The Lamborghini's engine cut through the morning like a blade.
Heads turned before the car even fully stopped.
Students gathered near the main entrance instinctively shifted aside as the sleek black vehicle rolled into the reserved space. It wasn't written anywhere that it belonged to Adrian Vale — but everyone knew.
The engine died.
For a moment, silence.
Then the door opened.
Adrian stepped out without urgency, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if the world around him did not exist. His posture was straight, effortless. Dark hair slightly tousled by the wind. Emerald eyes unreadable.
Whispers began immediately.
"Vale's here."
"He looks even colder lately."
"Is it true he hasn't smiled since—"
The sentence never finished.
Adrian didn't look at them. He never did. Attention bored him. Pity disgusted him.
He walked through the crowd, and they parted.
Not because he demanded it.
Because his presence did.
Inside, the marble floors reflected the light streaming from the tall windows. Lockers slammed shut as he passed. A few girls stole glances; some boys tried to look unimpressed.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
Routine, Adrian thought as he entered the corridor leading to his first class. Predictable.
Predictability was safe.
The classroom quieted the second he stepped inside. Not dramatically — just subtly. The way a room does when someone important arrives.
He took his seat near the window, back row. Perfect line of sight. Perfect distance from everyone.
The teacher began speaking about market economies and international finance. Adrian opened his notebook, pen gliding smoothly across the page.
"Mr. Vale," the teacher said midway through the lecture, adjusting his glasses. "Would you care to explain the principle behind risk hedging in volatile markets?"
Eyes shifted toward him.
Adrian didn't hesitate.
"It's not about eliminating risk," he said calmly. "It's about distributing it strategically so loss becomes controlled rather than catastrophic."
The room fell quiet again.
The teacher nodded slowly. "Exactly."
Adrian returned to writing.
They only see the name, he thought.
They saw his father's empire. His wealth. His future inheritance.
They didn't see the nights he lay awake staring at ceilings that felt too large.
They didn't see the silence.
A pen snapped somewhere across the room.
The sharp crack echoed unnaturally loud.
For a split second—
The lights flickered.
Not dramatically. Just once.
Adrian's fingers tightened around his own pen.
The air felt… heavier.
Like pressure before a storm.
Then it was gone.
The teacher continued speaking as if nothing had happened.
Adrian loosened his grip.
Imagination, he told himself.
But this wasn't the first time.
Lately, when emotions pressed too hard against the walls he'd built, the world around him seemed to react. Subtle distortions. Brief disruptions.
He refused to acknowledge them.
Control was maintained by ignoring anomalies.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped the floor. Conversations reignited.
Adrian stood and left before anyone could approach him.
The gymnasium smelled of polished wood and rubber.
Practice had already begun.
The basketball team moved across the court in synchronized drills, sneakers screeching against the floor. Sweat glistened under bright overhead lights.
When Adrian entered, the rhythm shifted.
Not visibly.
But perceptibly.
He set his bag down without greeting anyone.
"Captain," one of his teammates called, tossing him a ball.
Adrian caught it one-handed without looking.
The coach gave him a nod. No long speeches. No encouragement. Adrian didn't need it.
He stepped onto the court.
The team instantly restructured.
He didn't shout commands. Didn't raise his voice.
He simply moved.
And they followed.
Fast break drill.
Adrian advanced the ball up the court, movements fluid and economical. At 6'2", he carried speed like it was engineered into him. Long strides. Precise pivots.
A defender moved to block him.
He crossed left.
Then right.
The defender stumbled.
Adrian drove to the rim and finished with a clean, controlled layup.
No celebration.
The ball hit the net with a quiet swish.
"Again," he said.
Not loudly.
But the word carried.
They ran it again.
And again.
He didn't smile when they succeeded.
Didn't scold when they failed.
He corrected angles. Adjusted spacing. Directed silently with eye contact and minimal words.
"Spacing's too tight."
"Cut earlier."
"Don't hesitate."
His voice was even. Detached. Surgical.
One teammate hesitated on a pass.
Adrian intercepted it mid-air, pivoted, and scored in one smooth motion.
"Trust the play," he said, handing the ball back.
No anger.
Just expectation.
They respected him.
Not because he was wealthy.
Because he was better.
Because when games tightened in the final minutes, Adrian's pulse never changed.
Cold.
Reliable.
Unbreakable.
During a scrimmage, the gym lights dimmed slightly.
Just for a second.
Adrian went up for a jump shot.
At the apex—
Time felt wrong.
Like it stretched thin.
The ball hovered a fraction longer than it should have.
The noise of sneakers scraping faded into a distant hum.
And then—
Everything snapped back.
Swish.
The ball fell cleanly through the net.
No one reacted strangely.
Only Adrian felt it.
He landed smoothly, expression unchanged.
Again, he told himself.
They ran drills until the whistle ended practice.
As the team dispersed, one of the younger players approached him.
"Captain… are we ready for Friday's game?"
Adrian wiped sweat from his brow with a towel.
"We're ready," he said. "If you stop doubting."
The boy straightened.
"Yes, Captain."
Adrian slung his bag over his shoulder and left the gym without another word.
Afternoon classes passed in routine silence.
Teachers praised him.
Students observed him.
Some envied him.
Others feared him.
None knew him.
Halfway through literature class, a girl behind him whispered, "Do you think he even feels anything?"
He heard it.
He chose not to react.
The teacher discussed themes of loss in a nineteenth-century novel.
"Grief changes a person," she said. "It can harden them. Or hollow them."
Adrian's pen paused mid-sentence.
For a moment, the air felt heavy again.
His heartbeat remained steady.
Hardened, he thought.
Better hardened than hollow.
The bell rang once more.
Students filed out.
Adrian remained seated.
The classroom emptied gradually until only silence remained.
Sunlight poured through the large window beside him, casting long shadows across his desk.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting outward.
The city skyline stretched beyond the campus.
Glass towers reflecting afternoon light.
Cars moving like veins of steel and motion.
From this height, everything looked small.
Controlled.
Distant.
For one second—
He felt something.
A sensation not of grief.
Not of anger.
But awareness.
Like a thread tightening somewhere far away.
Like eyes.
Watching.
Not from the hallway.
Not from the street below.
But somewhere beyond what he could see.
His chest tightened imperceptibly.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
The feeling intensified.
Then—
It vanished.
The wind outside shifted.
Leaves rustled against the windowpane.
Nothing abnormal.
Nothing visible.
Adrian exhaled slowly.
Ridiculous.
And yet…
For one second—
He felt like someone, somewhere, was looking back.
He didn't know why.