Tuesday's dawn sets in with steady rain—no drama, just a slow soak that leaks into the bones.
Jay, Minji, Dao, Rina, and I meet at the gates.
Minji's got her hood pulled tight, her eyes sharp above her coffee.
Jay's wrapped in wires; Rina is texting, thumbs flying, a game of gossip against the clock.
Dao's quiet, jaw tense. "Feels like everyone's waiting to see what falls."
Jay mutters, "Some days start like a coin toss—sometimes it's heads, sometimes it's the edge."
We walk in together, eyes on us. The fallout from the roof meeting is everywhere. People glance sideways, whisper, some nod with cautious approval. It's the start of something—nobody knows if it's revolution or relapse.
First period, Ms. Park's face is tight with concern. Lesson plan gets halfway through before she stops, chalk in the air. "You all know what respect means. But loyalty sometimes means asking questions no one wants to ask."
I answer, not quite under my breath: "Respect is mutual. Loyalty's a gamble."
Dao taps his desk, Rina grins. Jay scribbles: "Life is the odds, not the payout."
After class, rumors run wild—someone's phone shows a new poll, "Who leads now?" The options: "No One," "Old Crew," "Rebels," and "The Stray."
Dao gawks at me. "You're a legend on every app."
Minji nudges me, showing the vote count. "You think being popular ever made it easier?"
I snort, stretch. "Popularity's just a bigger target with fancier paint."
Jay sketches a rough caricature of me riding a tidal wave of poll numbers, about to wipe out a stack of thrones.
Rina's message tone dings, and she shows it around: "Party in the old music room, right after last bell. You're hosting, or so they say."
I raise a brow. "The world's a stage. Might as well deliver a monologue."
Lunch is chaos—every table full, every group a rumor mill.
Vasco drops by, gives a subtle nod. "Sometimes, silence is power, Han."
Minji rolls her eyes. "He's just mad his crew lost last round."
Dao grins at Rina. "You think anyone's really in charge?"
She shoots back. "In charge means cleaning up the mess. Nobody likes janitors."
Jay: "I'd rather be the architect."
"Build something new, then," I offer.
Jay sketches again, blueprints for a kingdom with no king.
After lunch, the rain amps up. Halls echo with squeaking shoes and laughter edged with anxiety. The old music room smells like varnish and ghost notes. Rina kicks open the door, "Here comes trouble."
Inside, half the outcasts, half the hopefuls—some singers with wild hair, others carrying bruised knuckles. Minji commandeers the piano, tapping keys that sound suspiciously like the Jaws theme.
I take the makeshift stage: "Every revolution needs a soundtrack."
Jay snags a drumstick, starts a beat, riffing off Minji until the room builds around a groove. Rina claps, Dao shouts a line, voices overlap—half song, half challenge.
Daniel and Zack slide in, silent but not unseen. Zack hovers near the back, sizing up the scene for old rivals, new converts.
I riff between verses: "If you want to break patterns, you start with noise. Then shape it into meaning."
Dao, voice shaky but clear, "Rumor is teachers might shut us down. Historic, right?"
Minji calls out, "Let them try. We'll play louder."
Rina tries a verse, off-key but fiery, lyrics about not folding in the face of pressure. Jay sketches on sheet music, scribbling lines about falling kings and rising misfits.
Daniel finally speaks, careful, weighted. "Lot of passion here. But tomorrow, what changes?"
I grin, motion toward the crowded walls. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But left alone, stories rot. Together, we tell better ones."
Zack, pragmatic, "If we keep fighting, stakes get higher. You up for it?"
Jay: "You never win by playing it safe."
Dao: "You never lose by standing for something."
Silence, then music reignites.
Last bell, and the party lingers. Rina drops a half-eaten cupcake onto the keys. Minji mixed up a playlist for the week. Jay packs his sketches, turns back to me, eyes sharp.
"You plan next moves, or just ride the chaos?"
I shrug, grabbing my bag. "Chaos is just order that hasn't made up its mind."
Outside, the rain's thinning. We pile out—more a team than a gang, more a hope than a threat.
Dao whispers, "Feels like the future's up for grabs."
Minji slaps his back. "Grab it before someone else does."
I call to the wind, confident and tired. "Tomorrow's already writing rumors. Let's make them worth repeating."
Evening, streets reflecting the lights—puddles painting the world upside down.
Jay leaves first, headphones already on, promises to send the sketch blueprints tonight. Dao splits toward his bus, lingering in the doorway long enough for a grin. Minji and Rina fall into step with me, the day winding down but not their momentum.
Rina: "What if nothing changes tomorrow?"
I step over a puddle, glance skyward. "Then we try again. Quitting's for people who want permission anyway."
Minji punches my shoulder—gentler than her reputation. "People say you make things complicated."
I shoot a crooked smile. "Simple gets shot down first."
We cross the street, city alive with everyone else's stories. Minji asks, "You ever get tired of being in the middle?"
I pause. "We're all in the middle, even the ones pretending to be above it."
Rina hops a curb, spinning like a dancer. "I want the top, just once."
"Then climb faster. Or build your own ladder."
Jay's message pings my phone: a rough line drawing of us on the old music stage, crowd behind, notes flying like birds.
I send a three-word reply: "Leave no survivors."
Minji laughs, Rina tries to harmonize without music.
We part ways—each street a fork, each laugh a closing door, each memory another rumor waiting to splinter.
Night comes quiet. I stare at my ceiling, replaying the day, jotting lines in a notebook stashed behind my mattress.
Tomorrow could be anything.
But tonight?
Tonight, the patterns are already breaking.