Aizak sat in the back seat of the taxi, angled slightly toward the driver — an old man in his fifties. He kept checking his reflection in the mirror, dragging his sleeve across his face, wiping away sweat and grime left over from the bus.
The driver kept looking at him.
Not openly. Not boldly.
Quick glances. Repeated. Measuring.
Aizak noticed.
"Is there something on my face, sir?" he asked calmly.
The driver's expression shifted instantly. A practiced smile.
"No. Nothing at all. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
Aizak leaned forward, locking eyes with him through the mirror.
"Really?" he asked, smiling back — without warmth.
The driver exhaled and raised a finger, pointing downward.
"It's just… there's blood on your pants. Did you get hurt?"
Aizak looked down.
Dark spatter across the fabric.
He hadn't noticed.
Must've happened when the rapper was beating the bus driver.
He laughed lightly.
"Oh, this?" He scratched the back of his head. "Ketchup. I'm clumsy."
The driver didn't believe him. But blood wasn't unusual here. Neither were lies.
He chuckled and kept driving.
"There are wet wipes in the pocket beside you," he said. "Help yourself."
Aizak reached in.
Wet wipes.
And a gun.
Loaded.
His breath stalled. Sweat broke instantly across his neck.
"Everything okay?" the driver asked, eyes fixed on the road, smile unmoving.
Aizak pulled out the wipes slowly and closed the pocket carefully.
"Yeah," he said. "Just zoned out."
The car stopped abruptly.
His head hit the window. The wipes slipped from his hand.
"We're here," the driver said politely.
Aizak rubbed the back of his head, wincing.
"One minute."
He handed over the fare. Took the wipes. Opened the door.
"Shove that gun up your ass, geezer," he muttered before slamming it shut.
The driver burst into sharp, hysterical laughter as he drove away.
The University of Internationals loomed ahead.
Aizak connected his AirPods and walked toward the entrance. Then he checked the time.
8:50 a.m.
Economics started at nine.
Coffee.
He stopped at the café nearby and ordered his usual — large black, no sugar. Outside, he lit a cigarette.
"Finally," he murmured. "Peace."
"Why is there blood on your pants?"
Stephanie.
They were something. Not together. Not apart.
Aizak exhaled and forced a smile.
"It's nothing. Don't worry."
He brushed his fingers through her hair.
"Did you do something different? It looks better."
Her concern vanished instantly.
"You noticed?" she beamed. "I dyed it yesterday."
"Yeah," he said. "It's obvious."
"How've you been?" he asked — and regretted it immediately.
She launched into complaints about her ex and his new girlfriend.
Aizak checked his phone.
9:20 a.m.
Is time moving faster, or am I slowing down?
"Sorry," he cut in. "I'm late."
He turned and ran.
"We'll catch up," he called over his shoulder.
He sprinted across campus. Cigarette still between his lips. Coffee spilling unnoticed.
At the lecture hall door, he stopped to straighten his clothes.
What excuse even matters anymore?
"Could you move?"
Anita.
"Oh. Sorry."
He opened the door.
She walked in calmly and took a seat.
The professor frowned.
Only at Aizak.
Aizak stepped inside.
"Where do you think you're going?" the professor snapped.
"To my seat."
The professor laughed.
"No, you're not. Get out."
The class reacted immediately.
"Again?"
"He never learns."
"What a joke."
"Why?" Aizak asked evenly. "Anita was late too."
The professor stepped closer, inhaling.
"You smell like cigarettes. You look like hell. And that blood — what is it?"
Aizak clenched his fists.
"You going to hit me?" the professor mocked. "Go on. Hit me."
Whispers sharpened.
"Pathetic."
"Waste of space."
"Just leave."
The professor sighed.
"Leave now, and I won't report you."
Aizak let his fists fall.
Turned.
Walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
Turned back.
The classroom was wrong.
The students' faces were gone.
Only black shapes where heads should be.
Laughing.
His heart slammed.
"Is he crying?"
"How embarrassing."
"Stop," Aizak whispered. "Stop."
"Aizak?" the professor's voice echoed.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Aizak swung.
The professor hit the floor.
Blood splashed across Aizak's face.
"He hit him!"
"Should we help?"
"Just leave."
"I'll expel you!" the professor screamed.
Aizak ran.
Every face in the hallway was black.
Someone grabbed him.
"Are you okay?"
He shoved them away and ran into the bathroom.
Empty.
He turned on the sink and splashed water on his face.
The blood didn't wash off.
It spread.
Thicker.
Darker.
"What's happening?" he shouted at the mirror.
His reflection smiled.
"You did it again."
"Shut up!"
He punched the glass.
It shattered.
Blood followed.
Aizak collapsed to the floor, shaking.
Tears mixed with red on white tile.
"Well," he whispered.