Malice Chapter 1&2 First Draft

I'm writing my first book and I feel a little overwhelmed with formatting and structure.

My name is Danny McGregor, and tomorrow I turn fourteen.
For most guys, turning fourteen isn’t a huge deal. But for me, it’s the day I find out whether I get to live a normal life—or not.
Today starts like most Saturdays.
My mom is in the kitchen making pancakes, and my dad is outside fixing something that doesn’t actually need fixing. This week, it’s the porch handrail. According to him, it’s “too loose.”
After breakfast, my little brother Jonathan and I head outside to help. Jonathan is two years younger than me, but you wouldn’t know it—we’re still the same height.
We step onto the porch and see Dad crouched down, fiddling with the railing. He glances up at us.
“Jonathan, go back inside. I need to talk to your brother.”
Jonathan doesn’t argue. He just shrugs and walks back in.
I sit down next to Dad. His voice is calm, but there’s something heavy behind it.
“I just want you to know,” he says, “that whether you have the curse or not, you’ll always be my son.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply quickly. “I’m not worried.”
But that was an obvious lie.
He nods anyway, staring out into the distance.
“Your grandfather had the curse,” he continues. “And he lived a relatively normal life. So it’s not the end of the world if you do have it.”
I don’t know much about my grandfather. He died in a house fire before I was born. But from what I’ve heard, he was a good man. My dad always talks about him like he was the best person he ever knew.
I hesitate, then ask, “What about Uncle Rob?”
Dad’s expression tightened.
“Don’t worry,” he says, lowering his voice. “You won’t be like Uncle Rob. He has no one to blame but himself. The curse didn’t force him to do what he did, his choices did.”
I don’t know exactly what Uncle Rob did. But I know it was bad. He and Dad haven’t spoken in 5 years.
There are so many questions I want to ask about tomorrow, about the curse, about what happens if I have it, but I already know Dad doesn’t have many answers.
All he’s ever told me is this:
If I have the curse, I’ll be taken to some kind of training facility.
No one can know about it.
The curse comes from a tragedy seven generations ago.
And things like kryptos and other magical beings actually exist.
Uncle Rob used to talk about that stuff all the time, about protecting people from what he called “the true world.”
We sat in silence for a while.
Then Dad says
“Make sure you’re packed before they come. Just in case. Better to be prepared.”
I nod. “I will. As soon as we finish this.”
He smiles and gives me a quick nod. “That a boy.”
It doesn’t take long to fix the handrail, mostly because it was never really broken.
Afterward, I head back to my room and start packing.
The problem is, I have no idea what to bring.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what the training is like. I don’t even know how long I’ll be gone.
The only thing I do know is that it works kind of like a school year, at least, that’s what Dad remembers from Uncle Rob.
So I pack like I’m going on the longest camping trip of my life.
Clothes for hot weather. Clothes for cold weather. Extra socks. Jackets. Basically anything I can think of.
For all I know, they could be sending me to Alaska.
While I’m packing, I get a text.
It’s my friend John.
You wanna hang out and watch Demon Slicer Tuesday?
I stare at the message for a while.
I can’t tell him what’s going on.
I don’t even know if I’ll ever talk to him again.
I type back:
Can’t, but thanks.
I hover over the screen, thinking about saying more… telling him everything, but I can't.
He’d think I’m crazy.
Especially if tomorrow comes and I don’t even have the curse.
I wonder if I’ll get to keep my phone… Maybe I could just tell him I got sent to boarding school or something.
A couple hours pass, mostly spent switching between packing and playing video games.
Eventually, my mom knocks and opens the door.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asks. “Anything you want, takeout, delivery, whatever.”
I think for a second.
“Homemade fried chicken and waffle fries.”
She looks confused. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, not taking my eyes off the screen. “I’m sure.”
5:00 rolls around.
Everything feels… normal.
Like tomorrow isn’t hanging over us.
And I appreciate that.
My parents aren’t great at communicating, but they do care. And even though my mom’s cooking is always a little underseasoned, it still tastes like home.
The next morning, I woke up to someone shaking me.
I open my eyes and see Jonathan.
“Mom said to wake you up,” he says. “They’ll be here in an hour.”
I sat up immediately.
Within minutes, I’m dressed and pacing the living room.
Every second feels stretched out, like time itself is slowing down.
I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Not since I was diagnosed with autism. That same feeling of waiting. Of knowing something big is coming, something that could change everything.
Sometimes, waiting is worse than knowing.
Because once you know, at least you can deal with it.
Then the doorbell rings.
I didn’t hear a car pull up. No footsteps. Nothing.
Just the sound of the doorbell ringing.
My mom opens the door.
Standing outside is a tall, pale old man in a brown suit, holding a black bag.
He looks around slowly before speaking in a deep, heavy voice.
“Mmmm… I’m here to see Danny McGregor. I’m the recruiter, Mr. Turner. May I come in?”
My mom smiles politely. “Of course. He’s right here.”
She gestures toward me.
I step forward and shake his hand. His grip is firm and cold.
Dad leads him to the dining room, and we all sit down.
“Would you like some water?” Mom asks.
Mr. Turner opens his bag and pulls out a folder.
“Mmmm… no thank you. I don’t drink liquids.”
He flips through a few pages, then looks up.
“Mmmm… how many generations of malice users has it been?”
“Seven,” Dad answers calmly. “My brother, Rob McGregor, was the last malice user.”
Mr. Turner nods, writing something down.
“Mmmm… are there any known malice users currently living in this home?”
Dad sighs deeply. “No. Nor has there ever been.”
Mr. Turner pauses, raising an eyebrow slightly, as if my dad's response was somewhat rude.
“Mmmm… very well.”
He reaches into his bag again.
This time, he pulls out a glowing crystal ball.
And set it gently on the table.


As he pulled the crystal ball from his bag, something caught my eye there, on the back of his hand, was a mark. At first glance, it reminded me of my uncle’s, though I couldn’t quite remember what his had looked like. Still, I knew this one was different.
Mr. Turner’s mark was made of two arrows crossing each other at perfect angles.
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable.
“Mmmm… please, put both hands on the crystal ball.”
I hesitated, then leaned forward and placed my hands carefully against its smooth, glassy surface.
Almost instantly, the crystal ball began to pulse.
A searing pain exploded across the back of my right hand, as if boiling water had been poured over it. I gasped and tried to pull away, but I couldn’t. My hands were stuck, fused to the surface, as though my fingertips had been glued in place.
Panic surged through me. I shot to my feet, the crystal ball still clutched helplessly in my grasp. The pain throbbed, intense and unrelenting until, slowly, it began to fade.
After a few agonizing moments, I was finally able to let go.
The ball slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
I stumbled back, bracing for it to shatter, but it didn’t. Not even a crack.
My dad stepped forward, picked it up with ease, and handed it back to Mr. Turner as if nothing had happened.
A faint grin crept across Mr. Turner’s face.
“Mmmm… congratulations. You are a malice user.”
My heart skipped. I turned my hand over, staring at the spot where the pain had burned the hottest. A mark had appeared, round, just like his, but inside it flickered a symbol that looked like fire.
Mr. Turner examined it closely.
“Mmmm… an elemental malice ability. A little unfortunate,” he muttered. “But a malice user nonetheless. Please, gather your things. I’m on a tight schedule.”
I nodded, still trying to process what had just happened, and began collecting my belongings. Saying goodbye was harder than I expected. My little brother clung to me, crying, while my mom wiped tears from her eyes, reminding me to call and visit as often as I could.
We embraced one last time before I followed Mr. Turner outside.
Just as I’d suspected, there was no car. No vehicle at all.
Mr. Turner placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Mmmm… hold your breath for a moment. It prevents ear popping.”
Before I could ask what he meant, both his eyes, and the mark on his hand began to glow a brilliant white. He snapped his fingers.
In an instant, everything changed.
We stood inside a massive indoor coliseum, surrounded by towering gray pillars that stretched high above us.
I spun toward him, ready to ask what had just happened, where we were but he was already gone.
Just… gone.
I turned slowly, taking in my surroundings, and realized I wasn’t alone. Dozens of other kids stood scattered throughout the space, all around my age, all waiting.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as a man stepped forward.
He looked middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed dark beard, and wore a black robe that reminded me of something you’d see at a graduation ceremony. He approached me with an easy smile and extended his hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Aggarwal, head of housing here at East Academy,” he said, his tone bright and welcoming.
I shook his hand, still trying to steady myself.
“My name is Denny McGregor. Where are we exactly, and why are we in a coliseum?”
“Well, we’re in Northern Michigan, of course. And Supreme Chancellor Brando will be arriving shortly to explain the entry exam,” he replied with a small chuckle.
He paused, studying me more closely.
“Wait… McGregor? Are you related to Rob McGregor?”
My chest tightened.
“Yeah, he’s my uncle. How do you know him?”
Mr. Aggarwal’s expression shifted, just slightly.
“We graduated together. We were good friends… until he went missing five years ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“Missing! What do you mean, missing?”
He waved a hand lightly, as if brushing the question aside.
“Yes, well… he disappeared during some sort of mission. But we can discuss that later. Right now, you need to focus on your entry exams.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you had your malice abilities?”
I hesitated, then shrugged.
“Only today…”
“What?” He shouted in surprise. “Only today? Your parents must be real procrastinators. Most students have months of experience before attempting the exam.”
He sighed, then straightened.
“No matter. We’ll make do. I’ll teach you how to at least use your inherited ability.”

He smiles and asks if he can take a look at my mark.
I hesitate for a moment, then slide my hand out of my pocket and hold it up for him to see.
“Oh, perfect. This might be easier than I thought,” he says, his tone lifting with excitement. “My inherited malice ability is fire based as well.”
He raises his own hand, revealing a mark similar to mine, though the fire symbol is shaped differently.
“Alright,” he continues, shifting into a more focused tone. “Close your eyes and hold your arm out, palm open.”
I do as he says, extending my arm in front of me.
“Now,” he says, “imagine the molecules in front of your hand.”
I close my eyes tighter, picturing the molecules as tiny balls drifting in the air just beyond my palm.
“Good. Now imagine those same molecules moving rapidly back and forth, faster and faster.” His voice remains calm, steady. “Then open your eyes… and release that energy.”
The instructions are vague, but somehow, I understand.
I feel something building, like pressure gathering beneath my skin. Without overthinking it, I open my eyes and let it go.
A burst of flames erupts from my hand.
The force of it knocks me backward, sending me crashing onto the ground.
The fire dances in front of me for a brief moment before fading. I blink, stunned.
It feels warm but not hot.
Mr. Aggarwal quickly steps forward, grabbing my arm and helping me to my feet.
“Very good!” he says, clearly impressed. “But next time, make sure you bend your knees and widen your stance.”
He gives me a small, knowing smile.
“We don’t need you falling over yourself during the exam.”


He wishes me luck before moving on, greeting the rest of the students.
Time drifts by. About half an hour passes before Mr. Aggarwal steps onto a raised platform at the edge of the arena. A massive stone podium stands at its center, flanked by eight ornate chairs carved entirely from stone.
He raises his voice, addressing the crowd.
“Please give a warm welcome to Supreme Chancellor Brando.”
He gestures toward an old man making his way slowly toward the platform. The man has a long, unkempt black beard and wears a thick ushanka hat pulled low over his head. His movements are unhurried, deliberate.
After a few moments, he reaches the podium.
“Hello, everyone. Welcome to East Academy,” he says, his voice carrying a slight accent Russian, I think.
He pauses briefly before continuing.
“Tomorrow, we begin the entry exam. Each of you will have the opportunity to prove why one of our Masters should take you under their wing… and make you their apprentice.”
He coughs, clearing his throat.
“Each Master may take up to three apprentices. However, with only six Masters seeking apprentices this year, many of you will not be chosen.”
A quiet tension settles over the crowd.
He pauses again, coughing once more before continuing.
“If you are not selected, do not worry. You may return next year and try again. But if this is your second attempt…” He lets the words hang for a moment. “…then this will be your last.”
The weight of that sinks in quickly.
“This year, your evaluation will consist of a one-on-one match against one of our state of the art training dummies. If you are able to defeat it, a Master may choose to stand and declare interest in you as an apprentice.”
He leans slightly forward.
“However, understand that defeating the dummy does not guarantee selection. It only grants a Master the opportunity to choose you.”
He coughs again, gripping the sides of the podium.
“Due to the number of applicants this year, the exams will be divided over two days.”
He gestures off to the side.
“Mr. Turner will provide you with basic dormitory rules, along with your assigned exam day.”
He straightens, scanning the crowd.
“Best of luck… to all of you.”
As we're all heading towards the exit toward Mr. Turner I noticed a shadowy figure in the stands leaning against the wall.

Chapter 2

As I make my way toward the dorms, I unfold the pamphlet and scan through the information, searching for my assigned exam day.
Day two.
A small wave of relief washes over me. At least that gives me a little more time to figure out how to actually use my malice abilities without knocking myself flat on the ground again.
For now, though, rest sounds like the better option.
My room is listed as third floor, room 32 temporary housing. According to the pamphlet, once the exams are over, we’ll be reassigned to permanent dorms. They’ll try to pair us with teammates.
I keep reading as I walk.
One section is underlined in bold:
Malice abilities may only be used in the outdoor training grounds or the coliseum during designated hours (6:00 a.m. – 7:00 p.m.), or under the supervision of a Master.
I slow my pace, reading the next line more carefully.
Both facilities will remain closed until the conclusion of the entry exams.
I let out a quiet breath.
So much for practicing. I might have to sneak in sometime during the night, but I'll figure that out later.

Right now, I need to focus on something much simpler—finding my dorm room.
After a few wrong turns and several flights of stairs, I finally made it to the third floor. I glance back down at the map in the pamphlet as I walk. The building is split into two wings: the north side for girls, the south side for boys. Each wing has three floors, with ten rooms on each.
I follow the numbers down the hall until I reach mine.
Room 32.
I unlock the door and step inside.
There’s already someone there.
A guy about my age lounges on one side of the room, holding his phone up. Blonde hair, blue eyes, designer jeans, white T-shirt. He’s mid-FaceTime call, barely glancing at me as I walk in.
Then he notices me.
“Sorry, my roommate just walked in. I’ll call you back.”
He ends the call and looks at me more directly, his expression already edged with annoyance.
“My name’s Jalen. I assume you’re my roommate.”
“Yeah. I’m Danny,” I reply, heading to the other side of the room and dropping my stuff near the empty bed.
I start unpacking, but I can feel his eyes on me.
After a moment, he speaks again.
“So… what’s your inherited ability?”
“Fire… I guess.”
He lets out a short chuckle.
“Wait, don’t tell me you’re the kid who had to learn his ability today.”
I pause, then glance over at him.
“Yeah. What about it?”
“I knew it,” he says, shaking his head with a faint smirk. “Talk about a disadvantage. I can’t imagine trying to pass the entry exams without ever using malice before, especially as an elemental type.”
He starts unpacking his own things.
“At least you’re not first gen,” he adds. “So you’ve got that going for you.”
I stop what I’m doing.
“What are you talking about?”
He looks over at me like I just asked him what color the sky is.
We both pause for a second.
“Wow… you really don’t know anything, do you?” he says, dumbfounded.
I don’t respond.
“Well,” he continues, “there are five main types of malice: Elemental, Time, Space, Yin, and Yang. Every inherited ability comes from one or sometimes a combination of those types.”
I turn to face him more fully now, listening.
“Elemental is usually considered the weakest.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s limited,” he says simply. “Take me, for example I have psychokinesis. I can move things with my mind. Pretty much anything.”
He gestures vaguely with one hand, like that alone proves his point.
“Someone like you?” he continues. “You can… what shoot fire? That’s about it. People with elemental abilities just don’t have as much versatility.”

Even if he’s being a jerk about it… he’s not wrong.
If I can’t figure out how to make bigger flames without knocking myself over, there’s no way I can pass the exam. I’ll be sent home before I even get started.
Honestly, that wouldn’t be the worst outcome.
But I do want to find out more about my uncle, and find out what actually happened to him.
After I finish unpacking, I decide to head down to the food court and grab something to eat.
The building sits right next to the dorms, made entirely of brick simple, solid, almost disappointingly normal. When I step inside, I pause for a second.
It’s just a cafeteria.
Buffet style. Trays, counters, rows of food under heat lamps.
For some reason, I expected something more… magical.
Shaking that thought off, I grab a tray and start piling on food. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’m halfway through filling my plate.
Then a thought hits me.
Wait… how am I supposed to pay for this?
Just because I have some cash now doesn’t mean I’ll have enough later. My parents only gave me fifty dollars. There’s no way that lasts an entire year.
I slow down as I approach the register.
Behind the counter stands a woman unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. Her skin is a grayish green, her frizzy hair a wild mix of white and green. She has a large nose, oversized ears, and wears a stained apron with a name tag that reads Jenny.
“Please scan your malice mark,” she says, in a thick Boston accent.
I raise my right hand and hold it up to the scanner.
Ding.
The sound is strangely familiar, like scanning a lunch card back at school.
I blink, then look up at her.
“So… I don’t have to pay for this?”
She stares at me for a second, clearly confused.
“No. All apprentices get their food and other necessities for free,” she says flatly. Then she gestures past me. “Now can you please move? I’m trying to keep the line going.”
I nod quickly and step aside, tray in hand, still processing what I just saw.


I’m pretty sure that woman was a troll.
I mean… my uncle always said cryptos were real, but I never imagined them working a nine-to-five.
I stab at my food, barely tasting it.
I was literally teleported here. I found out I can shoot fire out of my hands. And somehow… this is the thing that’s throwing me off?
Do they pay taxes? Can they work anywhere, or only in places that already know about them?
I shake my head slightly.
These are such stupid questions in the grand scheme of things.
Still, I can’t help thinking about them as I eat.
That’s when I spot Mr. Aggarwal walking down the hall just outside the cafeteria.
I set my food down immediately and head after him, quickening my pace without quite breaking into a run.
He notices me approaching him.
“Ah, Mr. McGregor,” he says, smiling lightly. “What has you in such a hurry?”
“Oh uh, I was hoping to talk to you more about my uncle, if you have a moment,” I say, slowing to match his pace.
“I don’t have much time,” he replies, “but we can walk and talk. I just need to grab some papers from my office.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say quickly. “Do you know how my uncle went missing?”
“Well,” he says with a small chuckle, “if I knew that, he wouldn’t be missing, would he?”
I force a weak smile, but don’t respond.
“But I understand what you’re asking,” he continues. “He was on some kind of mission about five years ago. Something about retrieving an item called The Unending.”
I raise an eyebrow and confusion.
“What’s The Unending?”
“Not entirely sure,” he admits. “But once you become an apprentice, you’ll have access to the library. You can look it up yourself.”
I nod, and type the name into my notes to look up later.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.
He slows as we reach a door and pulls a key from his pocket.
“The last time I saw him,” he says, unlocking it, “he was walking down this very hall.”
He pauses, his expression tightening just slightly.
“He looked… upset. About something. I never found out what.”
The door clicks open.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more for you,” he adds, stepping inside. “But if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He gives a small smile and a nod before disappearing into his office.
I linger there for a moment, then turn and head back toward the cafeteria, my thoughts heavier than before.


After finishing dinner, I head back to the dorms, planning to take a quick nap before sneaking out later to train.
But sleep doesn’t come easy.
Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, my mind keeps circling back to what Mr. Aggarwal said.
My uncle.
Why did he look upset the last time he saw him? Was that before or after his argument with my dad? And what was he doing chasing something called The Unending?
The questions pile up, one after another, with no answers in sight.
If I want to learn anything I need to pass the exam.
I need to become an apprentice.
Sometime around midnight, I slip out of bed.
Jalen is still asleep across the room, his breathing steady. I move quietly, careful not to wake him. The last thing I need is him reporting me before I even get the chance to train.
I ease the door open and step into the hallway.
As I make my way toward the stairs, a voice cuts through the silence.
Mr. Turner.
I freeze.
He’s talking to someone, his voice low, but sharp. I can’t make out every word, but it sounds like he’s scolding a student… something about being too loud.
Footsteps shift.
He’s moving.
Toward the stairs.
My chest tightens. If he comes up, I’m done.
I press myself against the wall, barely breathing, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure it’ll give me away.
Then
A door creaks open.
I lean slightly, just enough to see the top of his head between the stair flights.
More footsteps follow.
Then a door shuts.
Silence.
I wait a few seconds… then a few more.
He went downstairs.
Relief floods through me, but I don’t let it slow me down.
I move quickly now, slipping down the stairs and out of the dorms.
The night air hits me as I step outside.
I head straight for the coliseum. The training grounds are too close to the dorms and too risky. Plus I'm more familiar with the Colosseum since I've already been there. If anyone hears me, if anyone wakes up, I’m done for.



I step into the arena, scanning the space carefully.
Empty.
At least, it looks that way.
I move slowly at first, eyes sweeping across the stands, the pillars, the shadows. Nothing moves. No sound echoes back at me.
I let out a quiet breath.
I think I’m alone.
Making my way to the center of the arena, I plant my feet in a wide stance and raise one hand in front of me. I focus, picturing the molecules in the air tiny particles drifting just beyond my palm.
Then I imagine them speeding up.
Faster.
Faster.
Heat builds above my skin.
A small burst of flame flickers in my hand.
It’s weaker than before, but more controlled.
I hold it there, watching it dance, adjusting my stance slightly to keep my balance.
Within the hour, I’m able to create flames from both hands… and even my feet.
Once I feel comfortable, I shift my footing into a boxer’s stance. It’s been a while, but the muscle memory is still there. I’ve only been in a couple fights, but I wrestled and my dad tried to teach me boxing.
He used to say he was pretty good in high school.
I never really cared enough to learn.
Now I wish I had.
I start shadowboxing, throwing slow, deliberate punches with flames spurting out of my hands, imagining how the exam might play out. I don’t even know what these training dummies look like, but I imagine they might be human shaped.
Minutes pass.
Then
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to be here?”
The voice cuts through the arena.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn toward the stands.
There standing in the shadows is the same figure I noticed earlier, back when I was leaving orientation.
She steps forward, descending from the stands.
With each step, the details sharpen.
A woman, maybe mid to late twenties. Long, bleached white hair falls past her shoulders. She wears glasses, a black coat that hangs almost to her knees, and a beanie with a skull stitched onto the front.
Her eyes scan me, unimpressed.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to be here?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I admit, lowering my hand. “I’m sorry. I just… really need the practice.”
She studies me for a moment, then shrugs.
“Relax, kid. I’m not going to rat you out. I’ve got better things to do than report someone who has no shot of passing.”
Something in me snaps. This entire day has been people looking down on me and I'm tired of it.
“You wanna bet?” I shoot back.
Her expression shifts just slightly, into something more amused.
“You know what? Sure,” she says. “This has been pretty boring so far. Why not make it interesting?”
She crosses her arms.
“Twenty bucks says you don’t pass the entry exams.”
“Fine,” I say without hesitation. “But how would you even know if I passed?”
She smirks.
“Don’t worry. I’ll know.”
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s already imagining it.
“I can see the headline now, least talented kid passes entry exam.”
My jaw tightens.
“Besides,” she adds, pushing off the step she’s standing on, “you’re going to need to do a lot more than spit out a little fire if you're going to pass.”
I open my mouth to respond,
But she’s already gone.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just… gone.
I stand there in the silence, staring at the spot where she was.
I look down at my hands thinking to myself you know what people have been underestimating me my whole life why would this be any different.