Zhane stood in the dim light of his bedroom, the early morning sun casting pale streaks across the floorboards. He was already dressed, his belongings neatly packed beside him. His reflection stared back at him from the cracked mirror above his dresser—tired eyes, a clenched jaw, and a quiet resolve that hadn't been there before.
He wore the standard Pristine High uniform: a tailored gray blazer with silver trim lining the lapels, a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar, and charcoal trousers that hugged his frame just right.
The blazer bore the school's emblem—a silver phoenix rising from a circle of flames—stitched proudly over the left breast. His shoes were polished, though scuffed at the edges, and his tie hung perfectly centered, a symbol of the new life he was about to begin.
But Zhane wasn't ready to reveal that life just yet.
He threw on a faded hoodie—navy blue, oversized, and worn at the cuffs—and zipped it up to his neck, concealing the uniform beneath. He didn't want his uncle to know where he was going. Not yet. Not until he was already gone.
The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. Zhane had already prepared breakfast the night before—boiled yam and fried eggs, with a side of peppered tomato sauce. He reheated it quietly and set it on the dining table, just as he'd done every morning for the past few years.
Right on cue, his uncle emerged from the hallway, shirtless and groggy, his belly protruding beneath a pair of stained boxers. He didn't acknowledge Zhane.
He never did. He simply plopped into the chair at the head of the table and began to eat, shoveling food into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't tasted anything decent in weeks.
Zhane stood silently by the doorway, watching.
After a few minutes, his uncle leaned back in his chair and let out a loud, guttural belch. Zhane winced. The sound was revolting, but not unfamiliar.
"You really need to learn how to cook, Zhane," his uncle grumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Your food still tastes terrible. I've just been managing it."
Zhane's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. He spoke softly, almost too softly to be heard.
"Well, not to worry, Uncle. You'll never get to taste it again."
His uncle paused, fork halfway to his mouth. He raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "What do you mean?"
Zhane stepped forward, his voice firmer now. "I'm leaving your house for good, Uncle."
For the first time in his life, he met his uncle's eyes—those cold, dismissive eyes that had never once looked at him with anything resembling care.
His uncle blinked, stunned. But the shock didn't last long. He leaned back and burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the small dining room like a cruel joke.
"Wow. So you're leaving, huh?" he sneered. "And how do you intend to survive without me?"
Zhane considered touching him—just a brief contact to read his thoughts, to feel the twisted mess inside his head—but he stopped himself. He wasn't ready to carry that weight. Not today.
He exhaled slowly. "That's for me to know and you to never find out. It's clear you've only ever seen me as a burden. So I'm going to clear out and let you live your life in peace. While I live mine."
His uncle snorted. "Worry? Who said anything about worrying?" He chuckled again, this time with an edge of malice. "You can die for all I care."
Zhane clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. But he said nothing. He turned and walked back into his room.
Minutes later, he emerged with his belongings: a modest duffel bag slung over one shoulder, packed with folded clothes and a few personal items—his sketchpad, a worn-out novel, and a small pouch of coins.
On his back, he wore a black backpack, heavier than it looked, containing his school supplies and a few essentials for the dorm. His hoodie still covered the uniform beneath, hiding the emblem that marked his new beginning.
He paused at the doorway, one hand on the knob.
"I'm off, Uncle. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. Adiós."
He stepped out and closed the door behind him with a quiet finality.
His uncle remained seated, staring at the door. At first, he expected Zhane to return—maybe to beg, maybe to apologize. But the minutes dragged on. Then an hour. No footsteps. No voice. No knock.
Silence.
"He's really gone?" he muttered to himself.
Then he chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "Who cares anyway? He can die for all I care. Piece of shit."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. With practiced ease, he lit one, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. He reclined in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table, lost in thought.
But outside, far beyond the walls of that house, Zhane was already walking toward something new, putting on his new uniform.
Toward Pristine High.
Towards a future that would change everything, oblivious to the lurking shadows awaiting.
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