There was nothing in Ren's life that invited narration.
His days resembled one another the way the gray apartment windows along his morning route reflected the same sky—rectangular, repetitive, unremarkable. He was not exceptional, nor did he aspire to be. He moved through life at a measured pace, neither hurried nor stagnant, as though the rhythm imposed upon him was sufficient.
He woke that morning to the same alarm tone he had used for years. The white ceiling above his bed seemed closer than usual, though perhaps it was only his perception tightening around ordinary things. He rose without urgency, washed his face in cold water, and studied his reflection.
An ordinary face stared back. Dark eyes without particular brilliance. Slightly unkempt hair. No visible trace of distinction. He saw only a high school student suspended somewhere in the middle of a long, indistinguishable line.
In the kitchen, his father read the news in silence while his mother arranged plates with mechanical precision. Their exchange was brief and practical.
"Morning."
"Don't be late."
"Watch the road."
The words carried neither warmth nor hostility. They existed simply because mornings required them. Ren ate quickly, gathered his bag, and stepped outside into a street that felt quieter than usual. The air was cool, the sky overcast, the city functioning in subdued compliance.
At the school gate, clusters of students gathered in familiar formations. Laughter flickered in short bursts. Complaints about mathematics homework drifted in passing. Someone mentioned an upcoming test. Ren was not isolated, yet never central. He stood within conversations without anchoring them, speaking when addressed, listening more often than not.
Inside the classroom, he took his seat by the window. Pale daylight filtered through the glass, sketching faint lines across wooden desks. The class president occupied the front row, speaking with composed assurance to a small group. Across the aisle, a louder circle debated last night's match results. The scene unfolded with practiced normalcy, as though it had been rehearsed endlessly.
Lessons progressed with measured slowness. The physics teacher described motion as if it were an eternal principle immune to disruption. The bell functioned as the sole divider between one temporal block and the next. Nothing deviated. Nothing fractured.
During lunch break, Ren sat in the courtyard with two classmates. Their discussion drifted from weekend plans to a recently released film, then to a trivial rumor circulating among the lower grades. He smiled when appropriate. Nodded when required. He harbored no secret insight, no concealed tension. He was, in every visible sense, ordinary.
Yet when classes resumed in the afternoon, a subtle heaviness settled behind his eyes. It was not pain—more a dense pressure, as though the air in the room had thickened imperceptibly. He glanced around. A few students appeared distracted. Others blinked more frequently than usual.
The teacher began the next lecture, but his voice seemed to recede—not because its volume diminished, but because distance had inserted itself between sound and comprehension. Words fragmented before forming coherent sentences.
Ren pressed his fingers lightly against his temple. No fever. No dizziness sharp enough to name. Only the growing weight.
A girl two rows ahead gripped the edge of her desk as if steadying herself. The class president frowned faintly, scanning the room with measured confusion. No one spoke.
Then, as though governed by an unseen consensus, the atmosphere shifted. Chairs scraped against the floor in uneven succession. A muted murmur rippled through the room—not panic, not yet, but something unstable.
The floor seemed to tilt. Ren attempted to stand, but his legs failed to respond with coordination. His peripheral vision blurred, narrowing toward a shrinking focal point at the center of his sight.
The last sensation he registered was the sound of a body striking the ground—perhaps his own, perhaps another's.