CHAPTER ONE

James sat at his desk, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above his head barely noticeable as he stared at the pages of his textbook. His fingers rested lightly on the edge of the paper, not turning the pages, not reading. He could barely focus on the words in front of him. Instead, his gaze drifted across the room, as it always did, to the window, where the late afternoon sun streamed through, casting long shadows across the floor. The world outside was calm, quiet—too quiet.

Inside, however, his mind was a mess of constant, swirling thoughts, each one a needle poking at his consciousness, reminding him of things he had to do. Things that had to be perfect.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost time. He had exactly seven minutes left before the bell rang. Seven minutes to think, to plan, to make sure everything was in place. It had to be right. He couldn't afford for anything to go wrong.

James wasn't like the others. His classmates didn't see it—most didn't even know, but he could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at him. He was better than them. Smarter. He had skipped grades, aced tests without trying, and his mind raced at speeds they could never match. But none of that mattered. They still looked at him like a freak, like someone who didn't belong.

And then there was Charles. The one who had never looked at James that way—at least, not until that day.

It had been a mistake. A slip. The kind of thing that happened when emotions were no longer just a foreign concept but a tight, suffocating grip around your chest. But it wasn't the incident that made it all unravel. It was the rejection. The disgust in Charles' eyes as he shoved James away and called him a freak. The words echoed in his mind like they had been carved into his skull.

"You're messed up, dude. Get over yourself."

The bell rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He rose slowly from his desk, straightening his shirt as he did. There was nothing in his posture to give away the storm of rage that had been building inside him since that moment. The other students gathered their things, their chatter rising in the background, but James moved with precision. He couldn't afford mistakes. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart.

He was going to make Charles regret what he had said. He would make him pay. The pieces were already in motion, and he knew exactly what he had to do.

*A WEEK EARLIER*

James' face is a carefully crafted mask—symmetrical, striking, almost unnervingly perfect. At twelve years old, his features have already settled into the kind of beauty that some only dream of at adulthood. His skin is smooth, pale with a slight sheen, untouched by the marks of adolescence. His cheekbones are sharp, etched as though sculpted with precision, but it's his eyes that draw you in—dark, almost black in their intensity, a coldness that makes it seem as though they've never known warmth. They're eyes that don't belong to a child, nor to anyone you would expect to trust.

His gaze is firm, calculating, as though he is constantly assessing, measuring, and recording. There is no softness in his expression, no hint of emotion that could be easily read. His lips, full and naturally curved, remain pressed together most of the time, giving the impression that he is withholding something, keeping it locked inside, like a secret too dangerous to reveal. When he speaks, it's with a tone that is unnervingly calm—detached, almost rehearsed.

His hair is dark, straight, and immaculately combed, falling just short of his eyebrows. It adds to the illusion of perfection, a frame that mirrors the stoic nature he projects. But it's his eyes that truly define him. They have the ability to freeze anyone who meets them, a silent warning that something is off, something is hidden.

James' room is the embodiment of order, a reflection of the precise, controlled world he's been taught to create and maintain. The walls are painted a muted Gray, the kind of colour that doesn't evoke any emotion but demands an unspoken respect. A single bed with a pristine white duvet sits against one wall, its surface perfectly smooth, as though it had never been disturbed by a restless night. There are no posters, no personal touches. Nothing to distract from the sterile, controlled environment.

At the foot of the bed, a desk stands, cluttered with neatly stacked books and papers—each one in its rightful place, no deviation from the organized system James has created. A small lamp with a dim, cool light casts long shadows over the surface. On the far side of the room, a single window offers a view of the world outside, though the blinds are always drawn halfway down, allowing just enough light to spill in without disturbing the perfect darkness he prefers when he's alone. The floor is spotless, every corner free of dust, every item where it should be. It's as if he believes that the disorder of the world outside can be contained, just for a moment, within the walls of this space.

In the centre of the room, a small chair sits facing a wall, directly in line with the mirror that hangs above a minimalist dresser. The dresser holds nothing but a few neatly folded clothes. Everything is curated, controlled, and untouched.

The only sign of warmth in this meticulously ordered space is the faint scent of lavender, barely noticeable, but enough to soothe—almost like a silent reminder that, in this room, James is still a child. Yet, with the absence of colour and clutter, it's also a room that feels as if it could belong to someone far older, someone who has learned, perhaps too early, that nothing in life is ever allowed to be out of place.

James went downstairs at exactly 5:25PM for dinner where his mom, Mrs Conor was. The smell of sizzling steak filled the small kitchen, mixing with the faint aroma of roasted vegetables and the sharp tang of freshly baked bread. Mrs. Conor moved swiftly, setting the table with a kind of precision that could only come from years of practice. Her movements were stiff, her back always straight, and her mind seemingly always busy with plans she never spoke aloud.

James sat at the kitchen table; his hands neatly folded in front of him. He stared at his plate, his gaze drifting from the food to the gleaming silverware, then to the clock on the wall. The numbers seemed to tick by too slowly. Dinner had become another battlefield, another one of the countless rituals his mother insisted on, even though the taste of the food never quite registered for him anymore.

"James," Mrs. Conor's voice sliced through the stillness of the room. "How was school today?"

He didn't respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the meal before him—the grilled steak, the roasted potatoes—meat. He didn't eat meat anymore. He hadn't for years. Not since he was eight. But his mother always made it the same way, the way she thought he should eat.

"It was fine," he muttered, his voice distant, avoiding her gaze. He didn't feel like talking about school today. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to eat in silence, like always.

Mrs. Conor didn't let the silence linger for long. She sat down across from him, her gaze heavy as she picked up her knife and fork. "I made your Favorite tonight. You've always loved steak."

James's hands clenched beneath the table, his nails biting into the skin of his palms. He could feel the tension in his chest, the pressure building as she pushed the plate toward him, her smile expectant.

"I don't eat meat anymore," James said quietly, almost absently, as he looked down at his plate. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a subtle defiance that she hadn't caught onto yet.

"What do you mean, you don't eat meat?" she asked, her tone soft but edged with disbelief. "James, this is ridiculous. You need protein to grow, to think clearly. You can't expect to be perfect if you don't take care of yourself."

Her words stung, but James didn't show it. He just leaned back in his chair; arms crossed tightly over his chest. "I'm not hungry."

Mrs. Conor's eyes narrowed. She had never liked defiance. In all her years of raising James, she had made sure he knew exactly what was expected of him. Perfection. Excellence. And she would never tolerate weakness.

"You're being unreasonable," she said, her voice low, the faintest hint of anger creeping through her calm facade. "You're growing up, James. This is about more than what you want. You need to learn how to take care of yourself if you want to succeed."

James's jaw tightened. He didn't need her to tell him how to live. He was smarter than she realized, and he didn't care about her standards anymore. He didn't care about the life she'd planned for him.

"I told you. I don't eat meat," he repeated, his voice colder now. "It's not a phase."

Mrs. Conor stared at him for a long moment, her lips pressed tightly together. There was something in her eyes—a flicker of something dark that James couldn't quite place. She sighed deeply, putting her fork down with a sharp clink, but she didn't press him any further. She never did. Not directly, anyway.

"You know, your father would have expected more from you. He always believed in discipline," she muttered, her voice softening as she stared at the food in front of her.

James felt a cold chill at the mention of his father. His dad's absence loomed over them, like a shadow neither of them could shake. He didn't want to talk about his father, didn't want to acknowledge the broken pieces of their family. The mention of his father was always a reminder of things he couldn't change, things that hurt more than he cared to admit.

He didn't answer. His thoughts wandered to other places. Places where the rules didn't matter. Places where he was in control.

"I'll eat later," he said abruptly, standing up from the table and pushing his chair back with a scrape that echoed through the quiet kitchen.

Mrs. Conor watched him go; her eyes narrowed in thought. She never said it outright, but he could tell she was disappointed. He was never the perfect child she wanted him to be. He was always one step ahead, always slipping through her grip, and she hated it.

"James," she called after him, but he was already heading toward the stairs. "Don't forget to wash up before bed."

"I won't," he muttered over his shoulder, but his feet were already carrying him to his room.

James trudged up the stairs, the familiar weight of tension following him like a shadow. His mother's voice still lingered in his mind, a reminder of the tight grip she kept on him, even when she thought she wasn't looking. She never understood him. Never would.

He reached his room and shut the door behind him with a soft click, a sound that felt oddly comforting in the quiet of his own space. The walls of his room were bare, except for a few scattered books and papers on the floor, the remnants of a life carefully curated for the world outside. Here, in this small sanctuary, James allowed himself to breathe.

He crossed the room to his desk, where his backpack lay. He unzipped it with practiced hands, his fingers brushing over the cool leather straps. His heart beat faster as he felt around inside, until his fingers landed on the picture.

It was Charles. The boy who made him feel something he couldn't name. The boy who never saw him the way he wanted to be seen.

James pulled the picture out slowly, his gaze softening as he stared at it. It was a candid shot of Charles from a school event, his smile bright and carefree, his eyes full of innocence. James's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, everything felt blurry. The world outside, his mother's expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect—it all faded away.

He pressed the picture to his lips, feeling the coolness of the paper against his skin. His breath hitched for a second before he kissed it.

One.

He kissed it again.

Two.

His pulse quickened with each kiss, a familiar, compulsive rhythm that brought him some measure of control in a world that felt out of his reach.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

The counting, the rhythm, the routine—it was the only thing that gave him solace. It made the world feel less chaotic, less unpredictable.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

He paused for a second, his eyes closed, taking in the silence of his room. The stillness was comforting.

Then, as always, he repeated the cycle. It wasn't enough to do it just once. No, it had to be perfect. Had to be ten times, five times. He closed his eyes, focusing on the number, the precision, the control.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

He stopped, breathing deeply, and his fingers began again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The weight of the picture pressed against his lips was all that mattered now. Not the fact that it was a photograph, not that it was just a piece of paper. It was Charles. It was the only way he could feel close to him, the only way he could claim him, even if just for a fleeting moment.

James finished the cycle once more, his lips lingering on the picture before he slowly pulled it away from his face. He stared at it for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths. The world outside felt too big, too uncontrollable. But here, in his room, with Charles's image and the repetitive counting, he had the power. He could hold onto that, just for now.

He placed the picture down carefully on the desk and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

One day, he thought, he would make Charles see. He would make him understand.

For now, he just had to be patient