I never really felt like I belonged anywhere.
Middle school wasn't much better, but at least back then, I had a system: keep my head down, focus on my work, and wait for the day to end. It worked—for the most part. But now, with high school looming ahead, I could feel that old system cracking under the weight of something bigger. The stakes were different here. The expectations were higher, and honestly, the stakes for me were life-changing.
I'm not like the other kids heading to Asphalt Academy. For them, this school is just another building in their already charmed lives. Their parents paid for it without batting an eye, like it was lunch money. Me? My spot at Asphalt costs more than just money. It costs my mom three jobs. Three backbreaking, soul-crushing jobs to keep me in that place. And the worst part? She acts like it's nothing.
"I know you'll be something special, Christian," she'd say, her hands red and raw from washing dishes all night.
She believes it. Sometimes I think she believes it more than I do.
The only thing that keeps me from completely losing my mind is Izanagi Fuzaro. I know what you're thinking: "That doesn't sound like a name you'd forget." You'd be right. He's the kind of guy who leaves an impression, mostly because he doesn't care what people think of him.
Izanagi is... complicated. Weird, sure, but in a way that works for him. He's what you'd call a Samurai enthusiast. He's obsessed—swords, armor, the whole code of Bushido thing. I swear, half the time I expect him to walk into school wearing full samurai gear.Here's the kicker, though: Izanagi is Chinese. Not Japanese, not even close. And yet, every other sentence out of his mouth is about samurai honor or some obscure Japanese philosophy he read in a book. It's cultural appropriation on a level I can't even wrap my head around.
But that's Izanagi for you. And the weird thing is, as much as I don't understand him, I also can't imagine life without him. He's the only person who doesn't look at me like I'm some kind of alien. He doesn't care that I'm poor or that I spend my lunch breaks reading old books instead of hanging out.
So yeah, he's my best friend. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't call him weird.
And So It Started
At first, high school was as mundane as middle school. The same gray routine, the same quiet existence. The only difference was Dustin.
I tried to focus on my studies, striving to make my mother proud and prove that the sacrifices she made were worth it. I kept my head down, blending into the background like I always had. At 5'3, with my pale frame and bowl-cut white hair, I was easy to overlook. My mother insisted on cutting it herself at the start of each month. She said my hair was too fine for anyone else to handle, that others wouldn't be gentle enough. It was one of her quirks—something small but comforting.
I thought that same obscurity would shield me here, too, but then there was Dustin.
He was in my class, but at first, he didn't even notice me. He walked past me like everyone else, with that air of superiority he wore so naturally. Dustin was everything I wasn't: tall, charismatic, and, worst of all, confident. People gravitated toward him, laughing at his jokes, following his lead.
For a while, I thought I'd go unnoticed, like always. But that changed.
It started in the library.
I'd been there after school, searching for supplementary books to aid my research. The book I'd found hidden in my father's old study—Vincula Imaginis—was a mystery I couldn't ignore. I never met my father, but reading the texts he left behind felt like a connection to him, a way to understand the man I came from.
The library was my sanctuary, a place where I could dive into a world of logic and history, away from the noise of the other students. I stood on my tiptoes, straining to reach a book on an upper shelf, my fingers barely grazing the spine.
And then I felt it—a hand, warm and solid, reaching above mine to grab the book.
I turned around and there he was. Dustin.
He had that smile, the kind that lit up his face like he was in on a private joke. I wasn't sure if it was friendly or mocking. "Need help?" he said, holding the book out toward me.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks," I muttered, taking the book and clutching it to my chest.
I should've walked away. I should've said nothing else.
But Dustin didn't walk away.
"What's your name?" he asked, his tone casual, like we were old friends.
"Christian," I replied, barely meeting his gaze.
"Christian," he repeated, like he was trying it out, letting it roll off his tongue. "I've seen you around. You're always in here, huh?"I nodded, not sure what to say.
"Cool," he said, his smile widening. "See you around, Christian."It seemed harmless. Just a brief, odd interaction. But something about the way he said my name, the way he smiled—it stuck with me.I didn't know then that it wasn't the start of a friendship. It was the start of something darker, something I wouldn't understand until it was too late.
From that day on, I couldn't shake the feeling that Dustin was watching me. At first, I thought I was imagining it. A glance here, a passing comment there. But soon, it became more. He'd "accidentally" bump into me in the halls, make remarks about the books I was carrying, even sit near me in the cafeteria despite having an entire group of friends at another table.
And then came the taunts.
"Hey, library boy!" he'd call out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What're you reading now? Spells to make you taller?"
Laughter would follow, and I'd lower my head, trying to disappear.
It wasn't just words. The shoulder checks in the hallway, the books knocked out of my hands—it was all so calculated, so precise. He made sure no teachers saw, made sure I never had proof to fight back.I told myself it didn't matter.
I told myself to focus on my studies, on the Vincula Imaginis. The book was becoming an obsession, its cryptic texts pulling me deeper and deeper into a world I didn't fully understand. But even in my sanctuary, Dustin found ways to invade.
The library wasn't safe anymore.
One afternoon, I caught him following me there, leaning against the shelves with that same infuriating smile. "You're always in here, huh?" he said again, like it was a joke only he understood.
"Yeah," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
He stepped closer, too close, and I felt the weight of his presence like a shadow swallowing the light. "What're you reading about, Christian?"
"Just... research," I said, clutching the book tighter.
"Research," he echoed, his tone mocking. He leaned in, his voice low. "You think all this reading makes you smarter than me?"
"No," I said quickly, my pulse racing.
Dustin's smile faded, replaced by something darker. "Good," he said. "Because it doesn't."
For the first time, I felt something cold and sharp in his voice—a threat. I didn't know why he'd chosen me, why he cared at all. But I knew one thing: this wasn't about teasing anymore.And it wouldn't stop there.
Looking back, I wonder if things would've been different if I'd spoken up, if I'd told someone. But I didn't. I stayed quiet, hoping it would go away.It didn't.
Instead, it grew into something I couldn't escape, something that would break me in ways I didn't think were possible.
This was just the beginning.