Chapter 0
---
"Hey, tell me... was all this suffering worth it?
Did I save people, or just lose more?" In the distance, my reflection wore a painful smile.
"You did what you could." A shaky breath. "More than I ever could."
---
{somewhere else into the near future or to an occurred past}
The laptop's blue glow pulsed in my bedroom, casting shadows across cluttered shelves. Knuckles cracked with a stretch, followed by a lazy groan. Mmmphh. That last headshot in League of Legends—pure clutch. Slumped in the gaming chair, I savored the win, fingers twitching, until reality crashed the party.
A phone buzzed, its screen slicing the gloom.
| 1:09 AM |
Ugh. I rubbed stinging eyes, a sharper groan escaping. Who needs a time machine when ranked matches warp hours? Two warps into five. Einstein's relativity? Amateur hour compared to a late-night gaming session.
Grrrrrr...
Stomach roared like a lion. A crumpled bag of Cool Ranch Doritos—Mom's stash from her last US trip—sat on the desk. I crunched a handful of stale crumbs. Powering down the laptop, another stretch popped the spine like bubble wrap, loud enough to make a chiropractor flinch.
My throat was dry as the empty bag, and I shuffled to the dark hallway, moonlight creeping through the window. My eyes hit Evie's closed door. Bet she's crashed, curled up like a snail in its shell, probably drooling. A cheeky grin spread. Sharpie mustache? Oh, man, picturing her waking up with a wobbly scribble nearly made me laugh out loud. But Mum would lose it at this hour. My head on a plate by breakfast? Nah, not worth it... yet.
In the kitchen, I chugged cold water, soothing a parched throat. The door connected to the shop below was still open—Dad still up? He should be asleep by now. The phone kept buzzing. Setting the cup down, I trudged back to my bedroom, face-planting onto the bed. Musty sheets hugged tight. Ignored notifications glowed, screaming for attention.
[Group Chat: The Eternal Benchwarmers]
┌─── Chat Log ───┐
1:09 AM | ~Max~
So, mates, since we're all single AF, we got zilch for half-term spring break... 'cept our assignments.
1:10 AM | =BennyBoi
Why you gotta rub it in, bro?!
1:11 AM | *$$ Harry$
Idk about y'all, I'm I might legit stepping up to ask out a chick this time.
1:12 AM | =BennyBoi
No shot, dude. I bet £10 you'll you're gonna chicken out again. This is, like, your eighth time hyping this.
1:12 AM | ~Max
Nah, it's he's crossed ten, easy. We should rename the group Harry's Hollow Promises.
1:13 AM | #oliverO#
Yo, lunch tomorrow to plan shit. Or just clown Harry again. P.S. Group name: The Rom-Com Rejects.
1:14 AM | =BennyBoi=
The Tinder Swindlers (But We Got Swindled).
8:15 AM | $$Harry$
...I... fuck y'all hate you lot.
└─── End Log ───┘
My phone clattered to the floor, and darkness wrapped around me like a warm hug. I was out cold.
-
-
-
"Wake up, Oliver! Breakfast!" Evie's elbow kept jabbing my ribs like a bony spear. I groaned, tugging the blanket over my head. "Piss off, Evie."
She yanked it off, cold air hitting me like a slap. "Mum says get up, or it's cold water."
I squinted through crusty eyes, her blurry figure looming. "Tell Mom I love her, but waterboarding before noon is not on my bucket list."
Evie rolled her eyes so hard. "Lazy git."
"Genius needs beauty sleep," I fired back, waving my hand to shoo her. My fingers caught her hair by mistake, and I froze. OH, FUCK.
Evie's face twisted, pure rage. Her teeth sank into my hand like a feral gremlin. "Ow!" I yelped, shaking it off as she stormed out. "Little monster!"
Evie's crazy about her hair—only Mom's allowed to touch it. Dad? Maybe once in a blue moon. Me? Never. I'd just sign my own death warrant.
The phone buzzed. I scrambled, opening the group chat.
[Group Chat: The Eternal Benchwarmers]
┌─── Chat Log ───┐
9:03 AM | ~Max~
Oliver, if you're not ready by 10:30, you're getting ditched.
9:05 AM | =Ben=
Seconded. Bring crisps—Harry ate them all last time.
9:07 AM | $$ Harry
That was ONE TIME—
└─── End Log ───┘
| 9:37 AM |
"Dammit," I groaned, jerking upright. I brushed my teeth like a maniac and took a crazy-fast shower, nearly wiping out over a stray hoodie as I yanked on jeans. Stumbling into the kitchen, I rubbed sleep from my crusty eyes. The smell of Mom's coffee hit like a divine intervention.
Mom stood by the counter, ready for work, with dark circles under her eyes just as bad as mine. "You look like crap," I said, chugging coffee that could wake a zombie. She rubbed her temples, totally beat. "Your dad and I were up late sorting the shop's new stock." A tired smile slipped out as she slid me a plate of toast.
No wonder Dad was up crazy late, and Mom too, I thought, chomping on toast. "Mom," I said, crumbs flying, "just a heads-up, I might be going somewhere with Ben and the guys. Like a trip. Maybe. No plan yet." I took another gulp of that clutch coffee.
"I can't drop Evie off at school for a few days," I mumbled. Mom didn't look up from packing her bag. "Fine, don't stress. I'll take her on my way to work." She paused, pinning me with The Look that could stop a truck. "But you'd better be careful. And don't let Max drive wherever you're headed."
I nearly choked on my toast. "No freakin' way! I'm not riding with Max at the wheel. Dude thinks speed limits are optional and roundabouts are a damn crisis."
Mom smirked. "Smart kid."
"Where's Evie, anyway?" I asked, munching on toast.
"She went to Liz's place after you dragged yourself up," Mom said, raising a brow. "You could learn from her. She's up at 7 AM every day, helping her poor, overworked mom with chores."
I took a slow, dramatic sip of coffee. "I could do that... but my artistic genius brain needs sleep for optimal creativity." I sighed, slapping a hand over my heart. "Your son's a student at the NCA(National College of Arts), Mom. With merit."
Mom rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "Oh, sure, my son's a big-shot artist," she said, deadpan, reaching over to mess up my bedhead. "Who still thinks the floor's a laundry basket?"
"Because floors are the ultimate canvas!" I protested through a grin.
Packing her bag, Mom headed out, calling over her shoulder, "Just promise you won't end up in a ditch cause one of you geniuses mixed up the brake and gas again."
"Love you too!" I shouted back, already mentally packing my sketchbook for whatever disaster awaited.
I shoved the last bite of toast in my mouth and got up, scraping my plate into the bin with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been scolded about crumbs one too many times. The mug got a half-hearted rinse—good enough—before I turned to leave. Then it hit me. " SHIT. The crisps."
I checked my watch—10:13 AM. A snorted laugh escaped me. "Like those idiots will be on time anyway."
Might as well swing by Dad. Our place was one of those classic London conversion shops on the ground floor, a living space stacked above it like a layer cake. The stairs groaned their usual complaints as I descended into The Carter's Vintage, its gold leaf lettering peeling just enough to look properly antique on Regent Street.
Outside through the windows, the familiar symphony of honking black cabs and overpriced tourist traps played on, a chaotic orchestra of urban life.Black cabs weaved through traffic, their horns blaring like impatient maestros.
The air buzzed with the chatter of selfie-stick-wielding crowds and the occasional shout of a cabbie cursing a wayward pedestrian, all underscored by the faint diesel hum of London's pulse. The shop smelled like a home of old paper.
Dad was behind the counter, doing his best impression of a serious antiquarian while some American tourist hemmed and hawed over what was clearly a fake Victorian snuff box.
I caught his eye and got The Look—the universal dad signal for "don't you dare interrupt this sale." Wandering past a particularly precarious stack of vintage Playboys (1972, mint condition, not that I'd checked), something glinted from the display case. A necklace—crescent moon pendant, the metal shifting between silver and something darker when the light hit it just right. "Well, that's not sketchy at all."
"Oliver." Dad's voice snapped me out of my staring contest with the weird necklace. The tourists were gone, the register drawer open. "Shouldn't you be out terrorizing London's traffic laws by now?"
"Harry's driving," I said, nodding at the case. "What's the deal with that thing?" Dad followed my gaze. "Ah. That came in with a collection from some old duffer in Kent. Claims it was dug up near Avebury." He rolled his eyes. "Probably nicked from a goth kid, but the craftsmanship's decent. "I couldn't figure out the material, and the chain itself ain't rare—just silver.
I pressed a finger to the glass case. The pendant was it... vibrating?
Rumble...
The floor jolted under me, a low growl shaking the shop. "What the hell?" I muttered, grabbing the counter as the ground bucked again, harder. Earthquake? In London? My heart slammed against my ribs, pulse racing like I'd downed ten of Mom's coffees. Shelves wobbled, and a stack of old books crashed to the floor with a dusty thud. Glass trinkets rattled, then shattered, shards skittering across the wood like freaked-out bugs. The air got thick with the musty stink of old paper and splintered wood, mixed with the diesel bite from outside.
Outside, Regent Street went nuts. Black cabs screeched to a halt, horns blaring like a pissed-off choir. Tourists screamed, dropping selfie sticks, as a vendor's cart tipped, spilling Union Jack mugs across the street. The shop's gold-leaf sign swayed, creaking like it might tear loose. My knees shook, and I dove under the counter, heart pounding, as another tremor rattled the walls, sending a cracked vinyl record spinning past my head. Holy crap, is this the pendant's fault?
"Oliver!"
Everything warped, and suddenly I was back staring at the pendant, like nothing had happened. Sweat dripped under my chin. I laughed, shaky. "A freaking dream?" I mumbled, rubbing my face. "When did it start?"
"Online games are gonna melt your brain, mate," Dad said, handing me a glass of water, his voice pure London. I smirked, gulping the water. Funny how I got Mom's American slang, all "crap" and "freakin'," while Evie's out here sounding like Dad, tossing around "git" and "mental" like a proper Brit.
"Take it if you want," he added, nodding at the pendant. At my raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "Payment for dealing with two needy women while I'm working."
My head was a freaking mess, all jumbled up. Like, if a hot girl came on to me out of nowhere, I'd swear she's a scammer—or maybe I'm just paranoid as hell. But, I mean, hot girl? Pros outweigh the cons, right? Shrugging, I took the chain from Dad, its silver pendant cool against my palm. What the hell, might as well.
I flipped the pendant over my fingers like a trapped secret, probably a weird daydream. "Oh, Mom, tell you? I might bounce outta town for a few days. Tonight or tomorrow."
Dad leaned against the counter, cleaning his glasses with that slow, dramatic wipe he pulled when about to say something mega cringe. "Just don't forget to pack, y'know..." He mimed pulling something from his wallet, eyebrows waggling like a total numpty.
I stared, jaw dropping. "Condoms? Dad, I'm going with Ben, Max, and Harry. If I get lucky with those knuckleheads around, it'll be a damn miracle worthy of sainthood." I pulled a mopey face, sighing. "At this point, I'd bomb trying to charm a granny at bingo night."
Dad barked a laugh, then got all serious, like he was about to drop some BBC documentary wisdom. "You won't find mates like them twice, lad. However mental they drive you—literally or not—hold onto 'em."
A loud HONK HONK wrecked the moment. We both spun toward the window. Harry's beat-up Honda Civic idled at the curb, backfiring like a pissed-off mule. He leaned out, tossing Dad a salute so sharp it was basically taking the piss, then flashed me a grin that screamed pure chaos.
"Christ," Dad muttered, eyeing Harry's car. "That thing's held together by duct tape and daft optimism."
"Don't let Evie touch my art supplies," I warned, heading for the door, pendant buzzing in my pocket. "Last time she 'fixed' my painting, I had to redo a week's work. She's 17, Dad—she's gotta act more mature. I'll probably be back by 4 PM."
Dad chuckled, scratching his neck like he was dodging a right bollocking. "No promises, lad. You know Evie's a nightmare when she's bored." He raised a brow, smirking like a proper git. "Maybe explain why you spiked her shampoo with hair dye, Mr. Mature, yeah? Or why you were always caught up in those turf rows and dodgy brawls at 15, giving me and your mum proper grief."
"That was ages ago!" I snapped, cheeks blazing red as it hit me how tight the age gap was between me and Evie. "I'm 21 now, totally mature." Cringing at how dumb that sounded, I muttered, "Uh, yeah, so... later," and bolted through the shop's creaky door, Harry's manic grin waiting outside.