The whole school day felt like torture.
In the morning, John Markus sat through Survival class, listening to lectures about spider venom and snakebites. The screech of chalk mixed with the musty smell of the shut-in room, making his head heavy. At noon, Energy Law dragged on with endless clauses that blurred like a scroll, his eyelids drooping. By afternoon, Physical Training had them running lap after lap, sweat soaking his shirt.
When the final bell rang, he shot to his feet, body aching all over. But stepping out the school gates, the cool evening breeze hit his face and cleared his head.
Because one number still danced in his mind: forty thousand dollars.
Just the thought of that heaven-sent sum blew all fatigue away. His pace slowed, steady, his heart light.
The red-brick walkway stretched from the gate, sunlight spilling across fallen leaves. A few motorbikes buzzed past, leaving trails of gas fumes. He adjusted his backpack straps and tilted his head toward the sky.
"Forty grand… what to do first?" he wondered.
The first idea popped up: build Little Fire a private training ground. A glass enclosure, reinforced, three meters tall, half a basketball court wide. Steel mesh on top to keep out cats. Surround it with speakers blasting simulated wind, a real flying environment.
He smiled, picturing the red chick spreading its wings, slicing the air like a warrior of the sky.
Then he changed his mind. "No, food comes first. Special feed for spirit-beast potential, packed with nutrients. Can't let it peck at cheap grains forever."
His mind filled with supermarket shelves stacked with feed bags printed with dragons and phoenixes, then shifted to a pet shop, shelves lined with luxury packaging.
A soft laugh slipped out. "Raising a chicken costs as much as raising a dragon."
Behind him, rubber sandals slapped the pavement as students trickled away. The sounds thinned, leaving him alone with his plans.
Then a shiver ran down his spine. Someone was watching.
He stopped. The breeze brushed the back of his neck, colder now. Slowly, he turned his head.
And saw her.
Rachel Anderson.
She stood under a banyan tree, golden leaves falling around her. Sunset rimmed her hair in a faint glow. She didn't move closer, just stared straight at him, eyes wide, unblinking.
John's brow knit. For a moment, his heartbeat faltered.
The slanting light revealed her face clearly. Her eyelids were puffed, her eyes rimmed red. She had been crying.
The air between them went still. Only the last cicadas buzzed somewhere far off, leaves whispering as they hit the pavement.
John faltered. "What does she want? To say something to me?"
His step almost slowed. He almost wanted to listen.
But reason cut in. Who was he? John Markus, the boy who had built his cold-CEO image with care. That persona couldn't waver under anyone's gaze.
And more importantly, he was busy with something far greater—figuring out how to spend forty grand wisely.
"No one gets in the way of me spending money," he muttered inside, steadying himself like chanting a spell.
He flicked his eyes at Rachel. Just once. Cold as ice. Then he turned, striding forward, back straight, expression calm.
Rachel bit her lip, trembling like she was about to call out. But she swallowed it back, gripping the hem of her blouse. Her eyes shimmered, following every step of his fading silhouette.
The further he walked, the longer his shadow stretched across the street, stained gold by the dying sun. When he finally turned a corner and vanished, she was still standing there.
A tear slipped down her cheek, slow as if time itself had stalled.
In the rustling wind, her whisper broke, shaky, so soft she barely heard it herself.
"I'm sorry…"
John didn't hear. All he saw was the path ahead, glowing with the last light of day. His head filled with fresh designs: a mini hot-spring tub for Little Fire to soak in after training, a heart-rate monitor strapped to its leg, maybe even hiring a top-tier poultry coach.
He smiled faintly. "Forty grand, I'll make you, Little Fire, the number one chicken in the world."
The vision was clear, almost real already.
Behind him, under the tree shedding golden leaves, a girl stayed frozen. She didn't even wipe the tears that rolled down, just let them fall, one drop after another, soaking into the front of her uniform. Her fingers gripped the fabric tight, knuckles white, as if that was the only thing anchoring her in place.
The world around her kept moving—the rustle of leaves, the hum of a scooter passing, the fading laughter of students heading home. Yet for her, everything had gone silent. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths, each one laced with the weight of something unspoken.
Her eyes followed the empty street where his figure had vanished, refusing to blink, as if staring hard enough might call him back. But the corner where he'd turned stayed empty, only painted gold by the sinking sun.
Memories pressed in. His aloof face, the necklace he had given, the kiss she had stolen that night. The cold words at the gate this morning. All of it tangled inside her like vines, squeezing until her heart ached.
She wanted to run after him, to shout, to say she had been wrong. To tell him she understood now, that behind his silence was a love deeper than she had imagined. But her legs wouldn't move. The courage wouldn't come.
So she stood there, motionless, clutching her regret like it was the only thing she had left. The tears kept flowing, shining in the last light of dusk.
Sunset dimmed. Night poured in. And her apology sank into the dark, never reaching the boy who walked away.