Ethan Cole hated mornings.
Not because of school.
Because mornings were when the apartment felt the most honest.
At night, silence could pretend to be peace. In the morning, it exposed everything.
The kitchen light flickered weakly as his mother stood at the stove, stirring eggs that had already been cooked. She wasn't really cooking anymore. She was thinking.
His father sat at the table with a mug of coffee growing cold between his hands. The newspaper lay open in front of him, unread. He hadn't turned a page.
Across from him, Lila pushed cereal around her bowl.
"You're going to be late," she said without looking up.
"I walk," Ethan replied, adjusting his bag.
"You used to take the bus."
"And it used to work."
That almost sounded normal. Almost.
His mother turned slightly. There were dark circles under her eyes she didn't try to hide anymore.
"After school, come straight home," she said.
"Why?"
"Just do."
That answer used to come with authority.
Now it came with worry.
His father finally spoke, his voice low and slow.
"School matters."
Three words.
He used to give lectures about ambition. About building something real. About not settling.
Now it was just fragments.
Ethan's eyes drifted toward the sink.
A bottle stood there. Not empty. Not full.
Halfway.
Too early for halfway.
He looked away before Lila noticed.
She coughed quietly into her sleeve.
It wasn't violent. Just persistent.
"You taking your medicine?" Ethan asked.
She shrugged. "Mom says it's just seasonal."
His mother didn't turn around.
Seasonal had lasted three months.
Ethan grabbed an apple from the counter.
"I'll be back by four."
"Earlier," his mother said.
He paused at the door.
For a second, he considered saying something reassuring.
Instead, he left.
The hallway smelled like damp paint and old carpet.
Behind the door, silence would thicken again.
The city outside was awake in a different way.
Cars moved fast. People moved faster.
Greyford looked clean from a distance. Glass towers, mirrored buildings, polished storefronts. But closer, cracks showed.
Closed shops. Security cameras on every corner. Expensive cars parked near cheap apartments.
Power didn't hide here.
It displayed itself.
Ethan walked the same path every day. He liked repetition. Patterns made sense. Predictability meant control.
He crossed the main road and spotted Dante leaning against the school gate.
Perfect posture. Clean shoes. Calm face.
Too calm.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Dante said.
"You look like you rehearsed that."
"I don't rehearse."
Ethan stopped beside him. "Then you're naturally annoying."
A faint smirk. That was Dante's version of laughter.
They walked through the gates together.
Most students didn't pay attention to Dante. That was their mistake.
Teachers softened their tone when speaking to him. Certain students shifted slightly when he passed.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Dante came from money. That much was obvious.
But he never talked about his family. Never mentioned what his father did. Never invited anyone over.
Distance like that wasn't accidental.
"What's wrong?" Dante asked.
"Nothing."
"That's your wrong face."
Ethan glanced at him. "You ever feel like something's building?"
"Like what?"
"Pressure. But you don't know where it's coming from."
Dante thought for a moment.
"That's called anticipation," he said. "Not paranoia."
Ethan nodded slowly.
Anticipation was better.
It meant something real was coming.
First period dragged.
Math didn't challenge him. It comforted him.
Numbers obeyed rules.
People didn't.
Halfway through class, the door opened.
The teacher paused.
A girl stepped inside.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just present.
Dark hair tied loosely. Calm posture. Eyes that didn't wander nervously around the room. She scanned it once. Efficiently.
That caught Ethan's attention.
The teacher gestured to an empty seat near the window.
She walked there without hesitation.
Her bag didn't drop carelessly. She placed it beside the desk. Strategic. Accessible.
Dante leaned slightly toward Ethan.
"You're analyzing."
"I analyze everyone."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"There's a difference."
"Not really."
He wasn't struck by beauty.
He was struck by control.
Transfer students usually shrink on the first day.
She didn't.
She adjusted to the room like she'd already studied it.
By lunch, rumors had already started.
Transferred from another district.
Private family.
Quiet.
Nothing useful.
Ethan and Dante sat in their usual corner.
"She didn't look lost," Ethan said casually.
"You're still thinking about that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She moved like she wasn't new."
Dante shrugged. "Some people adapt quickly."
"She wasn't adapting. She was assessing."
Dante studied him for a moment.
"You're interested."
"I'm curious."
"That's worse."
After school, Ethan lingered near the gate.
She exited alone.
No hesitation. No searching for someone.
A black sedan waited across the street.
Not flashy. Not cheap.
Tinted windows.
The driver didn't step out.
The back door opened from inside.
She crossed calmly and got in.
The car pulled away smoothly.
Ethan felt that pressure again.
Not romantic.
Strategic.
Dante stepped beside him.
"That car doesn't belong to a normal family."
"You noticed."
"Yes."
They watched the vehicle disappear into traffic.
"Careful," Dante said quietly.
"Of what?"
"Digging into things that dig back."
That wasn't a joke.
Ethan studied him more carefully.
"You're speaking from experience."
Dante didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the main road.
That silence was intentional.
That evening, the apartment felt smaller.
His mother was on the phone in the bedroom, speaking softly. Too softly.
Lila sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the warm air.
"You're home early," she said.
"You're cold?"
"Just tired."
His father wasn't in the living room.
The kitchen light was on.
Ethan stepped inside.
The bottle was lower than it had been that morning.
His father leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.
"Everything okay?" Ethan asked.
"Of course."
That word didn't mean anything anymore.
Ethan nodded and went to his room.
He closed the door quietly.
Sat at his desk.
Opened his laptop.
The screen glowed against the dark walls.
He could search.
Not directly.
Start small.
The car model.
The license pattern.
Cross-reference districts.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He thought about his mother's tired voice.
About Lila's cough.
About his father's shrinking sentences.
About the black sedan.
Information was leverage.
Leverage meant control.
Control meant stability.
And stability was slipping in that apartment.
He began typing.
Outside, the city lights flickered.
Inside, something shifted.
The coin always flips eventually.
Heads or tails.
Power or consequence.
Ethan didn't believe in luck.
He believed in preparation.
And something had just entered the board.