Outside, the cold air bit at Liam's face as they followed Coach Benson to the field. The coach handed them a pair of gloves and pointed to a pile of equipment and debris near the bleachers.
"Environmental development," he announced, his tone mocking. "You're going to clean up this mess. Every piece of trash, every stray ball, every weed. And you're not leaving until it's done."
Liam glanced at Dave, who looked like he was about to explode. "This is ridiculous," Dave muttered, yanking on the gloves.
Liam sighed and bent down to pick up a crumpled water bottle. "Just get through it," he said quietly.
As they worked, laughter echoed from the cafeteria windows, where Robbie and his friends watched them like an audience at a show.
Liam ignored them, focusing on the task at hand. He couldn't afford to let the anger bubbling inside him take over—not here, not now.
One day, he thought, gripping the bottle tightly before tossing it into a bag. One day, all of this will be behind me.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in muted hues of purple and gold before Liam and Dave trudged toward the school gates.
They'd spent hours cleaning up the field, their hands sore and their bodies aching.
"See you tomorrow, man," Dave said, waving as his older sister pulled up in a beat-up sedan to pick him up.
"Yeah, see you," Liam replied, giving a tired nod. He watched Dave hop into the car, the two siblings laughing about something before the vehicle disappeared down the road.
Liam envied that ease, that comfort of having someone who cared.
With a sigh, he turned to his bicycle, which leaned against the fence where he'd left it.
His legs felt like lead as he pedaled down the quiet streets, the faint hum of crickets filling the air. But he couldn't go home just yet—he still had to pick up the items his aunt needed.
When he reached the grocery store, he locked his bike outside and stepped in, the fluorescent lights glaring down at the aisles.
The familiar smell of cleaning products and freshly baked bread greeted him as he grabbed a basket.
He moved quickly, selecting the items his aunt had listed: toiletries, a few household supplies, and a small bottle of ointment for her bruises.
His hands paused over the shelf as he grabbed a lighter, tucking it into the basket without thinking too much about it.
His stomach growled as he passed the snacks, but he ignored it, his focus set on finishing and heading home.
At the register, the cashier gave him a curt nod as he paid. Liam stuffed everything into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, stepping out into the cool night air.
As he adjusted his bike, fumbling with the handlebar, a voice caught his attention.
"Hey, Liam."
He froze, his heart skipping a beat. Turning slightly, he saw her—Maya.
Maya was standing a few feet away, her caramel-brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, her warm hazel eyes sparkling under the store's neon sign.
She wore a simple jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly perfect. Liam had always noticed her in class, the way she was quiet but still part of the "cool crowd," the way her laughter always seemed softer than the others'.
"Oh, uh, hi," Liam managed, his voice cracking slightly.
She smiled at him, a small, shy curve of her lips that made his stomach flip. "Getting some late-night shopping done?" she asked, glancing at his backpack.
"Y-yeah," Liam stammered, gripping his bike tighter. "Just, uh, running errands."
She nodded, stepping closer. "Cool. Well, see you around."
Before he could respond, Maya turned and walked into the store, the glass doors sliding shut behind her.
Liam stared after her for a moment, his mind racing. She smiled at me. She actually smiled at me.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus as he climbed onto his bike. The tires wobbled slightly as he pedaled down the street, his thoughts still stuck on Maya.
As he rode into the quiet night, a mix of exhaustion, hunger, and something unfamiliar swirled inside him.
He couldn't talk to her, not really—what could he possibly say? She was rich, she was cool, and she had a life so far removed from his own that it might as well have been another world.
But still, she smiled.
And for now, that was enough.
Meanwhile,
Outside the bustling airport, a sleek black BMW sat parked in the shadows, its engine idling quietly. The man in the driver's seat tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd spilling out of the arrivals terminal. He wore a dark suit, perfectly tailored, with a glint of a silver watch peeking out from under his cuff.
After a few moments, the passenger door opened, and a woman slipped in. She was dressed in black, her leather jacket creaking as she moved. Without a word, she opened the back door and slid a large, heavy black bag onto the seat. The thud of its weight was unmistakable. She shut the door, then settled into the front passenger seat with an air of practiced ease.
"So?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
"So, what?" he replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the rearview mirror as he began maneuvering the car out of the parking lot.
"What's the mission this time?"
The man glanced at her briefly, then focused back on the road. "One of the keys is in this city. We've been tasked to retrieve it."
The woman raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her seat. "Keys, keys, keys. Always about the damn keys." She sighed, resting her booted feet on the dashboard. "I understand why mercenaries like us were called in, but I don't enjoy dealing with them. I hope this will be the last time."
The man's lips curled in a faint smirk. "So do I."
The woman tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Which key is it this time?"
"The Lycan's key," he said flatly.
"What?!"
The woman sat upright, her feet slamming back to the floor. Her expression, usually composed, shifted to one of disbelief. Every mercenary who worked with their organization knew about the keys. Their importance wasn't just legendary—it was absolute. And the Lycan's key was among the most dangerous.
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you serious? The Lycan's key? That can't be right. The owner of that key is supposed to be dead."
The man turned the wheel sharply, merging onto the highway. His voice was calm, measured, but there was a flicker of intensity in his tone. "I understand your surprise. I was skeptical, too. But I've recently learned something about keyholders. They're immune to certain… phenomena."
"Immune?"
He nodded. "They can't die—not permanently—until they've passed on their key. If there's a living descendant in their bloodline, the key automatically transfers upon their death. And if the bloodline is nearly extinct, a descendant always ends up inheriting it. Because the key will protect its owner until an heir appears. The key… it finds its way."
The woman frowned, processing his words. "So, what you're saying is, the previous holder really is dead, but the key's still active because it was passed on."
"Exactly."
"Let me guess," she said dryly, "the new keyholder doesn't have a clue what they're carrying."
"Probably not," the man replied, his grip tightening on the wheel. "But they will soon enough."
The woman exhaled sharply, leaning back in her seat. "If the key protects its bearer… and this one is the last in their bloodline…"
"This mission's going to be tough," she finished, her voice tinged with frustration.
"That's why we're here," the man said firmly, his jaw set. "To get the job done."
For a moment, silence filled the car, save for the hum of the engine and the distant roar of planes overhead.
The woman smirked suddenly, breaking the tension. "You sound confident, as always. But let me remind you—last time we dealt with a keyholder, we nearly got killed. This time? If they're protected by the Lycan's key…"
The man glanced at her, his cold eyes meeting hers. "Then we don't hesitate. No mistakes. No second guesses."
She held his gaze for a beat longer before chuckling softly. "Fine. Let's see if this keyholder is as resilient as the stories say. Either way, we'll find out soon enough."
The car sped down the highway, its sleek frame blending into the night as the city skyline loomed ahead—a battleground waiting for its next players.