Friday was a special kind of hell.
Kian woke up with a feeling of pre-emptive, low-grade dread. It wasn't the usual, vague exhaustion he felt. It was specific. It was a 3:30 PM, coffee-shop-shaped dread.
The school day was an eight-hour exercise in avoidance. He felt… watched.
He could feel Silas's gaze on him during English class. It was a heavy, apologetic, 'please-don't-hate-me' stare that made Kian want to peel his skin off. He'd told Silas "we're good," but it was a lie. They weren't "good." They were… broken. And Silas, in his clumsy, golden-retriever-like attempt to fix it, was just making it worse. He kept trying to catch Kian's eye to offer a pathetic, hopeful smile. Kian just stared at the wall.
Then, there was Sienna.
He passed her in the hall between third and fourth period. She was at her locker, surrounded by her requisite clique, laughing at something one of the football players had said. She was the absolute center of her own universe, bright, loud, and effortlessly popular. She saw him coming down the hall, a ghost in his black hoodie, his bag slung low.
Their eyes met.
Sienna's laugh didn't stop, but her smile changed. It went from joyful to calculating. She didn't wave. She didn't call out. She just… lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling with a private, mocking amusement. She mouthed two, silent words at him:
Three. Thirty.
Kian's stomach tightened. He broke eye contact, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. He was being hunted. He just kept walking.
At lunch, he sat with Ren and a very, very quiet Silas.
"So," Ren said, in an obvious attempt to fill the awkward, Kian-sized silence, "the… uh… the physics test on Monday. The… the light-wave-particle-duality unit. It's… fascinating."
Silas just pushed his tater tots around his tray. "Yeah. Fascinating."
Kian said nothing. He wasn't thinking about physics. He was running a terrible, internal calculation.
School ended at 3:05 PM. The Grind was a ten-minute bike ride. The quarry was a fifteen-minute ride in the opposite direction.
The kids would be at the quarry. They would be waiting.
He had become their routine. Their harsh, demanding, hateful, reliable routine. He had, without meaning to, made them a promise. He had fixed Milo's shot. He had started something.
He couldn't go.
He had to meet Sienna. Because if he didn't… what would she do? She was a social creature. She would… talk. She would tell people he'd stood her up. She would... publicize the incident. She would look at him in the halls. She would create a narrative. She would turn him from a voluntary, controlled ghost into an involuntary public joke.
He couldn't have that. He needed his armor. He needed his invisibility.
But the kids… they would be waiting.
He's late.
Maybe he's not coming.
He'll come. He always comes. He's "Mister."
The imaginary dialogue in his head made him feel sick.
He was going to abandon them.
He was going to be late. He was going to… not show up.
Just like his father.
The thought was so sharp, so venomous, it made him flinch, his fork clattering against his tray.
Silas jumped. "Dude! You okay?"
Kian stood up, his lunch untouched. "I'm not hungry."
He left them there.
The final bell was a death knell. Kian walked to his bike, his movements stiff. He was at the crossroads, at the edge of the school property.
Left, to the quarry. To duty. To the kids he hated, who were his responsibility.
Right, to The Grind. To damage control. To the girl he hated, who was his problem.
He hated himself. He hated that he was making this choice.
He was a coward.
He turned right.
"The Grind" was everything Kian loathed. It was trying so hard. The walls were a fake-distressed brick, covered in "funny" signs about coffee. The music was a bland, upbeat, acoustic-pop song that was loud enough to be intrusive. It was packed with high schoolers, all talking, laughing, and living their loud, bright, normal lives.
Kian walked in, his black hoodie a void in the middle of all that color. He felt like a wolf that had wandered into a petting zoo. Every eye, he was sure, was on him.
He scanned the room. She was there.
Sienna James was not with her friends. She was alone, at a small two-person table by the window, as if she had known he wouldn't want an audience. She was scrolling through her phone, a small, knowing smile on her face. She'd already claimed the territory.
Kian walked up. His shadow fell over her.
She looked up, her smile widening. "You're late."
"I'm not," Kian said. He looked at his phone. 3:32 PM.
"You're two minutes late," she corrected, as if two minutes were a cardinal sin. "I've been here since 3:20. Punctuality, Kian. It's… attractive."
Kian just stared. "You got your coffee. Am I done?"
Sienna laughed. It was a bright, sharp sound. "No, you didn't get my coffee. That's your job. You ruined my shirt, you buy my replacement. That was the deal. Iced. Venti. Caramel. Extra whip. Go."
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
Kian stood there, his fists clenched in his pockets. He was being ordered around. But he had... he had agreed. He was guilty.
He went to the counter. He fumbled with the order. He hated the words. "Venti." "Extra whip." It was all so... stupid. The barista, a senior from Crestwood, looked at him with open curiosity. Kian Vance. Ordering a... a fluff-ball of a drink.
He paid. In cash. He also ordered a small, black coffee for himself. A shield.
When the drinks were called, he grabbed them. He walked back. He put her ridiculous, whipped-cream-topped monstrosity on the table. He sat down.
Sienna took a long, theatrical sip. "Mm. Perfect." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "You know, for a mystery… you're surprisingly obedient."
Kian gripped his own hot cup. He didn't drink. "We're done."
"We're not," she said. She put her phone down, face-down on the table. A signal. She was giving him her full, undivided, predatory attention. "I'm bored. And you, Kian Vance, are interesting."
"I'm not," he said, his voice a low growl.
"Oh, you are," she insisted, leaning forward. Her eyes were bright, intelligent, and, Kian realized, completely amoral. She wasn't like Ren, who used his intelligence to understand. She used hers to… play.
"You're a puzzle," she said, her voice dropping, becoming conversational. "You're the kid who's in all the AP-track classes, but you've got a C- in PE because you... 'refuse to participate.' You're the kid who dresses like a shadow, but… let's be honest… you look like that. You're a walking, brooding contradiction. And yesterday… yesterday was the best part."
Kian's grip on his cup tightened. "Yesterday."
"Yesterday," she confirmed. "You bumped into me. You, the 'Ice-Man,' the guy who supposedly doesn't care about anything... you looked... shattered. Your hands were shaking."
She was dissecting him. Just like he did to others. He hated it.
"I... I was... I was just... I was late for class," he lied.
Sienna let out a sharp, genuine laugh. "You? Late? Kian, you... you hate class. You don't run to it. No. You… you looked guilty. You looked like you'd just been caught... I don't know… kicking a puppy."
She had hit it. She had nailed the feeling. The exact feeling.
Kian flinched. It was a micro-expression, a tiny, involuntary tightening of his eyes, but she saw it.
Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp, sudden, ecstatic focus. She was a shark that had just scented blood in the water.
"Oh," she breathed, her voice a whisper. "Oh, that's it. That's the key. I... I saw it."
Kian's walls went up. Steel. Ice. Void. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You... you do!" she said, leaning even closer, her voice now a low, conspiratorial hiss. "You're… you're not cold. You're guilty. You're a… a 'Guilt-Man.' Oh, my god, this is so much better."
She was... she was thrilled. She had found his weakness.
"What did you do, Kian?" she whispered, her eyes dancing. "What... what happened... at lunch... that made you... run... like that?"
KThis… this was worse than his father. This was worse than the quarry. This was a… a social vivisection. He… he had to get out.
He stood up. His chair screeched on the floor.
The entire coffee shop looked.
"We're done," Kian said, his voice trembling with a cold, contained fury.
"We're not!" she said, still smiling, loving the attention. "You… you haven't… finished… your… coffee…"
Kian looked her dead in the eyes. "I'm... not... your... toy."
He turned. He walked out. He left his full, black, untouched coffee on the table.
He pushed his way out onto the street, his heart hammering. He was… seen. He was known. This… this was worse than Silas. She… she knew… his weakness. She had named it.
Guilt-Man.
He got on his bike and he fled.
He rode, his anger and shame a hot bile in his throat. She had… she had won. She had played him. She had used his guilt… to… to trap him.
He was… furious.
He rode… hard. He… he wasn't… thinking. He… he was just… moving.
He… he found… himself… on the… industrial road.
He… he skidded… to a stop.
He… he was… at the quarry.
He was late. He was… so late. It was… 5:00 PM. He… he knew… what… he… would… see.
He… he dropped… his bike. He… he ran… up the… embankment.
He… he looked.
The court… was… empty.
They… they were gone.
Of course… they were gone. He… he hadn't… come. He… he hadn't… shown up.
He… he had broken… his promise.
He had… he had abandoned… them.
He… he had… chosen… Sienna. He… he had… chosen… his own… cowardice.
Just like him.
Just like his father.
The thought… it didn't… it didn't sting… this time. It… it just… landed. It… it was a… a fact.
He… he stood… on the bleachers, his sketchbook… a… useless… weight… in his… bag.
He… he looked… at the… empty… court.
He… he was… alone.
He… he was… his… father.
He… he slid… down… onto the… top… bleacher. His… his spot.
He… he put… his… head… in his… hands.
"Mister?"
The… the voice.
It was… tiny.
Kian's head snapped up.
Milo.
He… he was… hiding. He… he was… behind… the… far… bleacher. He… he was alone.
"Mister…?" he… said… again, his… voice… trembling. "I… I… waited."