Phantomhive was lifted by his roommates, blood still dripping from his head where Greenhill's bat had struck him.
And Greenhill felt the unsettling realization that the secret he believed long buried might not be as completely dead as he had hoped.
His grip tightened on the knife's hilt. Slowly, he forced his expression back to the calm and confident one expected of a P4.
He needed to come back to reality.
He rushed to Phantomhive, intending to offer his congratulations and apologies. But before he could get there, Professor Michaelis appeared out of nowhere, picked the boy up, and took him away for treatment.
Greenhill sighed softly. At least the child would receive proper care. He would apologize later.
He turned back to his roommates, assuring them that they had done their best in the match.
From the beginning after the incident, he was never sure whether he was truly capable of living his life here the same way as before, or would be haunted by guilt for the rest of his life.
Perhaps… this is a good time to talk about it again with the other prefects.