The last hour at Wok Stop blurred into a mess of grease and quietly simmering anger. Every barked order from Mr. Henderson, every icy look from Kevin — the orange-haired coworker — felt like another piece of proof that Marcus Sterling was dead and buried. Me, the golden boy, reduced to a kitchen hand, smelling like peanut oil and shame.
When the shift finally ended I flicked the sticky apron onto its hook and ignored Kevin's grunt. Five dollars in my pocket. A detention slip. The contrast with my old life felt physical, heavy on Eli's stocky frame. I needed to know. I needed to see my old life with my own eyes.
So I rode the rickety bike toward Northwood High.
The school looked exactly the same: manicured lawn, brick façade, shiny windows that used to reflect the guy I was. It was 3:45 p.m. and after-school crowds were thick — athletes heading to the fields, clubs breaking off to meetings, and the popular kids clustered by the main entrance. My old crowd.
I propped the bike against the chain-link fence, the kind of place Marcus Sterling would never be seen. Hoodie up, head down, I walked into the crowd as quietly as I could.
Jessica was the first face I saw. Head cheerleader, perfect makeup, the laugh that used to hang on my jokes. She was by the trophy case, animated and surrounded.
My heart pounded. I had to try. I had to know if Marcus Sterling still existed.
"Jessica," I called, my voice thin and unfamiliar — Eli's voice.
She turned. Her eyes scanned me — greasy hair, wide frame, acne — and slid past like I was nothing.
"Yeah?" she said, flat and impatient, already checking over my shoulder.
"I—uh—do you know a student named Marcus Sterling?" I blurted. "Tall, golden-brown hair, athlete, 4.0 GPA. He goes here, right?"
She blinked like the name was odd. Her friends glanced at me, bored.
"Marcus Sterling?" she said slow, like she was tasting it. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell. You sure you're at the right school, Elias?"
My stomach dropped. "Yes—yes, I'm sure. He's been here for years. He's the star player. He—got into State U last week!"
She gave a short, tight laugh. "We've got like two thousand kids here. I know the ones who matter. No Marcus Sterling. Maybe he transferred. Good luck." Then she cut back to her friends, and that was it.
It hit me like a wall. Her dismissal was casual, automatic — the kind only people who've never had to worry about being forgotten can give. It felt like I had never existed.
I staggered toward the exit, needing air. A group of popular girls burst into cruel laughter as I passed.
"Did you see Eli Finch trying to talk to Jessica?" one sneered loud enough for half the hallway to hear. "Asking about a guy no one knows. Is he finally losing it?"
"Look at that hoodie, it's falling apart! Back to the kitchen, Finch!" another taunted — the same girl who used to watch me across the cafeteria.
Their laughter was sharp and public. In Marcus's life, that wouldn't happen. Now I was the joke. The shame felt foreign and heavy.
I bolted from the hall and found myself by the abandoned wing, the place I used to hide. I went to where Locker 417 had been — right by the senior lounge. I remembered the blue paint, the tiny scratches, the combination like it was burned into me.
But the lockers were a plain row of gray. Locker 417 was gone, replaced by a drab storage cupboard for cleaning supplies. My combo was meaningless. My physical proof that I'd ever been here had been painted over.
It was over. Marcus Sterling—my name, my trophies, my life—was gone. I slid down and leaned against the cold metal, one bitter tear cutting through grime on my cheek.
"It's all over," I whispered. The voice felt small. "I have nothing. No one's problems are like this."
Wheels squeaked. Ray, one of the janitors, rolled by with a mop bucket. He stopped, set the cart down, and pointed the mop at me like I'd been in the way.
"Hey, tubby. Move your butt," he said, voice gravelly. "You look like you got the weight of the whole damn world on you. Let me tell you something: everybody thinks their problems are the biggest. Every single idiot who sits on this floor."
He leaned on the mop handle, eyes oddly sharp.
"I got three jobs, a mortgage, a busted knee, and I still get up," he said. "What they don't get is how they deal with it. That's what you're missing. You're sitting here crying because your life changed. That adaptation—that fight—that's the difference between a loser and a winner."
He shoved the bucket and walked on. Left the smell of bleach and the truth hanging there.
A loser and a winner.
Ray's words cut through everything. The pity. The shame. It hit the one part of me that mattered — the part that once made me win. Sitting on the floor, feeling sorry for myself, that was exactly what Elias Finch would do. Marcus Sterling adapted. Marcus fought. Marcus prepared.
I stood up. The floor dirtied my knees. Self-pity evaporated. Cold, sharp resolve slid in.
If I had to climb back up from the fryer, from five dollars and a detention slip, then fine. I'd fight. I'd use Eli Finch's life as my step-ladder to get Marcus Sterling back.
The fight starts now.