Sunrise Home.
The Saturday sun felt brutally bright after the usual perpetual dimness of the university and the nightclub.
Julien stood on the polished linoleum floor of the Sunrise Home main office, clutching a backpack containing the sum total of his personal belongings.
The building smelled precisely the same as it always had: bleach, stale air, and the faint, sweet scent of desperation trying to be disguised by scented candles.
Mrs. Mathilda sat behind her large, imposing desk—the same desk where she had delivered countless stern lectures and thinly veiled threats.
She was dressed impeccably, a perfect professional smile plastered on her face, making her look more like a corporate executive than a caretaker.
"Julien, dear, please take a seat. I've laid out the final documents," she cooed, gesturing to a thick stack of papers centered on a faux-leather blotter.
Julien remained standing. "Thank you, ma'am. I prefer to stand."
Mathilda's smile faltered for a fraction of a second—a tiny muscle twitch of annoyance—before snapping back into place.
"Very well. Efficient, as always. We simply need your signature here, confirming receipt of your personal documents—your birth certificate, your high school diploma—and here, affirming that you are voluntarily vacating the premises as per your legal age and new independent status."
She spoke the words 'independent status' with immense satisfaction, her eyes gleaming with the relief of a liability successfully discharged.
Julien approached the desk and quickly scanned the papers. He wasn't looking for clauses; he was looking for traps.
He knew the drill. This was the final formality to ensure he could never come back and claim any further resources.
"Everything looks in order, ma'am," Julien stated flatly.
"Excellent!" Mathilda chirped, handing him a high-end pen. "Such a good boy, always making things easy for us. We are so very proud that you are moving on to higher education. It truly validates the hard work we put in here at Sunrise."
The hard work you put in filling out the paperwork, you mean, Julien thought, the familiar cold disgust welling up.
He knew their pride was purely performance, designed for the quarterly reports and donor appeals.
He signed his name with a swift, steady hand. Each stroke was a severance, a purposeful cut.
"And there we have it," Mathilda said, retrieving the signed stack with the reverence one might show a winning lottery ticket. She placed a small, slightly dusty box in front of him. "And this is a little something from the home. A small token of our appreciation for your cooperation and maturity."
Julien glanced inside the box. It contained a generic key chain and a gift card for a coffee shop he never frequented. A pathetic, dismissive gesture.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, the words utterly devoid of meaning.
"Now, before you go, would you like one last tour of the grounds? See the new flower beds we've installed?" she offered, her tone perfunctory.
Julien shook his head immediately. "No, thank you. I need to get moving."
He felt no pang of nostalgia, no desire to revisit the cramped dormitories or the chilly common areas. This place had given him shelter, yes, but it had never given him a home.
"Wise choice," Mathilda conceded with a tight smile. "You must be very busy. I wish you all the very best, Julien. Do send us a postcard when you've settled in Kingston City."
Postcard? Never.
Julien simply nodded once—a final, silent, formal farewell—and turned his back on the office, walking out into the corridor without a single glance over his shoulder.
The main difference between the sterile office and the rest of the home was the people.
As soon as he was out of Mathilda's sight, Julien's rigid posture eased.
He found the younger kids gathered near the worn, patchy patch of grass they called a play yard. As soon as they spotted him, a tiny, determined swarm broke away from their game.
"Julien!"
Leo, a seven-year-old with perpetually scraped knees and a shock of sandy hair, reached him first, clutching a grubby dinosaur toy.
"You're really leaving? For good, good?"
Julien knelt down, immediately shedding his 'mask' for the raw, real emotion that only these kids deserved. His smile this time was genuine, filled with a deep, protective affection.
"Yeah, buddy, for good this time," Julien confirmed softly. He ruffled Leo's hair. "But you know I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."
A small girl named Clara, notorious for her quiet shyness, tugged on his shirt. Her eyes were wide, and her lower lip trembled.
"But who's going to read the space book now? And who's gonna scare away Mr. Henderson when he yells?"
Julien's heart ached. These kids were why he endured everything. They were his only good memory of this place.
"You guys are tough. You'll scare him away yourselves," Julien told them, trying to inject confidence into his voice. "And about the space book... I left something for you."
He reached into his backpack and pulled out three wrapped items: two brand-new, slightly worn paperbacks—a thick science fiction novel he'd finished and a bright, glossy book on constellations—and a small plastic bag filled with his meager stash of candy.
"Leo, this," Julien handed the space book to Clara, "is for you. You need to keep reading and learn all the names of the stars. And this," he handed the sci-fi novel to an older girl, Maya, who had quietly followed him, "is for you when you need a good escape. Keep it hidden from the counselors."
He then knelt back down, facing the cluster of faces looking up at him with anxious, huge eyes.
"Listen to me," he said, making sure every one of them was paying attention. "This place is just a stop. It's not the finish line. You keep your grades up, you look out for each other, and you don't let anyone here tell you what you can't do."
He gave a final, firm hug to Leo and Maya, who clung to him fiercely for a moment.
"I'm going to Kingswell, right? To the capital," Julien said, holding them slightly at arm's length, his eyes intense. "I'm doing this so I can come back one day and take all of you out for real food. Not this slop. You keep studying, okay? We'll see who gets there next."
He gave them one last, lingering look, committing their faces to memory.
Then, before the emotions could overwhelm him, he stood up, slung his pack over his shoulder, and began to walk quickly toward the main gate.
He didn't look back, trusting that his final message had landed.
He was moving forward, carrying not the bitter memories of the director's office, but the fierce hope reflected in the eyes of the children he left behind.
***
Bus Station.
The Westbridge intercity bus station wasn't much more than a slightly dilapidated shelter with peeling paint and a faint smell of diesel.
A single, enormous coach—destined for the long haul to Kingston City—idled impatiently, its air brakes hissing like an angry mechanical beast.
Julien stood by the luggage bay, his meager belongings—one worn backpack and a small, functional duffel bag—already stowed.
He felt lighter than he had in months. In the weeks since signing the severance papers and saying goodbye to the kids, he had been a machine: Review, Study, Quit.
He'd aced his advanced assignments, submitted his final notices at 'The Velvet Cage' and his other part-time gig at the warehouse, and collected every last cent of his wages.
The money was a tight, calculated cushion—just enough for a cheap city rental until the Kingswell results came in.
Standing opposite him were Erik and Dave, looking slightly awkward and oversized in the humble bus station setting.
"Look at you, all ready for the big city," Dave remarked, trying to sound casual, but his usual booming voice was noticeably subdued. He clapped a heavy hand on Julien's shoulder. "No more Westbridge slop for our boy, huh? Only gourmet city cafeteria food now."
Julien managed a genuine, appreciative smile. "Don't kid yourself. I'll probably be eating ramen for three months straight. Kingston rent doesn't mess around."
Erik, fidgeting with the collar of his jacket, sighed dramatically. "Still, man, you did it. Finished everything early. Quit the club. You're actually making the jump before the exam. That's pure focus."
"I have to be," Julien admitted, the lightness in his expression fading into a serious intensity. "This exam is everything. I can't afford distractions, and I can't afford to lose this chance. Westbridge is the past now. I needed to cut the anchor."
Dave nodded, understanding. "We get it. Go crush it. You're the smartest guy we know, Jule. You're practically a Kingswell student already, just waitin' for the acceptance letter."
Julien shrugged, but the compliment warmed him. "Don't count the chickens before they hatch. It's a marathon exam; five hours of pure academic torture."
"You eat academic torture for breakfast," Erik countered, suddenly pulling a crinkled brown paper bag from behind his back.
"Anyway, since you won't be sipping on Blue Dreams anymore, we got you some proper fuel."
He handed the bag to Julien. Inside were three massive, slightly warm peanut butter cookies—Julien's favorite, bought from the old lady baker near campus.
"A going-away present. For the ride," Erik explained. "And for when you're cramming late at night. Don't tell me you can't eat one now."
Julien felt a surprising tightness in his throat. These small, genuine gestures always broke through his careful mask.
"Guys… thanks."
He took a cookie out of the bag and took a large bite. It tasted like home and familiarity—everything he was now actively trying to leave behind, yet something he deeply treasured.
"So, what's the plan, seriously?" Dave asked. "You take the exam, find a cheap room, and then what? Back here for the holidays?"
"No," Julien said, shaking his head. "I found a place near Kingston, dirt cheap, near a big library. I'll stay there until the results are finalized. If I get the scholarship, I stay. If I don't..."
He paused, a shadow of fierce determination crossing his face. "If I don't, I find a better paying job and re-apply next year. There is no plan B that involves coming back to Westbridge and settling."
Erik whistled low. "Hardcore. You really are burning the ships."
"It's the only way," Julien reaffirmed.
The bus driver opened the door with a loud PFFFT of escaping air.
"Kingston City! Boarding now, last call!"
Julien looked at his friends, a rare, uncomplicated warmth filling his eyes. "Look out for each other. And don't fail History, Erik."
"Never!" Erik laughed, pulling Julien into a quick, hearty hug. "Call us when you ace it, Jule."
"Take care, man. You got this," Dave added, giving him a final, powerful grip on the shoulder.
Julien nodded, shouldering his backpack.
He gave them one last look, storing the memory of their familiar, easy friendship.
"See you later," Julien said, a promise and a hope bundled into the phrase.
He turned and climbed the narrow steps of the bus. He didn't look back as he found a window seat.
As the massive vehicle pulled out onto the highway, he watched his two best friends become small dots in the distance.
The road ahead was daunting—a scholarship exam that could change his life, a terrifying new city, and the persistent memory of Mathilda's scorn and the nightclub's grime.
But for the first time, Julien was moving forward, entirely on his own terms.
***
Kingston City.
Hours later, the immense, rumbling coach finally sighed to a halt beneath the soaring canopy of the Kingston City Transit Hub.
Julien stepped off the bus, and the difference between the capital and the countryside was immediate, overwhelming, and absolute.
The air itself felt thicker, charged with raw energy and the constant, high-frequency hum of a million intersecting lives.
The sky wasn't visible; it was a canvas of steel and glass, dominated by high structures that almost clawed their way toward the clouds.
Skyscrapers, taller and more magnificent than anything he'd ever seen even in pictures, formed canyons that swallowed the sunlight.
The sheer volume of people—dressed in styles Westbridge hadn't even heard of—rushed past with purpose, their faces closed, their steps quick.
Julien momentarily paused, a spectator awed by the scale of ambition on display. Truly worthy of the Country's Capital.
The grandeur was immense. This wasn't the slow, comfortable pace of Westbridge; this was a roaring, relentless machine of opportunity, power, and prestige.
This is it, he thought, a thrill shooting through him. This is where I belong.
He pulled his duffel bag over his shoulder and started walking, moving quickly away from the bus terminal.
He knew the drill: the closer to the major transport hubs, the higher the fares. Every penny was sacred, calculated to last until the Kingswell results.
He walked for several blocks, soaking in the sights, the sounds, and the dizzying pace until he reached a slightly quieter, older sector where the local transport was cheaper.
He hopped onto a cramped, rattling bus that took him deep into a labyrinth of backstreets, far from the polished commercial districts.
Finally, he disembarked on a nondescript corner.
His rental was tucked away down a narrow alley, a location more remote than he'd mentally prepared for, but its proximity to the massive, historic Kingston Public Library was the trade-off he'd prioritized.
The building itself was old, a block of worn brick with fire escapes crisscrossing the front like skeletal scars.
The apartment was on the third floor, accessed by a dim, echoing stairwell that smelled perpetually of old cooking oil and damp concrete.
He wrestled the key into the lock of Apartment 3C and pushed the door open.
It was nothing noteworthy. As expected for the price, it was small and cramped.
The main room served as a combined living area and bedroom, dominated by a thin mattress on a metal frame.
The paint on the walls was the color of weak tea, and the single window looked directly onto a neighboring brick wall.
The kitchen was a counter with a two-burner stove and a sink that dripped with a rhythmic, irritating plink… plink… plink...
It was humble. It was stark. It was entirely his.
Julien dropped his bag onto the floor and took a sweeping, slow look around the tiny space.
He saw the peeling wallpaper and the cracked linoleum, but he didn't care.
He was eighteen, in the capital city, legally discharged from the only place he'd ever lived, and he had paid for this place with his own hard-won money.
A genuine, unburdened smile spread across his face, lighting up his tired features. It was the first truly authentic expression of happiness he'd allowed himself in months.
He walked over to the thin mattress, ran his hand over the cheap sheet, and dropped his backpack next to it.
He pulled out the few worn textbooks—his arsenal for the upcoming battle.
"Home," he whispered, the word feeling foreign and incredibly precious.
Unpacking, he began immediately, arranging his study notes on a tiny, rickety desk by the window.
He was a million miles from the back alley of 'The Velvet Cage' and a world away from Mrs. Mathilda's sterile office.
He was here. He was alone. And now, he just had to pass the test.