Killian's P.O.V.:
"Police! Hands where I can see 'em!"I freeze when I hear the shout from behind me.
I turn around and see a police officer pointing a pistol at us. His face is obscured by the shadow of his cap. His hands are shaking—I don't know if it's from nerves or the freezing cold snow falling gently around us.
I'm holding my parents' hands in a death grip. My father lets go of mine to raise his into the air. He turns slowly toward the officer and calls out, "Please! Don't shoot! We're harmless. It's just my wife and son, we—"
The cop interrupts him:"I said don't move! Face away from me! Or I will open fire!" he yells before speaking into his radio.
My mother is frozen in place, terrified and on the brink of tears. She looks at my father in fear as he tries to reason with the policeman holding us at gunpoint.
"Sir, this must be a misunderstanding. I assure you we haven't committed any crimes."He speaks formally, the same way he does on business calls. He tries to turn his head and make eye contact—only to hear:
BANG!
A ringing creeps in at the edge of my hearing. My whole body goes cold, like I just dove into the frozen Gotham Bay. I'm drenched in sweat despite the snow.
He collapses to the ground. I look back at him, then at the cop, who's already holstering his pistol. Then back at my father, as Mom falls on top of him, cradling his head in her lap.
He presses his hands to his chest, looking down at the blood pouring through his fingers, staining his clothes crimson. He has a confused expression, like he can't comprehend what just happened.
I try to reach him, but my feet are rooted to the ground like my shoes have fused to the pavement. I force them to move, like I'm wading through quicksand—one step, then another—until I reach Dad.
I drop to my knees next to him and reach out, but... I don't know what to do. My hands hover over him, unsure how to save him.
I see the way his eyes start to clear, as if he's finally coming to terms with what just happened. He looks at my mother and smiles.
"You'll be okay… Everything is going to be okay, Sara."But it doesn't reassure her. It only makes her cry harder.
Then he turns to me, places a warm hand on my cheek, and pulls me toward him. He kisses my forehead.
"I love you, son… and… I'm… proud."His hand falls from my cheek, leaving a trail of burning-hot blood.
He looks at Mom one last time, mouthing the words "I love you" before he can't breathe anymore.
I watch silently as the life fades from his eyes.
My head starts to hurt. There's a loud, unbearable screaming—until my throat starts to burn, and I realize:I'm the one screaming.
Killian!
Killian!
"Killian!"
GASP!
I wake up soaked in sweat, with a piercing migraine. I look around.
I'm in my room. It was a dream—a dream that's haunted me for six years, ever since I was eight.
Knock Knock Knock
"Come on, you're going to be late for school!"
"Coming, Ma!" I call back to my grandma. I grab my clothes and towels, rush through a shower, and join her in the kitchen. I glance at the wall clock: 6:30 AM. School doesn't start until 8.
Still, I sit down for breakfast—eggs on toast, coffee with cream. Lovely.
I glance at Grandma. She's more excited than I am about school.
"I don't know why you do this to yourself. It's the same thing as last year—and the one before."
"Nonsense! This is your freshman year! The time to find yourself, make friends, pick up hobbies, get into trouble—and maybe even get a crush!"
"You watch too much TV."I chuckle and dig into my meal.
"Why do you only bother me with this? What about Micah? He's starting middle school too."
"Micah is a social butterfly. He makes friends wherever he goes. It's you I want to see break out of your shell and become a social extrovert."She teases, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Keep dreaming."
"C'mon! Would you at least try? For me?"
She tries the guilt angle. But I'm set in my ways. I like solitude. It's comforting. Quiet. Predictable.
I've tried making friends before—it never lasts.
"Where's my food?"Micah grumbles as he stumbles into the kitchen like a hungover zombie—which is impressive (and slightly worrying) for an 11-year-old who only drinks soda and chocolate milk.
"Good morning to you too. It's on the counter."
She shifts her attention, giving me a chance to vacuum my plate clean and drain my coffee.
"Did you wash your face? Let me see."
"I did."He didn't.
"Go wash your face."Apparently, she knows too. He stomps off, and I slip away undetected.
In my room, I check my bag: books, pencil case, portfolio, notebook. Then grab my outfit: white undershirt, jeans, white hoodie, jean jacket, white sneakers, white beanie.
If Grandma had her way, I'd be wearing a button-up and slacks like an office worker.
I also grab my music player and earphones. I put one earbud in and run the wire under my hoodie, into my inner jacket pocket. Always keep one ear open—for awareness—and keep wires hidden so they don't get snagged or snatched.
Finally ready, I check the time, start my music, and head to school.
Gotham High. A public school—suits me fine, since Grandma's the only breadwinner in the family. Her pension comes from working decades as a lab tech in a pharmaceutical company.
"I'm off!"I call as I head down the stairs.
I run into the usual local crowd: drug dealers, dropouts, and jobless young adults peddling a little weed.
"Killa', what's up?"Big Will greets me with a cheesy smile. They call him Big Will , even though he's 5'4", 140 lbs, and his real name's Dushane. I don't know how he got the nickname.
"You know how it is. School, gym, home, repeat."
I like him. He and his boys look out for the neighborhood kids. In return, we buy them snacks and cigarettes from the corner store.
"Good! You've always been the bookish type. Gonna make your Gran proud when you become a CEO or something," he laughs, clearly dipped into his own product.
"Just don't forget your roots when you make it big," D-Rod chimes in. He's the enforcer, the one who acts tough to scare off freeloaders.
Rumor has it he used to work at WayneTech before getting locked up for corporate espionage. Now he hates anything Wayne-related—even though Bruce Wayne probably never even knew he existed.
"If I strike it rich, I'll build some houses in the hills, put you two down as landlords, and get you fat as cats without ever working again."That gets a laugh.
Drug dealers sure get up early. I learned they wait for their supplier to drop off the day's stock. Customers don't show up until noon.
As I walk, I think about the new school year. I want to skip grades—if the administration lets me. Middle school wouldn't.
Said I needed time to "develop." My counselor said I needed to "socialize with peers."
Spoiler alert: It didn't work. It was exhausting pretending we had the same interests. All the screaming, screeching, and messiness of middle school kids? Irritating.
I don't blame them. I was the anomaly. An antisocial nerd with almost perfect memory.
RING.
Huh. Right on time.
Hope this year's better than the last.
"Move it, loser!"A student bulldozes through the crowd at the entrance, shoving past me and knocking a girl to the ground.
He looks like the stereotypical jock bully from every movie ever.
"Yeah, move it, loser!"He even has a posse—other jocks and cheerleaders in skimpy clothes, heavy makeup, and insane hairstyles.
"Guess not."I mutter, helping the girl off the floor and heading inside.