In a high school in the heart of New York.
The students watched a young man sleeping peacefully in the middle of class. Some found it amusing, others envied him, while the more studious burned with anger.
The teacher, a man in a checkered shirt, round glasses, and messy hair, stared at the sleeper with annoyance. He walked over, raised his hand high, and slammed it down on the desk.
PAH!
Ace jolted awake, eyes wide, scanning the room in panic until they landed on his teacher. In an instant, panic gave way to anger. You know that moment when everything is fine, you're walking down the street, and suddenly a pigeon decides your head is the perfect target? That was exactly how Ace felt.
He was fifteen, in his last year of middle school. His black hair brushed his ears, a fringe falling over his left eye. His right eye, silver and sharp, was marked by a thin scar above it. Dressed in a black hoodie, black sweatpants, and white sneakers, he carried himself with a casual, effortless style.
Around him, the other students froze, amused yet cautious. When the teacher's gaze swept across them, they all looked away. Then his eyes returned to Ace.
— "See me after class," he said, his tone final.
Ace turned his head aside, muttering under his breath. Sleeping didn't hurt anyone… did it?
The day dragged on endlessly. At last, Ace found himself in the teacher's office. A simple room: a wooden desk, a laptop tangled in a mess of cables. The teacher regarded him like one might a kitten caught misbehaving—wanting to scold, but held back by a trace of tenderness.
He knew Ace's situation. How could he truly blame him? The boy was doing everything he could to protect the orphanage where he had grown up. The investors had cut their funding, and Ace had taken it upon himself to bring in money, pushing his studies aside.
The teacher was torn. His heart urged him to encourage Ace, but his role as an educator demanded he remind him to focus on his future. Ace was brilliant, he knew it. His grades, hovering around average, were misleading. The real problem was that Ace never took anything seriously.
Ace, for his part, seemed laid-back. Always discreet, friendly with his classmates. But for the past month, he hadn't been himself. He no longer paid attention in class. His grades hadn't dropped, but he slept through every lesson, weighing down the atmosphere.
— "Ace, what are your plans for the future?" the teacher asked, with genuine curiosity.
— "I don't know. I live because I'm alive, not to chase some kind of goal. I just want the people I care about to be happy. Nothing more, nothing less." His reply was blunt, disarming. Not the kind of answer one expects from a fifteen-year-old.
The teacher hesitated, then asked why he had been so tired lately.
— "Sorry, but I can't tell you." Ace's eyes locked onto his. His gaze was cold—so cold the teacher felt as if a blade had pierced his chest.
He pressed on, asked more questions. Ace dodged them all with vague answers. After twenty minutes of circling around nothing, the teacher finally let him go. Ace left without a word.
Outside, he breathed in freedom. At last, released from the chains of school, he quickened his pace toward the orphanage. The sun was already sinking below the horizon. Inside, younger children called out to him. Along with Johnny, he was the oldest in the house.
He dropped his bag on his bed and headed for the cafeteria. The kitchen was modest, about ten square meters, its white walls lined with ovens and a gas stove. In the middle stood a metal table, a loaf of bread resting on it. Ace stepped closer, tore off a piece, and raised it to his mouth.
Knock, knock, knock.
He spun around in surprise. What he saw sent a chill through him.
Johnny stood in the doorway, motionless. His beard framed a smile that was anything but comforting.