The note hit me like an electric shock, like someone had tossed me a rope across the wreckage of Elias Finch's wrecked life. My fingers clutched it so tightly the paper almost tore, my head spinning with theories—hidden camera, hallucination, some cruel prank. But then I remembered Yui's eyes. Steady. Smart. They made the cheap guesses impossible.
The bell shrieked for lunch, and the whole room exploded into motion. Kids spilling into the hallway, voices crashing like a wave. Yui didn't rush. She packed her books carefully, deliberately, as if she had all the time in the world. I couldn't move, palms damp, stomach flipping.
"The cafeteria's too crowded," I blurted, my voice still carrying the pathetic, nasal edge of Eli Finch. "Let's… talk outside."
She gave me a small nod, and together we drifted through the hallways. The whispers followed us instantly—the shiny new girl walking beside the school's most forgettable loser. People gawked openly, and the stares burned, but Yui walked like she didn't notice.
We found a bench tucked behind the library, the quiet pressing in around us. I didn't waste time.
"The note." My voice cracked under the weight of it. "What do you know about me? My name is Marcus Sterling. Why the hell am I stuck in this body?"
Yui didn't answer right away. She stared across the courtyard, her face calm but touched with something sad, like someone watching a tragedy play out for the second time.
"I know you, Marcus Sterling," she said finally, voice soft but carrying absolute certainty. "I know your life was coated in gold. I know you think you've lost your kingdom." She turned toward me then, and her gaze cut sharp, analytical, like she was diagnosing me. "I come from a place you can't imagine yet. A place where who you are matters more than you realize. I'm here to watch you—and to see how you survive the trials."
"Trials?" My frustration boiled over. "Then tell me—do you know what happened to my real body? Why no one remembers me? Why me?"
She weighed her words, letting the silence stretch. "I'll tell you this much: don't let your guard down. Your reality is more fragile than you think. Things can break at any time."
Then she delivered the second hit. "As for why you—you'll find out soon. The answer will come on its own."
She stood then, movements clean and final, as if the conversation had a built-in expiration date. "I've told you what I can. Focus on the fight, Marcus. That's the only way forward."
And then she walked away, leaving me clenching my fists on that damn bench, my insides a knot of rage and helplessness. I'd traded ignorance for half-answers—watchers, trials, fragile realities. No real explanation, just a warning echoing in my head.
Don't let your guard down. Fine. I wouldn't. I'd push harder, sharper, and I'd win back everything—my reputation, my pride, my damn name.
Back in Physics, the fire inside me turned into razor focus. The teacher, maybe hoping to embarrass me, called on Eli for a brutal orbital mechanics question. I shot up, chalk flying, the equations spilling from my hand fast and clean. For a moment, Marcus Sterling was back at the board. The class sat in stunned silence, their jeers dissolving into something closer to awe.
That small win carried into the Wok Stop. I moved like a machine—fast, efficient, no complaining. Henderson and Kevin weren't suddenly my buddies, but something shifted. The insults thinned. The contempt dulled.
"Finch," Henderson barked late that night. "Take ten. Grab a soda. You moved double tonight."
It wasn't praise. But it wasn't the usual punishment either. It was acknowledgment, and I pocketed it like cash. Literally—sixty bucks a shift, folded neatly and stashed under a loose floorboard back in Eli's dump of a room.
That night, lying on his scratchy sheets, I felt it: that faint flicker of Marcus Sterling pride. I'd handled the house, handled school, earned grudging respect at work. The gold was gone, but the steel was shaping.
I'm winning, I told myself as I pulled the blanket tight. I am Marcus Sterling. I'll take back my fate. Soon, I'll be the one they all look at again.
I drifted off with that thought lodged deep, steady as a heartbeat.
And then I woke up.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—thick, floral, nauseatingly sweet. Not Eli's sour oil-and-dust stink.
The second was the bed. The sheets were smooth, silky, suffocatingly hot. My body felt stretched thin, limbs too long, clumsy, sweating under the wrong kind of heat.
I sat up fast, dizziness crashing over me. The ceiling above wasn't Eli's cracked plaster—it was vaulted, painted a dark blue, little fake stars glimmering like a private sky.
Panic surged. I stumbled out of the oversized bed, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. The pajama pants hanging off me were expensive silk, too long. I lunged for the mirror on the closet door.
What stared back made my blood freeze.
The boy in the glass wasn't Eli. He was taller—over six feet—gaunt, pale, with delicate features that should've been striking but instead looked unhealthy, hollowed out. His black hair was styled perfectly, but his skin had this waxy translucence, like candle wax about to melt. His eyes were dark, bruised with exhaustion.
Not a loser like Eli. A different kind of void. A "zero" hidden under wealth and polish.
Recognition hit like ice water. I knew him. He floated around the upper-class circle that replaced me. Always looked like he hadn't slept in days. Sickly, but charismatic in this eerie, broken way. His name was....
To Be Continued.