Kota's eyes snapped open at 5:47 a.m., thirty-three minutes before the alarm on his cracked phone screen was supposed to start its daily warbling loop of old-school hip-hop. The room was still dark, streetlight bleeding through the slats of the blinds in thin orange stripes across his comforter. He lay there for a second, waiting for the usual drag of exhaustion to pull him back under.
It didn't come.
Instead there was this bright, buzzing energy under his skin—like someone had flipped a switch he didn't know existed. His heart beat steady and strong, not the sluggish thud he usually had to fight through every morning. He felt… awake. Really awake. Clear-headed. Ready.
He rolled out of bed before he could second-guess it, bare feet hitting the cold laminate floor. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the building settling. Khalil's snores rumbled faintly through the thin wall separating their rooms—deep, even, the sound of a man who'd earned every second of sleep after yesterday's sales-brag marathon.
Kota moved on autopilot but with a weird kind of purpose. He pulled on yesterday's jeans (still faintly musky from the office, though he told himself it was just imagination), a fresh black hoodie, and his worn Jordans. In the kitchen he flicked on the single bulb over the sink—dim yellow light, just enough to see by—and started making sandwiches. Turkey from the deli pack Khalil bought in bulk, American cheese slices, mayo on one side, mustard on the other, lettuce so it wouldn't get soggy. He cut the crusts off because he still liked them that way, even at eighteen. Wrapped each one in foil, tucked them into a paper lunch bag along with an apple and a couple of those protein bars his dad swore by. He even rinsed the knife and wiped the counter. Small things. Control things.
By 6:15 he was standing in the doorway of Khalil's room, bag slung over one shoulder.
"Dad."
Khalil grunted, one arm flung over his face, sheets twisted around his legs. "Mmph?"
"I'm taking the bus today. Got an early thing at school."
Khalil's arm slid down just enough for one eye to crack open. "You sure? I can drop you after I—"
"Nah, it's cool. I'll be fine."
A long beat of sleepy silence. Then Khalil gave a slow nod, already drifting back. "Aight."
"Will do."
He slipped out the front door, locked it quietly behind him, and took the stairs two at a time. The morning air hit him crisp and cold—January in Houston still carried a bite before the sun came up. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences. A couple of early-shift workers shuffled toward their cars; an old man walked a tiny dog that yapped at nothing. Otherwise the complex was still asleep.
The bus stop was four blocks away, same one he'd used maybe twice in his life. He got there at 6:28, just as the 47 rolled up with its brakes hissing. The driver—a broad-shouldered guy with a faded ball cap and the kind of monumental ass that made the seat creak—nodded without looking up from his phone. Kota swiped his pass, moved down the aisle past half-empty rows of boys dozing against windows or scrolling feeds, and claimed the very back seat. The one that faced backward, so he could watch the world recede instead of rushing toward it.
He sat with his backpack between his feet, knees spread, elbows on thighs. The bus lurched forward, engine rumbling under him. Outside, strip malls blurred past—neon signs still glowing for lube shops and "premium plug emporiums," their windows papered with cartoonishly exaggerated bubble butts. A billboard advertised the latest artificial womb model: "Grow Your Legacy—99.7% Viability Guarantee." Kota stared at it until it disappeared around a corner.
No one bothered him on the ride. A couple of freshmen glanced back once or twice, eyes widening when they recognized him, but they didn't approach. Word traveled fast after yesterday. The hallway pantsing. The video. The sudden shift from "flat-ass weirdo" to "the guy with the monster." They kept their distance. Respectful. Scared, maybe. Kota didn't mind. The quiet felt good.
He ate one of the sandwiches halfway through the route—slow bites, chewing deliberately. The bread was still soft, turkey salty, cheese melty from his body heat. He licked mayo off his thumb and felt oddly satisfied. Like he'd done something small but right.
The bus dropped him at the corner of Westfield and Bayou Drive at 7:02. School was still fifteen minutes from first bell, but the parking lot already had a scattering of cars and boys milling around—some vaping behind the gym, others clustered in groups, asses clapping softly as they shifted weight and laughed. Kota walked the cracked sidewalk with his head up, shoulders loose. No hunching today. No avoiding eye contact. He passed Kyle and Edmond near the bike racks; they both froze mid-sentence, eyes dropping to his crotch before flicking away fast. Kyle muttered something under his breath—probably "fuck"—but neither of them said a word out loud.
Kota kept walking.
The main entrance smelled like industrial cleaner and teenage sweat. Lockers clanged, sneakers squeaked, someone's phone blared a twerk playlist before a teacher barked "Volume!" from down the hall. Kota went straight to his locker—spin, click, yank—shoved the lunch bag inside next to the textbooks he wasn't planning to open, hung his hoodie on the hook, and checked his reflection in the little magnetic mirror someone had stuck there last year. His eyes looked brighter than usual. Skin clear. Jaw set.
He felt good.
Really good.
The science test was third period. He hadn't cracked the review packet once. Hadn't even looked at the chapters on chemical bonding or cellular respiration. Normally that would've knotted his stomach into ropes. Today? Nothing. Just calm certainty. Theo had promised a 4.0. Straight across the board. Teachers would "adjust" the scores quietly. He'd walk out with an A whether he bubbled in nonsense or left half the scantron blank. The thought should've made him guilty. It didn't. It made him feel powerful. Untouchable.
He shut the locker, spun the dial once for good measure, and was about to head toward the cafeteria for a quick coffee when the intercom crackled to life.
The speakers hissed first—always did—then Principal Hawthorne's voice came through, posh British accent trying (and failing) to sound official.
"Attention, students. This is Principal Hawthorne. Will Kota Abdel please report to the principal's office immediately? Kota Abdel to the principal's office. Thank you."
The hallway froze for half a second.
Then the whispers started.
Kota felt every pair of eyes snap to him. A group of sophomores near the water fountain went dead quiet. Riley—leaning against a locker three doors down—straightened so fast his massive cheeks clapped together audibly. Jayden, halfway to class with his twerk-team crew, turned and grinned like he'd just won the lottery. Even the teachers poking their heads out of doorways looked curious.
Kota didn't move right away.
He just stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring up at the nearest speaker like it had personally insulted him.
Theo.
Fucking Theo.
He could've texted. Should've texted. Kota would've given him his number yesterday if the man had asked like a normal person instead of… whatever the hell that office scene had been. But no. Theo had to go full dramatic. Broadcast it over the entire school like some royal summons. Now everyone knew. Everyone was wondering. Was it about the pantsing? The video? Something new? Or—worse—did they suspect?
Kota's jaw tightened.
He could feel the heat crawling up his neck, but it wasn't embarrassment this time. It was irritation. Low, simmering. Theo had promised discretion. Promised to make things smooth. And the first thing he does is announce it like a fucking pageant winner getting called to collect his crown?
Idiot.
Kota exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
He wasn't going to rush. Not yet.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper.
He'd walk there on his own time.
He adjusted the strap on his backpack, turned, and started down the hall toward the admin wing—slow, deliberate steps, head high.
Behind him, the murmurs followed like a wake.
"Did you hear that?"
"Again? Two days in a row?"
"Bro, what's he got on Hawthorne?"
"I'd kill to know what goes down in that office…"
Kota didn't look back.
He just kept walking, the energy from this morning still buzzing under his skin, sharper now.
Theo was about to learn that power went both ways.