Spring 2015 was a relentless meat grinder for Ashton St. Perez, a lanky sixteen-year-old navigating the gauntlet of Lincoln High School in a crumbling Ohio town where dreams went to choke. The cafeteria was a warzone, cliques shouting over trays that clanged like shell casings, the air thick with fryer grease, sour milk, and the sharp tang of teenage cruelty. His locker, a dented steel relic in a flickering hallway, bore "LOSER" in jagged black marker, a crude heart scrawled beside it—a taunt from Brett, the linebacker who'd shoved him into a trash can last week, his sneakers sticking to the gummed floor as kids laughed like hyenas. Ashton's fingers traced the graffiti, each letter a fresh cut on his pride, the marker's chemical stink burning his nose. He counted floor tiles—thirty-seven from locker to exit—to dull the ache of friends who'd vanished after a whispered rumor he couldn't trace, their absence a weight heavier than Brett's fists. His escape was his bedroom, a cramped sanctuary where late-night TV flickered on a secondhand CRT: *Rugrats*'s anarchic lines, *Aaahh!!! Real Monsters*'s grotesque defiance, their raw art a middle finger to the gray world outside. He'd sketch their characters in a spiral notebook, angular limbs and wild eyes, each stroke a "fuck you" to the school's hierarchy, his pencil scratching until his knuckles ached, the paper curling under his sweat.
Sleep came hard, but when it did, it dragged him into a dream sharp as a switchblade. The school hallway warped, beige tiles rippling like a fevered tide, walls bleeding teal and magenta paint in slow, viscous streams that pooled into iridescent swirls, pulsing with unnatural light. The air hummed, electric, pressing against his skin like a storm about to break, the scent of wet paint and ozone choking his lungs. Boots echoed—not Brett's sneaker scuff or a janitor's lazy shuffle, but a warrior's march, leather creaking with purpose, steady as a war drum. A woman emerged from the haze: wolf ears sharp as daggers, armor gleaming like polished obsidian, etched with runes that shimmered faintly, catching the paint's glow. Her eyes burned with command, a predator's focus softened by a flicker of pity, her presence filling the hallway like a storm. "Lucina Shatterstar," she declared, voice hard as granite, cutting through the dream's fevered pulse. "You stand not alone, young one."
Ashton's throat tightened, his pulse hammering like a jackhammer. "What the fuck's happening?" His voice cracked, thin as cheap glass, betraying the fear he'd buried under years of shrugs and forced smirks. Hunters burst through a classroom door—leather-clad, jackets stained with paint streaks, blades glinting like shark teeth in the dim light, their grins sharp as hooks. "Found the furfag," one sneered, twirling a bola, its weights whistling through the air, a threat that coiled his gut. Lucina stepped forward, her sword drawn, a crescent of steel that sang faintly, catching the paint's glow. "Stay back, Ashton, you fool," she said, her tone a mix of scorn and protection, her wolf ears twitching as she tracked the hunters' movements. Her blade cleaved a hook mid-air, the metal snapping with a screech, then sliced a bola's cord, weights clattering across tiles. A switchblade-wielding prick lunged, his grin cocky, but Lucina's sidestep and riposte were liquid, her sword grazing his arm, blood welling as he stumbled back, face pale, rethinking his shitty life choices.
Ashton bolted for the **EXIT** sign, its red glow a mocking lie in the warped hallway. Tiles slicked with paint made his sneakers slip, his breath ragged as the walls stretched, elongating the distance like a nightmare's trick. He burst into a parking lot drowned in fog, the air sour with dumpster rot and gasoline. A guard leaned against a rusted dumpster, uniform rumpled, coffee steaming in a chipped mug, his mustache twitching as his eyes flicked to Ashton with cold indifference. "Help her, asshole!" Ashton shouted, voice raw, fists clenched until his nails bit his palms. The guard shrugged, spineless, his voice flat: "Not my fight, retard." The steel door slammed, its clang ringing like a gunshot, sealing Ashton out. Lucina's voice pierced the chaos, faint but unyielding: "Awaken, lad. Remember me." He jolted awake in his bed, heart pounding, fingers tingling with teal and magenta echoes. His ceiling fan spun, blades slicing humid air, mocking the silence. The dream clung like a blade in his chest, Lucina's eyes burning through the dark, her voice a challenge he couldn't shake, urging him to be more than a ghost in his own life.