Lucas Pan woke up five minutes before his alarm, like always.
It wasn't discipline. It was habit—one forged from years of training, from hotel rooms in foreign cities, from muscle memory that didn't know how to sleep in. The kind of habit that lingered even after the crowds disappeared, the lights dimmed, and the fans stopped chanting your name.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the soft gray bleeding in through the blinds. No sun, no storm. Just that heavy in-between light that made the whole city feel like it hadn't made up its mind yet.
The ceiling above him had a crack shaped like the Nike swoosh.
He stared at it a while before sitting up.
The apartment was small. One-bedroom. Hardwood floors that creaked when he crossed the room. An old electric kettle sat on the countertop next to a row of protein bars and instant noodles. The calendar on his fridge still showed last month.
Lucas scratched the back of his neck and pulled on a faded hoodie, then moved toward the window and opened it just a crack. The air smelled like concrete and yesterday's rain—clean, but not fresh.
No messages on his phone. No missed calls. Just a push notification from the school reminding teachers that flu season was peaking, and to please stop letting kids share water bottles.
He scoffed. High schoolers. Unstoppable until they sniffle.
Lucas clicked on the kettle and leaned on the counter while it groaned to life. Across the hall, someone slammed a door. His upstairs neighbor, maybe—the one who wore clogs and stomped like she was late to a one-woman tap recital every morning.
The water hissed. He poured it over cheap instant grounds and drank the bitterness straight. No cream, no sugar. Just something to get the engine started.
By 6:45, he was on his bike—an old steel-frame Trek with a stiff seat and a chain that skipped when the weather turned—and pedaling through the cracked, narrow backstreets of west Nanjing. His hoodie flapped with every push, and the air bit at his fingers.
His backpack thumped against his spine with each bump in the road, but he barely noticed. This ride was the one moment of the day where everything made sense. Forward motion. Rhythm. Simple physics. Even now—injured, semi-broken—he could still move.
Fourteen minutes later, he pulled up to Juniper Academy.
The school sat behind two stone pillars with brass nameplates and a row of evergreen hedges so perfectly clipped they looked digitally rendered. The front lawn had three flags: China, the school crest, and a bright blue one for international partnerships.
He parked by the back lot, locked the bike, and climbed the faculty stairs two at a time. The early hallways smelled like lemon disinfectant and printer toner.
He nodded at the janitor. The janitor nodded back. That was the extent of their relationship—and Lucas liked it that way.
First period was Accounting 1. Teenagers stared at him like he was a screensaver. Lucas didn't take it personally. It was a Tuesday. At 8:15.
"Alright," he said, clapping once. "Let's pretend we care."
A few students snorted.
"Cash flow statements. Yes, I know. They sound boring. But if you ever plan to run a business or get scammed by one, you're gonna want this in your back pocket."
He grabbed a dry-erase marker and drew two overlapping arrows on the board. Behind him, someone whispered help me, and someone else groaned like they were dying in a war movie.
"Don't worry," Lucas said without turning. "This is the exciting part. Numbers that don't lie. Unlike your last three excuses for not doing homework."
That got a few laughs.
He smiled. Quietly. The kind that didn't reach his eyes.
Second period: PE.
Rain meant no field, so he had them run laps under the covered pavilion. Freshmen with too much energy and not enough awareness of their own limbs. Lucas watched them flail and drag their feet like apocalypse survivors.
"Faster," he called. "Or I start playing early 2000s hip-hop and rap along."
That worked better than expected.
By noon, he was back in the staff lounge, peeling the plastic lid off a lukewarm rice bowl. It smelled fine. Looked miserable.
Grant Lin sat across from him, eating something healthy and smug. Quinoa salad with diced avocados and smug-married energy.
"You know," Grant said, "if you ever want help meal prepping, Tina's got this bulletproof chicken recipe."
Lucas chewed. "You said that last week."
"Because you're still eating like a guy who doesn't believe in vegetables."
Lucas ignored that.
Grant leaned forward with a knowing grin. "Still riding solo, Coach Pan?"
Lucas didn't look up. "What's it to you?"
"Six months is a long time to be single in this city."
Lucas snorted. "Didn't realize we were starting a timer on personal peace."
Grant laughed. "Just saying—if I were built like you, I wouldn't be spending Friday nights with reruns and rice bowls."
Lucas smirked and raised his chopsticks like a toast. "Some of us prefer peace over pity sex."
"Tragic. Waste of face and form."
Lucas didn't argue. He just chewed slower.
The rest of the day passed in noise and motion.
Basketball practice meant barking at underachieving sophomores, watching layups go wide, and explaining—again—that cardio matters even if you're not the tallest on the court.
Detention meant three sulking seniors writing essays about "Respect and Consequences" while Lucas graded half-legible fitness logs and pretended not to hear them swear under their breath.
By 4:30, the hallways emptied. Rain returned. Light but constant.
Lucas didn't go home.
Instead, he biked to the edge of the old neighborhood—rows of two-story townhomes just past the river. No gates, no guards, just plain brick and garden balconies. One of them belonged to his mother.
He didn't knock. He never did.
"Mom," he called out as he stepped inside, shaking rain from his hoodie.
"In the kitchen," her voice rang.
He walked in. The stove was on. The smell of ginger and scallions filled the room like memory. His stomach reacted before his brain.
She didn't turn. Just stirred the pot and said, "You're early."
"I'm hungry."
"Convenient."
He dropped his backpack by the door. "Smells like bad news."
She finally turned around. Her face was unreadable. Calm. Too calm.
"There's something I need to tell you," she said.
Lucas stood still know that what ever she had to say was nothing good.