One year earlier.
Jason wakes like he's been shoved back into his body. The ceiling above his bed bends inward, corners sagging as if the room forgot how to hold its shape. Dust drifts through the dark, glowing faintly when his phone buzzes on the desk.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
He groans. "Not now."
The screen lights up anyway. Messages stack. Hearts bloom and vanish. Numbers jump faster than his eyes can follow.
"You're awake," he mutters to himself. "That's new."
The phone vibrates again, sliding closer to the edge like it wants him. His chest tightens before the thought forms. He swings his legs off the bed, feet cold on the floor, and rubs his face.
"Just one check," he says. "Five seconds."
The glow spills across his knuckles, pale and hungry. Notifications keep coming. A laugh track without sound. Approval without faces.
"You don't even like these people," he murmurs.
The room answers with nothing. The walls ripple, shadows stretching thin, then snapping back. His reflection swims across the phone's glass between flashes of colour, eyes too tired, jaw slack, skin dull.
"That's not me," he says.
The screen hums. A vibration crawls up his palm, into his wrist.
"Put it down," he tells himself.
His thumb hovers. Stops. Moves anyway.
A knock echoes from nowhere. Soft. Inside the room.
"Who's there?" he asks the dark.
His gaze returns to the phone.
It freezes. The light cuts out mid-scroll.
Black glass. No icons. No names.
Only his reflection staring back, older, heavier, slumped like he's been waiting there a long time.
The room dissolves. Later the same night. Jason crouches at the corner of his bed, shoulders tighter, phone already in his hand like it grew there.
"One last reel," he says, eyes unfocused. "I swear."
The screen flickers. His thumb moves. Up. Down. Again.
The red digits crawl forward one jump at a time. Jason blinks, looks away, looks back, and the numbers have leapt again. He shifts on the bed, fingers numb, eyes burning, the glow on the clock changing while he pretends not to notice.
"You're wasting time," a voice says. It sounds like his. It doesn't sound concerned.
Jason shifts, back aching. "Just relaxing."
Swipe.
A hollow warmth spreads through his chest, thin as static. The room dims with every motion. Posters fade. The door melts into shadow.
"Tomorrow I'll stop," he murmurs.
Swipe.
Jason draws in a breath and stops halfway. He tries again, slower this time, chest lifting as if something presses against it. Each inhale drags, muffled, leaving his lungs working harder than they should.
"Just bored," he says, louder than he means to. "Need some time off."
Swipe.
Something drains out of him with each movement. He can feel it leaving, focus, patience, something solid. His shoulders slump as if weight has been added.
"Jason."
He jerks upright. "Mom?"
No answer. The screen keeps feeding him light.
"I heard you," he insists.
The walls lean closer. Shadows pool at the corners, crawling like spilled ink.
"I'm fine," he tells himself. "Just stressed."
The word sits wrong in his mouth.
A whisper slides through the dark, close to his ear, careful and amused.
"Still hiding?"
His thumb freezes mid-swipe. The screen reflects his eyes, glassy and distant, as if he's already somewhere else.
Lockers slam. Shoes squeak. Jason moves with the current, backpack loose on one shoulder, laughter already queued on his face.
—
"That test was brutal," Caleb Hart says, grinning wide, curly hair bouncing as he walks. "I guessed half of it."
Jason laughs when everyone else does. "Same here."
Marcus Vale glances over, sharp eyes measuring. "You say that every time."
Jason shrugs. "It's tradition."
The hallway smells like deodorant and dust. Light pours through high windows, bright enough to erase corners. He mirrors Caleb's stride, Daniel Frost's lazy slouch, Lucas Bennett's quiet nods.
"Yo, Jason," someone calls. "You coming later or what?"
"Yeah," Jason says instantly. "Of course."
Marcus leans toward someone flanking him. "He doesn't know where later is. He just knows yes is safer."
A teacher passes. Jason looks away.
"You ever think for yourself?" Marcus asks, tone polite, edged.
Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Smiles instead.
"That's a no," Marcus says, already turning away.
The words sting more than Jason expects. He stops walking. His gaze follows Marcus as he leads his group forward. Jason's palm slams against a locker, metal cold through his sleeve.
"Don't let him get to you," Caleb mutters. "You good?"
Jason nods.
Laughter rolls down the hall, lighter, musical. His shoulders tense before he sees her.
Mara Quinn strolls with her group, laughter trailing behind her. The lights catch her warm complexion as her curls bounce freely around her face. She flashes a smile as she walks, effortless, familiar, the kind that draws eyes without asking.
"Well, look who finally showed up," she says, gaze catching Jason's.
His pulse stutters.
"I was here the whole time," he says, steadying his voice.
She steps closer, smiling, close enough that he smells her perfume, something sweet and unhurried. "Sure you were."
Her laugh echoes down the corridor, wrapping around him, familiar and dangerous.
And it follows him as the bell rings, long after everyone else moves on.