Daybreak at Lakewood memorial didn't arrive with the gentle caress of a cinematic sunrise; it arrived with the authoritarian tolling of the clocktower. The heavy bronze chime echoed from the distant, misty banks of Harmony Creek, striking six sharp blows that shattered the silence of the dormitories. It was a sound that didn't just wake you up; it vibrated in your eardrums.
The school clawed its way back to life. The hallways, silent moments before, erupted into a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers, sliding sneakers, and the frantic chatter of hundreds of teenagers. Students scampered from their dorms to the communal bathrooms, a desperate migration fueled by the threat of morning assembly and the hollow promise of the refectory's breakfast.
Matthias blinked against the faint light of the morning sun sleeping through the curtains into his room. He reached out to nudge the bunk above him, but his hand met only a cold, disarrayed mattress. Isha had vanished. As usual, his roommate was the busy type—though Matthias used the term loosely. Isha's schedule was rarely filled with calculus or chemistry; it was usually occupied by orchestrating a raid on Farmer Margot's cabbage cottage ,or some other act of creative mischief that would inevitably land him in Saturday detention.
With a sigh, Matthias offered a brief, whispered morning prayer,mostly asking for the strength to survive first-period , before grabbing his towel and soap dish. As he shrugged off his night jacket to hang it on the splintered wood of his wardrobe, a small, white folded square of paper fluttered out of the pocket.
He almost forgot.
It was Laila's secret address. Or was it? He hadn't dared to peek at the contents since she'd pressed it into his hand. His imagination, currently fueled by lack of sleep, took a dark turn.
"What if it's laced with a letter bomb?" he wondered, looking at the innocent slip of paper. "A poetic, high-school-romance-style explosion that blows off my brains". He shook his head, clearing the cinematic paranoia. Laila was a sweet soul, far too kind for such diabolical act. He carefully tucked the paper into the hidden compartment of his backpack, saving the mystery for the relative safety of recess.
The assembly ground was an ocean of navy-blue blazers under a gray morning sky. The morning hymn was a dull, sluggish dirge. It wasn't that the students lacked faith; they lacked glucose. Thousands of voices droned on, sounding more like a collective groan for pancakes than a song of praise.
Matthias stood on his tiptoes, scanning the sea of heads for his crew. No sign of Isha's mess of curls, Xavier's towering frame, or Beni's constant, nervous shifting. More importantly, his eyes searched for a specific ponytail—Laila. But the crowd was a blur of unfamiliar faces. Disappointment settled in his chest, heavy as an unopened textbook.
When the final "Amen" echoed, the order dissolved, barely waiting to hear Principal Nakamura's brief announcement. The rush to the refectory was less a walk and more a tactical charge.
"Hey, watch it, damnit!"
an angry baritone boomed from the throng. A form five senior, looking twice the size of a regular human, glowered down at a junior who had accidentally tripped on his polished Oxfords.
Inside the dining hall, the Refectory Master and the refectory Prefect moved like sheepdogs, herding the hungry masses into organized rows to prevent a stampede. Matthias found a seat at the center of a long table, the wood scarred by generations of bored students. He still couldn't spot Isha. Maybe he's skipped breakfast for something sinister, he thought, though he doubted it. Isha would miss a funeral before he missed French Toast Friday. The absence of the entire crew was starting to feel like a matter of deep concern.
"Mind if I sit beside you? Hope the seat's not taken?"
The voice was melodic, cutting through the clatter of plastic trays like a silver bell. Matthias looked up, his heart performing a sudden, erratic gymnastics routine. For a split second, he hoped it was Laila.
It wasn't. It was Estella Adams.
Estella was the undisputed Rock Queen of Lakewood, a girl whose presence usually required a wind machine and a guitar solo. She was a beauty to behold—striking, poised, and utterly out of Matthias's league. "At least it isn't Ugly Dulcinea Martin," he thought uncharitably, remembering the girl who usually tried to sit near him during lunch. He looked at Estella's tray, then at her perfectly styled hair. Why isn't she with her cheerleading crew?
Breakfast was served: thick slices of bread, a questionable egg sausage, and a mug of oatmeal that was roughly the consistency of wet cement. Matthias, whose stomach was tied in knots of anxiety, managed only a few sips of the lukewarm cocoa.
He watched Estella from the corner of his eye. She dined with the terrifying etiquette of a debutante, cutting her sausage as if she were at a state dinner. "She'd make a perfect wife for a perfect Nobleman", he mused with a faint smile, his own appetite diminishing even further under the weight of her perfection.
The peaceful, if awkward, moment was shattered by a sound like a ferocious abyssal beast .
"I said let me have it! A deal is a deal, dummy!"
The voice was a harsh, gravelly roar that came from the table directly behind them. Matthias felt the blood drain from his face. It was his worst nightmare: Lionel.
Lionel, was currently in the process of reclaiming interest on a loan. The Demolition man had snatched an entire bowl of egg sauce from Boniface, a frail, nerdy boy whose eyes were currently pools of tears held back only by the sheer surface tension of his pride.
"But... but, you had my pancakes last week," Boniface stammered, his voice trembling. "And the tinned tuna two nights ago. Our business should be concluded, Lionel. Please."
Lionel frowned . He didn't care about emotions; he cared about his selfish interests.
"Our business ends only when I say so. Now let go before you wake up in the Red Cross sick bay."
With a effortless flick of his muscular wrist, Lionel yanked the bowl away. Matthias looked around the room, fuming. Why doesn't anyone stop him? The Refectory Master was busy arguing with a cook; the Prefects were looking the other way. Lionel didn't belong in a high school; he belonged in a maximum-security remand home.
As Lionel sat down to feast, he turned. His face was a map of recent violence—a large plaster covered his nose, and his left eye was a magnificent shade of bruised violet, courtesy of Matthias's 'score' .
"Shyte!"
Matthias screamed internally. He jammed his chin into his chest, staring intensely at his oatmeal as if it held the secrets of the universe. He had done the Demolition Man real dirty , and he knew the debt would be collected in blood. He couldn't hide forever, but he could certainly hide for the next ten minutes.
The plastic bench beneath him began to feel like a hot plate. Every second Lionel was in the room was a second Matthias spent on the edge of a panic attack. When Lionel became distracted by harassing a different group of juniors, Matthias saw his opening. He stood up, grabbed his backpack, and bolted toward the side exit.
"Damn it!"
he hissed as he reached the corridor. In his haste, he rammed his injured ankle against a rat-bait box tucked against the wall. A white-hot spike of pain shot up his leg, forcing him to limp. Matthias cursed under his breath. He had forgotten to take his daily dose of ibuprofen.
"Hey, Striker. Long time no see. Tired of running?"
Matthias froze. He knew that mocking, nasally tone anywhere. He looked up to find Loud Dan leaning against a radiator, a smirk playing on his thin lips.
"What are you talking about, Daniel?"
Matthias snapped, rubbing his aching ankle. "Who's running? I'm going to class."
Dan gave a low, trickish chuckle that made Matthias want to swing his backpack at him.
"Nothing escapes my sight, Striker. I saw you bolt yesterday when I called out to you at the lockers. You look like a rat caught in a corner. Looks like nemesis has finally caught up to you."
"You're deluded," Matthias scowled, trying to push past him. "I have classes. I don't have time for your brand of goofiness, Dan."
He managed to brush past, putting some distance between them, but Dan called out one last time. The words hit Matthias like a physical blow to the back of the neck.
"Hey, Striker! You can run, but you can't run forever! Lionel is waiting for you at the end of the rabbit hole, and he's going to be so happy to see you. Hope you're up for the Demolition man, Striker! See you on the other side!"
Matthias didn't look back. He kept limping, the weight of the threat in the halls creating a pressure that felt like it might finally crack the morning wide open.