First real morning in this world. Alarm hits six.
I let it ring for a minute, just to see if anyone around here cares about noise.
Nothing. Apartment's dead except for a weak splash of sun against cheap curtains. I test my voice, "Rise and shine," half-expecting a ghost, a roomie, a parent's lecture.
All I get is my own echo, and a calendar with one page and nothing written on it—yet.
I dress. Routine makes memory stick. Teeth, shirt, socks—wrong sizes, right posture.
Kitchen: stale bread, instant coffee. I quote Tyler Durden to the empty fridge, "You are not your job. You are not the contents of your wallet."
In this case, I am indeed not much.
Shoes on. Backpack. Weaponized smirk.
Monday, Seoul, school—let's see if anyone learns anything.
Courtyard's busy. Kids playing at adults, blagging homework, trading gossip.
I slip in sideways, unnoticed—a ghost until I want to be seen.
First sighting: Tall Boss from yesterday, bruised and meaner.
He spots me. Pauses mid-strut, like the world glitched and only he knows.
I wave, small and smug. He looks away a half second too late.
Bandaid Girl's sitting on the steps, hoodie zipped to her chin.
She holds up a juice box like a peace flag. "Live to see another day?"
"Always," I say, plopping down beside her. "Borrowed time is still time."
She studies my face, "They say you took down three guys. Alone."
"I took down boredom. The rest fell over by accident."
She grins. "You're something else."
"Everyone is. Some just hide it better."
The first bell goes. Kids scatter like pigeons.
I stand, roll my shoulders. "Let's put on a show."
First period: Math. The teacher's got the energy of a dead battery. He drones on, chalk squeaking.
I answer a question wrong on purpose. Enough to seem normal, not enough to look dumb.
Tall Boss throws paper at my back.
I don't turn around. Power play? Amateur hour.
Bandaid Girl whispers, "Ignore him. He needs an audience."
"That's everyone's tragedy."
She raises an eyebrow. Catches the movie quote, maybe.
Lunch.
Rumor's spread. Some first years are eyeing me, whispering. A junior—broad shoulders, high nose—blocks my way at the food line.
"You're Han, right? Vasco says you're funny."
Vasco. Interesting. Big name in these halls. Known for picking lost causes and leading gangs with a code.
"He's got taste," I say, "Tell him I charge by the punchline."
"Will do," the junior laughs, backing off. No challenge, just curiosity.
Jay slinks past, tray balanced with surgeon precision.
He's alone by choice, like he's seen too many seasons of every drama at once.
I move to sit by Bandaid Girl—now engrossed in a manga volume.
She slides one page my way. "You think you'd survive in that world?"
I bark a laugh, point to a monster panel.
"In most stories, you die if you stand out."
Flash of Gojo again: "No need to fear, sensei's here."
She snorts. "So what are you, hero or villain?"
I smile crooked. "Neither. I'm the plot twist."
After lunch, teachers hand out papers.
Mine is blank—extra page.
I doodle. A raccoon, lounging in a throne, bored out of its mind.
Tall Boss is called out for a fight behind the gym.
I follow—to watch, to learn, to see how this ecosystem works.
Crowd circles. It's the classic playground showdown, all posturing and fake bravado.
This place loves an audience almost as much as it fears change.
Tall Boss takes a swing, loses balance, and the "victim" clocks him square.
The crowd's mood turns. Kids trade sides the second the wind changes.
I lock eyes with Vasco, watching from the bleachers, arms folded, smile easy.
He nods.
Jay's gone, shadow at my shoulder. "You saw how fast they changed? Loyalty is for rent."
I quote Casablanca: "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon—and for the rest of your life."
Jay tips an invisible hat. "Quoting classics, huh."
I wink. "Kids today have no taste."
After school, it rains again. I linger by the fence. Bandaid Girl, Jay, Vasco—each orbit close but not quite touching.
Three walk home together, not because we planned but because the scene wanted us there.
Bandaid Girl asks, "So what now?"
I shrug. "Now, we remember today. Just in case tomorrow erases it."
Jay tosses me a stick of gum. "Got any more of those twist endings?"
I smirk, "Wait and see. Life's better with spoilers anyway."
Night. Same city, new angle.
Our trio ends up at a rundown arcade, blipping lights and sticky floors, every game blinking "Insert Coin" like it's a challenge.
Jay annihilates high scores with bored grace. Bandaid Girl leans against the machine, hoodie pulled low.
I rack up a few wins of my own. "The world isn't kind to people who stand still."
She snorts. "Most people wait their whole lives for someone else's permission."
Jay cracks a smile, rare as good news.
"Do you ever stop talking in hints?"
"Would you rather I lie? Or better yet, ramble about destiny and hope?"
The arcade guy flips the lights at closing. I grab my jacket, whirl it over my shoulder.
"The things you own end up owning you."
We slip into the night, shoes squeaking on wet pavement.
Their chatter fades, but I fill the silence with quotes I use as armor.
"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything."
"Whatever happens, happens."
"I never lose. Either I win, or I learn."
"Isn't it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?"
Bandaid Girl looks sideways at me, unreadable. "Are you always like this?"
I let a lazy smile drift. "Only when I'm awake."
We pause in the shadow of a half-lit convenience store. Bandaid Girl points to a cat perched atop a vending machine.
It stares down, unphased. King of this concrete patch.
Jay drops a coin, lets it spin on the edge. "Heads, you lead. Tails, we split."
The coin falls. We walk home together anyway.
I toss in bed that night. Rain taps ceiling, city breathes through the window, a gentle reminder that today isn't tomorrow just yet.
Last thought, fading:
"There's no fate but what we make."