Mina’s POV

The asphalt outside the bus stop was cracked like a spiderweb, tiny jagged lines splintering off into nowhere. I stared at them as I walked, counting the breaks like they might spell out some message. They didn’t, of course. Just another broken thing. Another metaphor for my life. Not completely ruined — but rough, uneven, threatening to split open at any moment.

The school gate loomed ahead, all steel bars and gray paint, more like the entrance to a prison than a “new beginning.” My stomach had already knotted itself into something small and mean, and it was only 8:00 AM. Another new school. Another new hall of strangers who would size me up, decide I was weird, and quietly exile me to the cafeteria’s forgotten corner. I’d been through this five times already. There was a rhythm to it. A script.

I’d learned to roll my eyes without moving my face. That was my secret skill: silent drama. When you don’t have anyone to vent to except your reflection or your sister, you become a master at internal theatrics.

Cara.

Cara was why I was even here, dragging my shoes over cracked pavement toward this inevitable disaster. She was also why I was still alive. My sister had been the general of this endless march — loud, dramatic, unstoppable. She infuriated me, but her love had the kind of weight and heat that could burn down a building. If our parents had stayed, maybe I’d have a normal life. But then I wouldn’t have Cara. And that silence would have been worse.

“HEY! MINA! LOOK AT YOU, YOU BRAIN SURGEON!”

The sound hit me like a sonic boom. My shoulders hunched before I even turned around. Everyone on the street swiveled to look, of course.

There she was. Cara, in a red jacket bright enough to flag down a plane, arms waving like she was trying to signal the entire zip code. Her grin said: I dare you to talk smack about my sister.

“It’s a school, Cara,” I mumbled, walking faster. “Not a graduation ceremony.”

“Details, details!” She clapped me on the shoulder — hard enough to make me stumble — and launched into one of her pep talks. “You walk in there and you OWN it! You’re gonna ace those tests. Show them who they’re messing with!”

“Sure,” I muttered under my breath. “I’ll ‘own it’ right into the quietest corner of the cafeteria.”

She was already yelling a friendly threat at some honking driver as I adjusted my backpack and pushed through the school doors. The noise hit me like a wave — slamming lockers, overlapping voices, shoes squeaking on tile. My heartbeat matched the chaos, fast and uneven.

Don’t look up. Don’t stand out. Just find the first class. Rule Number One.

I stared at the scuffed linoleum like it was a lifeline, holding my schedule like a shield even though I already knew where I was going. Invisibility was safer. No one can hurt you if you don’t exist.

I reached the end of the hall outside my History class — and looked up.

He was standing there. Leaning against the far wall, like he’d been waiting for something no one else could see. Thin, dressed in dark clothes that swallowed the light. He wasn’t looking at anyone. He was just… there.

And the moment I saw him, the noise of the school dropped out. Gone. Like someone had hit mute.

It wasn’t just that he looked strange. It was the feeling — a splinter of memory jabbing behind my eyes. Familiar. Impossible. Like a song I almost knew the words to but couldn’t place.

I know you.

The thought was instantaneous, absurd. He was a stranger. I’d never seen him before.

But when his eyes finally lifted and met mine, the certainty didn’t fade. It deepened, curling tight and cold around my ribs.

His gaze was dark. Heavy. Older than his face. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, just… stared. And in that moment, a word — not a question, not a thought — pressed itself into my mind.

Luchus.

I didn’t know why. I didn’t know how. But I knew one thing:

This boy was the most important, most dangerous thing in my quiet, predictable world.

Math class was my personal version of purgatory. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a sound that felt designed to peel the enamel off my teeth, and the teacher, Ms. Albright, spoke in a monotonous drone about algorithms that seemed utterly pointless. I was supposed to be absorbing information, calculating variables, figuring out the how and why of numbers, but the only variable I could focus on was sitting two classrooms away, or maybe in the nurse’s office, or maybe he’d already melted into the linoleum.

Luchus.

The name was a curse word whispered in my own head. It rolled through my thoughts, deep and resonant, triggering a confusing throb behind my left eye. I didn't even realize I was chewing the inside of my cheek until the sharp, metallic taste of blood snapped me back to the present.

I grabbed my pen and stared at the worksheet. The problems swam before me, a messy spiral of quadratic equations, each one daring me to ignore it. Focus, Mina. This is how they get you. This is how your life becomes even worse. The mantra was rote, practiced. If I failed math, it wouldn't just be an "F." It would be Cara's disappointment—a quiet, heavy disappointment far worse than her yelling—and a fresh reason for some school administrator to question if I was a lost cause.

But the fear of failure, usually enough to glue my attention to the textbook, was fighting a losing battle against a memory that didn't exist.

Where did I know him?

I scanned my memory files. Every apartment, every school yard, every fleeting interaction in the ten years since my parents decided freedom was better than two kids. There was no Luchus. There was no dark-eyed, too-old-for-his-age boy who looked at me like I held the answer to a question I hadn't even heard yet.

It had to be a dream. A weird, anxious pre-school dream I'd finally managed to invent a face for. I felt the familiar burn of sarcasm rise to defend me. Great, Mina. Now you’re hallucinating mysterious, brooding boys in the hallway. Just what your therapist ordered.

I felt my gaze drift sideways, inexorably drawn to the empty chair in the far corner of the room. It was the chair I had seen him occupy in History, the class right before this one.

The chair was empty now. Utterly, disappointingly, reassuringly empty.

Of course he's not here. Stop being a creep.

A sudden, jarring bell shrieked, making half the class jump. Lunch. My stomach gave a pathetic, empty growl of agreement. I looked down at my worksheet. I had finished maybe three problems, all of them probably wrong.

I grimaced at the page, then at myself. The great observer, the sharp-witted critic who saw through everyone's pathetic facades, had spent an entire class period doing the psychological equivalent of giggling over a crush. I closed my textbook with a frustrated thud that was thankfully masked by the mass exodus of students.

Rule Number One, Mina: Don’t get distracted. Distraction leads to connection. Connection leads to pain. I pushed my chair back, trying to gather my books quickly so I wouldn't be caught in the main flow of human traffic.

The hall was a river of bodies. I tightened my grip on my backpack straps, head down, focusing on the ground like I always did. The feeling of eyes on me was instantaneous—not the focused stare of Luchus, but the generalized, prickly weight of judgment. They weren’t looking at me with hatred, just with the detached curiosity reserved for the new girl, the quiet girl, the girl who wore hand-me-down clothes and seemed desperate to disappear. Every glance felt like a question: Who are you? Why are you here?

I sped up, almost jogging to reach the less crowded side corridor. Almost there. Just keep moving. Don’t look up.

And then, disaster.

I wasn't looking, and someone else was walking too quickly, or maybe they just didn't care. We collided hard. My History book skittered across the floor, scattering a small cloud of pencil shavings.

“Watch where you’re going, freshman,” a voice drawled, slow and cold.

I immediately went into full-apology mode, dropping to grab my book. “Oh, I am so sorry! I wasn’t watching. I’ll just get out of your way—”

My hand froze on the textbook cover. She hadn’t moved. The girl standing over me was definitely a senior—tall, with perfectly straightened, expensive-looking blonde hair and an expression that blended boredom with entitlement. She didn't look angry; she looked like I was a tiny, inconvenient smudge she couldn’t be bothered to wipe off.

She finally met my eyes, and the boredom vanished, replaced by something sharp and predatory. She dropped her voice low, a dangerous, silken hiss that somehow cut through the hallway noise.

“Listen to me, new girl. You keep that lonely little head of yours down and out of sight. Got it?”

I nodded frantically, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes, I will. I promise. I'm sorry—"

She smirked, a vicious, practiced curl of her lip that made my blood run cold. She leaned closer, her eyes glittering with malice.

"Because Luchus? He’s mine. You understand? Mine. And anyone who even looks at him wrong is going to regret it for the rest of their sad, little life."

The breath slammed out of my lungs. Luchus. She knew his name. And she thought I was a threat. The sheer, terrifying absurdity of the situation—me, the ghost in the hallway, being threatened over a boy I didn't even know—made my whole body shake.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching my book. "I don't know who you're talking about," I lied weakly, my voice barely a squeak. "I haven't talked to anyone."

She just chuckled, a dry, confident sound. "Good. Keep it that way." Then she spun on her heel and walked off with the effortless swagger of someone who had never once had to apologize for anything.

I stayed rooted to the spot, trying to slow my ragged breathing. My anxiety wasn't a dull thrum anymore; it was a screaming siren. The name I shouldn’t know had just been weaponized by someone powerful. My desire for a predictable life felt hopelessly naïve.

The rest of the day was a blur of forced concentration and hyper-vigilance. My sarcasm vanished, replaced by sheer fear. Every time a door opened, I expected the senior to be standing there, ready to make good on her threat.

Finally, the 3:00 bell chimed. I packed my bag so quickly I almost ripped the zipper. I had to get out. I had to get home, where Cara's loud presence acted like a force field against the outside world.

I was the last student to leave the math classroom. The room was silent now, bathed in the sickly gold of the late-afternoon sun streaming through the windows. As I reached the door, I glanced down the now-empty hallway, half-expecting to see the senior, half-expecting to see no one.

But he was there.

Luchus was leaning against the wall at the very end of the corridor, near the exit doors. He hadn’t moved from the spot I’d seen him in during the morning. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his head was tilted slightly. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring blankly at the beige, institutional wall, a single, dark silhouette in the golden light.

I froze. Every muscle in my body screamed run. The senior’s cold threat echoed in my ears. I didn't want him. I didn't want the connection. I wanted my silence back.

I forced myself to breathe and start walking, keeping my head even lower than usual. I pretended I didn’t see him. I didn’t acknowledge him. I focused solely on the exit sign hovering above his head.

I got closer. I passed him. I could feel the cold stillness radiating off him, but he didn't twitch, didn't move his head. His gaze was still locked on the wall. He didn't see me. He didn't notice. Relief washed over me, a shaky, fragile thing.

But just as I stepped through the main doors and into the chaotic, normal noise of the street, a sliver of doubt pierced the relief. The feeling was overwhelming: heavy, dark, and utterly focused on me.

I didn't turn around. I didn't have to. I knew, with the same unsettling certainty I'd known his name, that even though his body was facing the wall, Luchus's eyes were following me.

I didn't slow down until I reached the cracked asphalt outside Cara's building, where the familiar, slightly chaotic environment of our small apartment offered the only true refuge. Cara wasn't home, of course. Her shift at the diner wouldn't end until close to midnight.

The emptiness of the apartment was a relief. I dropped my heavy backpack and went straight to the kitchen. My anxiety could be tamed with routine. I pulled out ingredients—pasta, sauce, a pathetic little head of iceberg lettuce we could barely afford—and started making dinner. The rhythmic sound of the water boiling and the knife chopping were a comforting distraction, a way to anchor myself back in the predictable world.

By 7:30 PM, I had a generous portion of pasta simmering, enough for a meal, plus leftovers. I ate slowly, watching a mindless show on my ancient laptop.

At 8:00 PM, I finally pulled out my phone and sent Cara a text.

Me (8:00 PM): Made pasta. Leftovers in the fridge for you. Don't worry about heating it up, just eat it.

Her response was instantaneous, always a good sign that she wasn't having a terrible night at work.

Cara (8:01 PM): 👍

That was it. That single thumbs-up was our entire conversation, our nightly check-in, the confirmation that the world was still spinning on its axis and we were both safe. I could finally breathe.

I washed the dishes, checked the locks, and crawled into my bed. The fear of the senior, the confusion of the name, the haunting image of Luchus—all of it felt distant, muted by the exhausting routine of the day. My mind resisted a little longer, replaying the dark intensity of his eyes, but eventually, the weight of the day won.

The noise of the street faded, the buzz of the fridge became a soft lullaby, and Mina finally, mercifully, drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The air was thick, cold, and smelled like dust and old rain. I wasn’t myself, but I was still me—the part of me that was usually buried under layers of sarcasm and caution. I was standing in a massive, vaulted chamber. There were no lights, but the space was illuminated by a cold, silvery glow that seemed to emanate from the stone itself.

And then there was Luchus.

He wasn't staring at a wall or hiding in a corner; he was facing me, close enough that I could see the confusing network of shadows in his dark eyes. He didn't look sorrowful or distant here. He looked focused. Concerned.

I felt a profound, aching familiarity, the kind you have for the only other person left standing at the end of the world. It wasn't love or a crush, but something deeper, like a shared scar or a forgotten language we both spoke fluently.

We shouldn't be here," I whispered, the words sounding ancient in the echoing space.

Luchus didn't speak. He just slowly lifted his hand, and I watched, paralyzed, as his cold fingers closed around my wrist. The touch wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. It felt like an anchor dropped into the deepest part of the sea. There was a spike of icy shock, then a sudden, dizzying rush of images: a flash of red light, the sound of glass breaking, and a voice screaming a warning I couldn't understand.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and the world tilted. This wasn't a memory, I realized. This was a key.

The pressure on my wrist intensified. Luchus leaned in, his dark eyes wide and urgent. "You have to forget the name," he breathed, his voice a low, desperate plea. "You have to forget me."

I tried to pull away, to tell him about the senior, about the danger, but the darkness was already closing in, swallowing the silvery light, swallowing the cavern, swallowing him—

I woke with a violent jolt, slamming my head against the wooden headboard.

I sat bolt upright, sweat slicking my skin despite the cool morning air of the room. The apartment was quiet. The dream was already fading, blurring into the typical nonsense of sleep, but the metallic chill on my wrist where Luchus’s fingers had been felt startlingly real.

Forget the name.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was 6:45 AM. Too early for Cara to be up, but too late to go back to sleep. My heart was still racing, and my brain felt like it was trying to run a marathon in cinderblock shoes.

Well, isn't this lovely. A new school, a public threat from a blonde Barbie who needs a hobby, and now I’m having gothic nightmares about the mysterious boy. Maybe I should start a dream journal. I could call it, 'How to Attract Maximum Trouble in Five Easy Steps.'

The sarcasm was weak, though. It was a flimsy paper shield against the real shock of that dream, of that touch. I couldn't stop thinking about what Luchus had said: You have to forget the name. He hadn't been giving advice; it had sounded like a desperate plea for self-preservation.

But I couldn't ignore him. I had to know what the connection was. I needed to understand why the sight of his face felt like a puzzle piece to my missing history. The terror of the senior, the danger, even the fear of Cara's questions—all of it paled next to the compulsion to understand the name Luchus.

Today, I wouldn't hide. Today, I would find him.

My resolve carried me through the morning. I ate a piece of toast, made my lunch (a sad sandwich that only needed the quiet protection of my backpack), and walked to school with my jaw set.

When I got to History class, my heart was a frantic hummingbird trapped in my chest. I scanned the room, desperately looking for the dark silhouette, the blank stare, the figure by the window.

The chair was empty.

My shoulders slumped. My carefully constructed resolve deflated instantly, replaced by a hollow pang of disappointment so sharp it was embarrassing. Fantastic. Of course, the moment I decide to be a brave protagonist, the subject of my obsession ghosts me. Clearly, the universe has a better sense of comedic timing than I do. I sat down and spent the entire class unable to focus, my eyes drifting back to the vacant seat.

The dismissal bell rang, harsh and loud. I gathered my things slowly, allowing the rush of students to thin out.

Smooth, Mina. You were going to be brave, and now you’re stuck being a pathetic creep who searches for the mystery boy and then misses him. I adjusted my backpack, giving my internal self-critic a final nod. Another triumph for the quiet observer. You made it all the way to a failed appointment.

I walked out of the classroom, focusing on my feet, ready to retreat into the next hour of anonymous self-loathing. I rounded the corner leading to the staircase and, just like yesterday, I wasn't looking.

BAM.

The collision was sharp and sudden. I stumbled backward, dropping my backpack and sending my pen skittering away. I hit the ground with an undignified thud, my knees protesting the impact.

"Oh, god, I am so sorry!" I gasped automatically, already reaching out to apologize to the invisible person I'd run into.

My hand reached the floor, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic of my favorite blue pen. I paused, ready to snatch it up and bolt, when my gaze flickered up.

The world stopped.

Standing over me, completely still, was Luchus.

He wasn't wearing an expression of annoyance or even surprise. He just looked... inevitable. His dark eyes, which had held that desperate urgency in my dream, were fixed on me with a familiar, unnerving blankness. He made no move to help me up or step away. He simply stood there, an immovable object I had crashed into.

The fear, the senior's threat, the confusion—it all coalesced into a single, explosive urge. I had to know.

I forgot the pen. I forgot the floor. I forgot the rush of students passing us, oblivious. I didn't even notice the faint, musky scent of old cedar wood that seemed to cling to him. I just stared up at him from my ridiculous position on the floor, and in that moment, the staring match was a question.

After what felt like an eternity, Luchus finally broke the silence. He didn't speak to me; he just adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and stepped around me, his foot falling inches from my knee. He was walking away. Again.

The heat of pure, frustrated desperation surged through me. No. Not this time.

Before my brain could process the danger or the idiocy of my actions, my body moved. I scrambled up, abandoning my belongings, and ran two steps to catch his arm, forcing him to stop.

My fingers barely brushed the sleeve of his jacket, but the contact was like a bolt of ice, shocking me all the way to my shoulder.

Luchus flinched violently, like he'd been struck by a live wire. He didn't turn around, but his body went rigid.

"Wait!" I demanded, my voice raw and tight. I didn't care who heard me. "I know your name. I know your name, and I don't know why. Do you know me? Luchus, please tell me. Do you know who I am?"

He slowly turned his head, and the intensity in his eyes was back, a flash of something powerful and cold. It wasn't hatred, but a terrible, desperate warning. He lowered his voice, the sound like dry leaves scraping pavement.

He didn't answer my question. He answered the action.

"Do not touch me."

And with a swift, powerful shove of his shoulder, he threw my hand off his arm. The force wasn't enough to make me fall again, but it was enough to make me stumble back against the wall, leaving my skin tingling and cold.

Luchus didn't look back. He walked away with quick, purposeful strides, disappearing around the far bend of the hallway.

I stayed by the wall, trembling, the cold radiating from my arm. The adrenaline wasn't a rush of fear anymore; it was pure, volatile frustration. He hadn't just pushed me away; he had looked at me like I was a contamination. All I wanted was an answer, a single piece of the truth, and he had literally thrown it back in my face with a terrifying command.

Do not touch me.

Fine. He wanted to be a mystery? He wanted to be cold and silent? Two could play that game. The senior’s threat felt distant now, irrelevant. My focus had narrowed to the dark, retreating figure. He wasn't avoiding me because he was dangerous; he was avoiding me because I scared him. That realization ignited a hard, resolute spark in my chest. I picked up my books, tucked the simmering fury deep inside, and walked toward my next class. I might be silent, but I wasn't giving up.

My life is about to get a lot more interesting.