Monday came.
The gates of Lincoln High loomed ahead, familiar and steady, but Julian's chest carried a weight he hadn't felt before.
He stepped through them with his tumbler in hand, steam rising faintly from the top. Crest's tea—bitter, strong, grounding. A small ritual, but today it felt like armor.
The cold morning air bit against his cheeks, but the heat of the tea coiled in his stomach like fire.
He could almost feel Crest's quiet gaze in every sip, like she'd brewed not just leaves but discipline, carved into liquid.
Each swallow steadied his pulse, reminded him who he was and why he walked forward.
The hours of class blurred. Chalk on the board. Pages turning. Voices droning. His mind kept circling back to yesterday's choice. I'm in. The words still echoed.
When the final bell rang, Julian exhaled, steadying himself, and made his way to the locker room.
He pushed the door open.
