Aizak sat in the back seat of the taxi, slightly angled toward the driver—an old man somewhere in his fifties. He kept checking his reflection in the rearview mirror, dragging his sleeve across his face, wiping away sweat and grime left over from the bus incident.
The driver kept looking at him.
Not openly. Not boldly.
Quick glances. Repeated. Measuring.
Aizak noticed.
"Is there something on my face, sir?" he asked, voice calm, polite.
The driver's expression shifted immediately. A practiced smile.
"No. Nothing at all. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
Aizak leaned forward, eyes locking with the man's through the mirror.
"Really?" he said, smiling—but there was nothing friendly in it.
The driver exhaled and raised a finger, pointing downward.
"It's just… there's blood on your pants. Did you get hurt?"
Aizak followed the gesture. A dark spatter stained the fabric.
He hadn't noticed.
Must've happened when that famous rapper was beating the bus driver.
He laughed lightly.
"Oh, this?" He scratched the back of his head. "Ketchup. I'm clumsy."
The driver didn't believe him. But blood wasn't unusual here. Neither were lies.
He chuckled and kept driving—hands steady, posture relaxed, or pretending to be.
"There are wet wipes in the pocket beside you," he said. "Help yourself."
Aizak reached in.
Wet wipes.
And a gun.
Loaded.
His breath hitched. Sweat broke out instantly.
"Everything okay?" the driver asked, eyes still on the road. His smile didn't fade.
Aizak pulled the wipes out and closed the pocket carefully, fingers shaking.
"Yeah. Just… zoned out."
The car stopped hard.
Aizak's head smacked the window. The wipes slipped from his hand.
"We're here," the driver said politely.
Aizak rubbed the back of his head, wincing.
"One minute."
He handed over the fare. Took the wipes. Opened the door.
"Shove that gun up your ass, geezer," he muttered before slamming it shut.
The driver burst into laughter—sharp, hysterical—before pulling away toward his next client.
The University of Internationals loomed ahead.
Aizak connected his AirPods and walked slowly. Then he checked the time.
8:50 AM.
Economics wouldn't start until nine.
Coffee.
At the café nearby, he ordered his usual—large black, no sugar—and stepped outside for a cigarette.
"Finally," he murmured. "Some peace."
"Why is there blood on your pants?"
Stephanie.
They were… something. Not together. Not apart.
Aizak exhaled and forced a smile.
"It's nothing. Don't worry."
He reached up, fingers brushing through her hair.
"Did you do something different? It looks better."
Her concern vanished instantly.
"You noticed?" she said, beaming. "I dyed it yesterday."
"Yeah," he replied. "It's obvious."
"How've you been?" he asked—and regretted it.
She spiraled into complaints about her ex and his new girlfriend.
Aizak checked his phone.
9:20 AM.
Is time moving faster, or am I slowing down?
"Sorry," he interrupted. "I'm late."
He turned and ran.
"We'll catch up," he called over his shoulder.
He sprinted through campus. Cigarette still in his mouth. Coffee spilling, unnoticed.
At the lecture hall door, he stopped to straighten his clothes.
What excuse even matters anymore?
"Could you move?"
Anita.
"Oh—sorry," he said, opening the door.
She walked in calmly and took a seat.
The professor frowned—briefly. Only at Aizak.
Aizak followed.
"Where do you think you're going?" the professor snapped.
"To my seat," Aizak said evenly.
The professor laughed.
"No, you're not. Get out."
The class reacted instantly.
"Again?"
"He never learns."
"What a joke."
"Why?" Aizak asked. "Don't bullshit me—Anita was late too."
The professor stepped closer, inhaled deeply, eyes scanning him.
"You smell like cigarettes. You look like shit. And that blood—what is it?"
Aizak clenched his fists.
"You going to hit me?" the professor mocked.
"Go on. HIT ME."
Blood pooled in Aizak's mouth.
Whispers sharpened.
"Pathetic."
"Such a waste."
"Just leave."
The professor sighed.
"Leave now, and I won't report you."
Aizak let his fists fall. Turned. Walked out.
Then he stopped.
Turned back.
No students.
Only black, faceless figures—laughing.
His heart slammed. His legs locked.
"Is he crying?"
"How embarrassing."
"Stop," Aizak whispered. "Stop."
"Aizak?" the professor's voice echoed.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Aizak swung.
The professor hit the floor.
Blood splashed across Aizak's face.
"He hit him!"
"Should we help?"
"Just leave."
"I'll expel you!" the professor screamed.
Aizak ran.
Every face stared. Every face was black.
Someone grabbed him.
"Are you okay?"
Aizak shoved him and bolted into the bathroom.
Empty.
He scrubbed his face—but the blood spread, thicker with every splash.
"What's happening?" he shouted at the mirror.
His reflection smiled.
"You did it again."
"Shut up!"
He punched the glass.
It shattered.
Blood followed.
Aizak collapsed, shaking, tears soaking the floor.
"Well," he whispered.