The pale morning light filtered gently through the tall windows of Moonstone Academy's central atrium, casting long, soft shadows across the polished floors. The usual hum of students filled the air, footsteps echoing, quiet conversations, and the distant clang of lockers shutting, yet today carried a different energy, a buzz of anticipation that rippled just beneath the surface.
Adam moved through the crowd with a calm detachment. The bruises along his jaw and shoulder throbbed faintly, but he hardly noticed anymore. Today was Friday, an odd Friday to be exact.
The invitation was abrupt but clear as Adam recalled from Bryce's earlier explanation. His dad was hosting a fundraiser to boost his polls, and he thought it would be a good idea if some kids could attend for the optics. At least that's the version he told him.
What the others knew was that all of the second years had been invited to Farren towers for a fundraiser event courtesy of the Bryce Farren. Adam figured this would be the perfect opportunity for Bryce to boost his personality because he was interested in running for president in the coming month. This Fundraiser, sudden as it was, was shockingly convenient.
Bryce had been practically buzzing all morning, eager to get the others to attend. And to no one's Suprise. Nobody turned him down, neither did the administration complain. They had no reason to. Who wouldn't want to attend a party for the super-rich? Imagine the opportunities and connections Adam thought. An exclusive gesture courtesy of Bryce's connections. But Adam shook his head when Bryce extended the invite.
"Politics isn't my thing," Adam said quietly, folding his arms. "They just argue, push agendas, and in the end, no one really changes. It's all just noise. And the people who get hurt for it are soldiers like my dad. He's been sent to places where people die so others can play their little power games. I don't want any part of that."
Bryce's easy smile didn't falter. "Fair enough. You do you, Adam, I get you."
They walked together to the front steps of the school, exchanging nods and quick hellos to familiar faces, classmates who had slowly become friends since Adam's arrival last week. Each greeting was brief but warm, and Adam found himself appreciating the normalcy, the simple connection.
Bryce turned around to give his best friend a quick dap, patting him on the back before walking away. Unlike the other students who filed into the large Marcopolo school coaches, Bryce stepped into a sleek Maybach parked in front of the buses. "A sort of follow-me car," Adam thought fleetingly before turning to head back toward the main building.
As Adam turned to leave, a firm slap on Adam's shoulder stopped him. Adam looked up into a pair of eyes he wasn't expecting to meet. Harris.
The boy's usual sneer was gone, replaced by something raw and uncertain. Harris looked... beaten. His clothes were rumpled, dark bruises marked his face and arms, and there was a weariness in his stance that seemed at odds with his usual cocky swagger.
"H-hey, Adam," Harris stammered, voice rough but sincere. "Look, about the fight the other day… I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to get that out of hand."
Adam blinked, caught off guard. The old Harris would have laughed off an apology or met it with another threat. But this... this was different.
He studied Harris for a moment, then his mind clicked, maybe this was part of Morris's plan coming to fruition. Or maybe it wasn't. Either way, it was strange.
Before Adam could respond, Harris nodded awkwardly and turned, limping slightly as he hurried toward the bus stop.
Watching him go, Adam felt an odd mix of wariness and something like hope. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something changing. And at the very least he probably won't be getting into any fights any time soon. hopefully.
As Harris disappeared from view, Adam took a deep breath, the cool morning air filling his lungs. He turned and stepped back inside the school, the soft murmur of students carrying him forward, his thoughts already drifting to how he might spend the unexpected free day ahead.
***
The basketball court was almost empty, the morning sun filtering softly through the high windows, casting long, pale stripes across the polished floor. Adam dribbled the ball with a quiet rhythm, one that soothed the edges of his mind, easing the weight left over from the week. The familiar bounce and thud grounded him, tethering him to something real and simple. Out here, the noise of the school, the bruises, the fights, and the complicated tangle of people's expectations seemed to melt away.
He was just about to shoot when he noticed a shadow stretching across the court. Looking up, Adam caught sight of Luna stepping through the entrance. She moved with that cool, effortless grace she always had, head slightly tilted, eyes scanning the court as if assessing something far beyond a game.
She settled herself on the bleachers, one leg bent beneath her, arms folded loosely. The usual unreadable expression was there, the mask of aloofness she wore like armor. But today, something in the way she watched him had a different edge, curious, almost… soft.
Adam hesitated mid-dribble, then called out, "Hey, you didn't go to the fundraiser?"
She glanced at him, lips twitching as if to say something but decided on silence a moment before replying. "Politics don't interest me."
There was a sharpness to the words, but Adam caught the hint of something else beneath, the same quiet rebellion he felt about those same empty political games.
"Yeah, me neither," Adam admitted, bouncing the ball again. "I'm more into basketball. Helps me clear my head." He smiled, the kind that came easy here, where he wasn't weighed down by expectation or danger. "And it's actually fun."
Luna watched him for a heartbeat longer before saying, "I don't get it." she said getting up and stepping closer to him, circling him almost like how a predator would circle pinned pray, "Why waste time on something so trivial when there's important stuff to deal with?"
Adam chuckled softly, sensing the seriousness masked by her casual tone. "Hobbies aren't just time-fillers. They're what keeps your mind sane. Your emotions, too. Sometimes you need a break from the weight."
She didn't respond, her gaze dropping to the floor briefly before she looked back up, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Adam's breath hitched a little.
As he stood stunned, Luna shifted her position and, with an almost imperceptible movement, ran her fingers lightly over the scar on his left shoulder, the faint, old mark barely visible beneath his shirt.
Adam froze, suddenly hyperaware of her touch. It was the first time she'd physically touched him. The unexpected contact sent a quiet jolt through him, neither electric nor alarming, but undeniable.
"You seriously don't remember how you got this?" she asked in a tone that hinted disappointment.
Adam struggled to retrieve the memory, but it eluded him completely. It was as though a few vital pages from the story of his life had been ripped away, taking with them precious moments he would never get back. 'I'm starting to question this girl's social skills... She must have a thing for scars, is she a sadist?' Adam thought quietly.
"I just can't seem to remember," Adam admitted, voice tinged with embarrassment.
He found himself staring, heart thudding louder in the silent gym. Luna caught his gaze, her face shifting from cool curiosity to something sharper, almost hurt. She pulled her hand back, the ghost of a frown crossing her lips.
"If you can't even remember how you got this," she said, voice low and clipped, "then you're totally hopeless."
The words landed hard in the quiet. Luna didn't wait for a response. Without another glance, she rose and walked away, leaving Adam standing alone on the court, confused, unsettled, but strangely grateful for the moment.
He watched her go, a thousand questions swirling behind his eyes, but also a quiet hope that maybe beneath her icy surface, there was something worth chasing. he thought he had given up hope when it came to the mysterious Luna. But had he?
Meanwhile, Bryce adjusted his cufflinks as the sliding black-glass doors of the Farren Towers ballroom parted with a soft hiss, spilling him into a world dipped in opulence.
Warm golden light poured from a series of elliptical chandeliers overhead, their crystalline curves refracting brilliance onto the glossy marble floor below. Velvet drapes hung like cascading rivers of wine across towering windows that stretched up past the mezzanine balconies. Waiters moved like clockwork in crisp black suits, trays gliding effortlessly in their hands. The air was scented with a fusion of sandalwood and aged champagne. It was the kind of place where silence had a price tag, and every laugh was measured.
But to Bryce, it felt like breathing recycled air, stale, familiar, exhausting.
Upon arriving to the building, he had switched outfits to a sharp-cut navy tuxedo for the occasion, nothing too flashy, just enough to say I belong here. His hair was styled effortlessly, like it always was, and a small silver pin gleamed on his lapel: the Farren family crest.
A cluster of high-society figures hovered near the champagne bar to his left. CEOs, investors, political fundraisers, and a few overly Botoxed television personalities. One of them, a squat man with slicked-back hair and a belly pushing his blazer to war, waved him over.
"Bryce Farren, my boy!" he bellowed.
Bryce offered his usual charming smile, the kind that looked genuine but never quite reached his eyes, and walked over.
"Good morning, Mr. Kellow."
"You're looking more and more like your old man every day," Kellow said, clapping his shoulder a little too hard. "Still acing school? Moonstone's keeping you sharp, eh?"
"Doing my best," Bryce said with practiced smoothness, raising his glass in a half-toast. "But I've got a long way before I'm half the man my father is."
Kellow chuckled, pleased, and Bryce felt the old weight settle on his shoulders. Always be perfect. Always say the right thing. He took a polite sip of his drink, sparkling cider, and excused himself.
As he weaved through the ballroom, the weight didn't leave. He shook hands, smiled for a few photos, and exchanged words he'd forget by tomorrow. But beneath the elegance and artificial warmth, something nagged at the edges of his mind. The rhythm of the evening felt… off.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Bryce had learned to read between the smiles.
His father should have made his rounds by now, yet he hadn't seen him once.
He passed a trio of girls from Class A giggling near the dessert table. One of them waved. Bryce returned a nod but didn't stop.
The moment he turned toward the far corridor leading to the reserved back section of the ballroom, typically roped off for key family members, he spotted him.
Alexander Farren.
Standing alone near the glass wall that overlooked the city skyline, back straight, shoulders squared in his tailored suit. To the untrained eye, he looked calm. Regal, even. But Bryce's gut tightened.
It was the keychain. A small silver piece shaped like a chess knight. It dangled from his father's fingers, spinning slowly between his thumb and forefinger. Bryce hadn't seen him touch it in years, not since his Mother's funeral. And even then, it had been subtle.
He hesitated, unsure if he should interrupt. But the unease grew louder. In his mind, flashes of his father's old lessons returned, words about control, strategy, keeping the upper hand no matter the stakes. But there was no upper hand here. Only tension.
Bryce approached slowly, footsteps soft on the marble.
What's going on?
His father didn't notice him at first, or pretended not to. Bryce stood a few paces away, gaze flickering to the half-filled glass in his father's left hand. Whiskey. Neat. The ice had melted long ago.
"Dad?" Bryce said quietly.
Alexander didn't turn.
A beat passed. Then another.
"You've done well today," he finally said. Voice deep and even. "Everyone's talking. I'm proud."
Bryce nodded slowly. "Thank you. You're... tense."
Alexander finally turned to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot, barely, but enough for Bryce to see. And behind them was something Bryce couldn't name. Not fear. Not anger. Something colder.
"I just got a call," his father said, voice low and measured. "Things are… shifting. Faster than expected."
Bryce's pulse ticked up. "Is this about—?"
His father cut him off with a glance.
"It's nothing you need to worry about yet."
"But—"
"Not yet, Bryce."
The silence between them stretched.
Then, Alexander smiled, the same smile Bryce had seen him use on media reporters, shareholders, and crooked allies. It was polished. Controlled. Calculated.
"Go enjoy the the day. Mingle. Make your presence known."
Bryce's eyes searched his father's face. The lines looked deeper tonight. His jaw clenched just a little tighter than usual. The hand holding the keychain hadn't stopped twitching.
He nodded. But the knot in his chest stayed.
And as he turned and walked back toward the main ballroom, the last thing he saw reflected in the glass wasn't the party behind him, but the ghostly image of his father, staring into the skyline with a weight that didn't belong in a room of celebration.