Jack sat in the school library, the faint hum of fluorescent lights above blending with the rustling of pages and soft whispers. He wasn't here by choice. Alex Dunphy, his reluctant tutor, sat across from him, her piercing gaze fixed on a textbook. The air between them was heavy with unspoken tension.
"Alright," Alex said, breaking the silence. "Let's go over quadratic equations again. Try not to act like you're allergic to learning this time."
Jack leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "I'm not allergic. Just questioning the necessity of solving imaginary problems when the real world is full of them."
Alex rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "This 'real world' of yours is why you're one D away from repeating a grade. So focus."
Jack sighed and leaned forward, trying to suppress the flickers of memories that still danced at the edges of his mind. Quadratic equations were easy—he could grasp the mechanics—but Alex's dogged determination to control every moment of the session grated on him.
As he scribbled out the solution, Alex leaned closer, scrutinizing his work. "Not bad," she admitted reluctantly. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."
"You know," she began without looking up, "if you're trying to look mysterious and brooding, you're about two bad posture adjustments away from Blacknoir."
Jack grunted.
"Not a fan of sarcasm today, I see," Alex quipped, leaning back in her chair. "So, what's with the incognito act? Got a zit so big it's asking for its own school ID?"
Before Jack could reply, the library doors burst open with a loud thud. The sound echoed, and the few students present turned their heads toward the source.
A man stormed in—tall, with a hawk-like gaze and a clenched fist. It was Mr. Turner, the math teacher. His usually professional demeanor was replaced by an unsettling intensity.
Jack immediately tensed, his hand sliding under the table. His fingers found the open pen in his pocket, gripping it like a makeshift weapon.
Turner's eyes zeroed in on Jack, and in a few swift steps, he was at the table, grabbing Jack's collar and yanking him up.
"Jack Johnson!" Turner's voice boomed. "What in the hell do you think you're doing? How does a student end up beating another so badly? Riley is barely walking, and it's you everyone points fingers at!"
Jack didn't speak, his mind racing. The pen in his grip felt heavy, its pointed end pressed against his palm. He studied Turner's face—the fury seemed real, but again it felt... off.
Turner's words struck a nerve: "Once a bully, always a bully. Isn't that right, Jack?"
Jack's fingers twitched around the pen, but then he saw it—the briefest flicker in Turner's eyes, like a signal. A performance. This wasn't an emotional outburst; it was a show.
The realization loosened Jack's grip on the pen. He stayed silent, his eyes locked on Turner's, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
Alex, meanwhile, was frozen in shock. "Sir, What are you doing?" she asked Turner.
Turner glanced at her, and for a split second, his expression faltered. The righteous anger softened into something else—hesitation? Fear?
Jack caught it immediately. His mind whirred: Why would Turner hesitate around Alex? What was her role in all of this?
Turner cleared his throat, releasing Jack's collar. "Just... watch yourself, Johnson, and we will be continuing this matter on Monday," he said, his voice losing its edge. He turned on his heel and stormed out, but the tension lingered like a cloud.
Alex stared at Jack, wide-eyed. "What the hell was that?"
Jack didn't answer. His eyes were on the library doors, his mind connecting dots that didn't quite fit.
What is this?
The thought pulsed through Jack's mind like a drumbeat, steady but growing louder. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, but the confusion was even worse. What the hell was that?
Jack stared at the library doors, his eyes unblinking, as his thoughts tangled together in a web of suspicion. Why did I just back off? His hand still tingled from where he'd instinctively grabbed the hilt of the pen—the knife?— the teacher's outburst hadn't felt real. The whole thing had been too theatrical, too overblown. A performance. A test?
But why?
Was this some kind of game? Were they all players, acting in some twisted narrative he had no control over? A game, like the ones he'd watched unfold, but with him stuck in the middle, trying to figure out the rules. Maybe everyone had roles to play, and he was just another pawn. Was that it? Was this world even real, or was it all a carefully constructed facade?
Alex.
Why was she so… calm? She should be have shown more concern more .....something
She'd noticed the moment he hesitated. The moment his grip on the pen loosened. And then… nothing. Just a remark, a snarky quip like she had no idea how precarious this whole damn situation was. Or maybe… maybe she did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe she knew more than she was letting on.
Was she a part of this, too? Was she in on the game? Or was she just as lost as him, playing her own part without even knowing it?
What role am I even supposed to play?
He thought about the people around him. Everyone felt like a character from a script, a script written by someone—something. But why? What did they want from me?
Jack clenched his fists, feeling the anger simmer beneath the surface. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real. He could hear the faint echo of his past life—a life where things made sense, where he knew his place in the world. But here? He had no place. No answers. Just noise.
And then there was the other question. The one that made his skin crawl. Was I supposed to fight back? Was I supposed to play along?
His mind raced, grappling with the feeling of being watched. He could almost sense eyes on him, from all angles, watching, judging, waiting for his next move. But where was the exit? How did he get out of this tangled mess?
He thought of Alex again. She wasn't just some girl with snarky comments. She was too calm, too collected. She fits into this. But how?
He swallowed, trying to shake the feeling of paranoia that crawled up his spine. I can't trust anyone. I can't even trust myself.
The world had warped, shifted, and become something else entirely. Maybe it was all a test. Maybe it had been from the start. And the only way out was to play along.
But then again, maybe there was no way out.
Jack stared ahead, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of it all. Nothing is real. Not the people. Not the world. Not even me.
And yet, he couldn't stop himself from wondering. What was the next step in this twisted game?