The clock was buzzing too damn loud.
J's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and unfocused, his brain lagging about five steps behind reality. For a few precious seconds, he thought he was still in some miserable dream—then his gaze landed on the clock. The numbers glared at him, bright and hostile.
8:42 AM.
Silence. Then--
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
J shot up so fast he nearly headbutted the ceiling. He was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago. On another thought, an hour ago. He had slept at 6 with an alarm, loud enough to wake three oxes. Wait oxes..? he slowly turned his head to the house door. It seemed old somehow, and ragged as if someone shook it very, very angrily. Lovely. He thought. The only positive outcome here was no one from Vermis was monitoring him.
If those bastards found out, he internally growled and got up.
He had exactly negative two shits' worth of time to get ready.
His boots were on before he even registered putting them on. He yanked his bag out from under his bed, unzipped it, and started hurling things in like a lunatic.
Flask of coffee? Essential.
Switchblade? Obviously.
Cigarettes? Didn't smoke, still bringing them.
Duct tape? Of course.
Violin string? One day, someone would ask why. One day, he'd have an answer.
A single grenade? …No comment.
The Myth of Sisyphus? Because he was an insufferable bastard.
The harmonica? Last-minute decision.
He snatched his coat, shoved his arms through the sleeves mid-sprint, and nearly broke his damn ankle hopping down the stairs. Seamus was already waiting outside, checking his pocket watch like some Victorian butler about to be very disappointed.
J slid into the car with all the grace of a man who just barely avoided dying before noon. The driver side-eyed him, unimpressed.
"Where to then, mister?"
J exhaled through his nose, still half-asleep, still mildly offended at the morning's existence. "Seventeen, mate. Drop the 'mister' before I develop a complex."
"Where to, then?"
J stretched his legs, cracked his knuckles. "Hains Institute. Bright future ahead and all that shit."
The driver scoffed, started the car, and pulled out onto the road.
J leaned back against the seat, eyelids heavy. Today was going to be a fucking disaster.
***
The air inside Hains was heavy, the kind of thick silence that only existed in places built on too much reputation and not enough warmth. Bless the ones who build this place, because it was built upon the graves of all the Niranians, now living across the border. It's history was buried under its prestige. The walls were lined with plaques, awards, and faded photographs of past legends—ghosts of people who had walked through these halls and either made history or disappeared into irrelevance. And once inside, the class that made the impossible occur in its initial stages, B2.
The desks were arranged in perfect symmetry, polished wood gleaming under the overhead lights. Everything here was pristine, cold, disciplined. Even the students sat with a sort of calculated presence, like they knew they were supposed to be something somebody.
The class hadn't begun yet, but the rest were busy with projects they had been assigned, or they had been--being this institute's pride and joy--they get jobs easily. Quick credits.
Nick slumped into his chair, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the edge of the desk. His other hand toyed with a pick, flipping it between his fingers as his mind ran circles around the problem gnawing at him.
No fucking vocalist.
The Northern Watchtower was a goddamn opportunity—one of the biggest stages for rising talent, something that could shove his music straight into the veins of the industry. But without a voice to carry the sound, what the hell was the point? He had the guitar, the melody, the experience, and Lily, but the frontman? The presence? Missing. And he wasn't about to throw some half-assed amateur onto the stage just to fill the slot.
His jaw tensed as he glanced around the room. The usual suspects were here-rich kids, prodigies, overhyped legacies who had their futures handed to them before they could even spell "Greatest". Not one of them would cut it.
And then, the door opened.
His face was sharp, angular cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it had been cut with a rusted knife. His skin was pale, but not in the elegant, noble kind of way--more like someone who lived in shadows, someone who only ever saw the sun in passing.
His hair was a mess of black, thick and tousled, never quite in place, as if he'd run his hands through it too many times in frustration. A few strands fell over his forehead, framing sharp, tired eyes--the kind of eyes that made people uneasy.
And his eyes?
Amber, but not warm. More like burnt gold, like dying embers in the dark. They flickered between detached boredom and something sharper, something feral, like he was two seconds away from either laughing in your face or driving a knife between your ribs.
But there was a subtle charm in him, in those eyes. A gyrating force as if. The man was lean, built like a streetfighter--strong enough to hold his own.
Dressed like he was allergic to bright colors—black coat, dark shirt, boots that had seen better days. A belt that held more than just a few illegal necessities. His gloves were fingerless, worn leather, not for fashion but function.
He stepped inside like he owned the place. Not in the loud, arrogant way most people did when they had something to prove, but in that effortless, I-don't-give-a-fuck way that made it clear he didn't need validation from anyone in this room.
Leather jacket slung over his shoulder, a slow, deliberate gait, and eyes that carried the weight of someone who had seen too much and given too little of a damn about any of it.
Nick watched as he took a seat, propping his feet up against the desk without hesitation. He could already hear the whispers starting--the usual bullshit when someone new walked in looking like trouble.
Nick didn't care about trouble.
He cared about the sound. The presence. And something about this guy screamed untamed.
Still, he wasn't about to start hoping. He wasn't desperate.
The heavy oak doors of Hains swung open and Mr. Eldridge strode in, all measured steps and clipped authority. The room itself was a shrine to legacy: polished wood desks in flawless rows, walls adorned with plaques and faded photographs of past prodigies, the whole place humming with a cold, unforgiving prestige. In these times, prestige was all that mattered, he thought.
Nick slouched into one of the back seats, his mind already drifting away from the impending lecture. He wasn't in the mood for another round of academic jumble about supply and demand. Economics always struck him as a world of neat little equations--stuff used to ignore the brilliance of life, with variables that balanced out as if life could be reduced to numbers. He flicked his gaze across the room, noting the standard lineup of eager, polished faces, each lost in their own calculated thoughts. Among them was a new face--a guy in a leather jacket, sitting quietly a few rows ahead. Nick didn't pay him much mind; new kids always blended into the background until they did something that forced attention. He barely registered him beyond a shadow in the periphery.
Mr. Eldridge began his lecture with a crisp "Good morning, class," and launched into a discussion of market equilibrium. His voice was methodical, as if reciting a sacred text, and his pointer danced along graphs and equations that splashed across the board. Nick's attention was half on the lesson, half lost in thought. Scratch that, he was juggling between screaming "Fire!" or imagining Anaya, the godforsaken witch that wouldn't leave his mind. Her beautiful copper skin, eyes that he couldn't walk out of, dark black hair cut perfectly.
He shook his head. Who cares about her anyway?
He couldn't help but feel that these polished theories were a far cry from the raw chaos of his world--where sound and fury were measured in scars and broken chords rather than percentages and elasticity.
As the teacher droned on about consumer behaviour and fiscal policies, Nick's mind wandered. He tapped his pencil against the desk in time with his inner rhythm, each tap a silent protest against the stifling order of it all, a reminder to bring back anarchy. The numbers and charts meant nothing to him--each formula was just another chain binding him to a system he never cared to be a part of. The laws? To hell with them.
He'd much rather be out on stage, guitar in hand, crafting riffs that cut through the silence of conformity and conventional consensus.
For Nick, every so often the monotony of the lesson was punctuated by a fleeting thought--perhaps about his band, or that looming gig at the Northern Watchtower. Without a vocalist, his heart raced at the possibility of either brilliance or disaster on stage. But those thoughts were his alone, tucked away in the back of his mind like the few secrets he still allowed himself.
In this world of precise economics, he himself was a variable. Nick's eyes drifted over the room, focusing on the relentless march of numbers and theories rather than on any particular person. He could see Tyler taking glances at the new kid --Interesting detail. Nick thought, but for now, barely more than a blip.
As Mr. Eldridge scribbled more formulas on the board, Nick's inner monologue was loud and clear: Fuck the neat little numbers. They don't measure the real price of life--the pain, the passion, the raw edge of a chord that shreds through the silence. He smirked inwardly, the taste of rebellion sweet on his tongue, even as he feigned interest in the lecture.
The class trudged on, the teacher's voice melding with the scratch of chalk against the board, until Nick's thoughts fully reclaimed him. He barely noticed the new kid, Tyler's hints to his friends, and even the legacy of the room couldn't shake his distant disinterest. For Nick, this wasn't the place where he felt alive--this was just another day in a system that didn't give a damn about scars or music.
And so, in that prestigious classroom, amid the polished veneer of academia, Nick's world was already somewhere else--where raw, untamed sound was the only truth, and every formula on the board was a reminder of everything that didn't quite add up in his life.