The alarm began as a faint chirp and swelled until it filled the room.
Claut surfaced from a dream he couldn't remember, eyes snapping open to a ceiling washed in early-morning grey.
He lay still.
The blanket clung to his damp skin.
Each breath felt heavier than the last.
All people are not created equal.
The words rose slowly, deliberate, as if whispered by the room itself.
His father's voice—always his father's voice.
I learned that at seventeen, Claut thought, though he wasn't seventeen yet. The memory waited for him somewhere ahead, a warning disguised as prophecy.
He turned his head toward the window. Curtains swayed with a breeze that smelled faintly of rain. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Life went on, unaware of the weight pressing against his chest.
The school bus reeked of vinyl seats and yesterday's dust.
Claut slid into a window spot, backpack on his lap. He rested his forehead against the glass, watching the world smear past in a green-and-gold blur.
Other students laughed and swapped phone screens. Their voices reached him like sound through water—present, but far away.
Everyone says I'm lucky.
A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
They want my house, my father, my life. They'd never survive a day of it.
A tune stirred at the edge of memory—something his mother used to play, soft guitar and a voice full of ache. Claut hummed a single bar under his breath. The sound was small enough to vanish before anyone noticed.
The bus hissed to a stop. Morning sunlight pooled across the school gate.
Rick waited near the entrance, leaning against the rail like he owned the place.
"Yo, bud. What's up?"
Claut's eyes drifted upward. "The sky, I guess."
Rick barked a laugh. "Nice. After class, FIFA at my place?"
Claut tilted his head, deliberately slow. "Why should I?"
"Because we're friends, dumbass."
They walked together toward the doors. The hallway buzzed with the usual mix of chatter and slamming lockers.
A heavyset boy stepped into their path, grin wide and mean.
"Well, well. The rich guy and his servant."
A ripple of laughter followed. Rick's shoulders tensed.
"Shut it, fat ass," Rick snapped.
The boy's grin faltered. "Who you calling fat, MF?"
"Anyone fat enough to care," Rick shot back.
The boy lunged. Claut's hand shot out, faster than thought, gripping his wrist.
He leaned in, voice quiet enough that only the boy could hear.
"If you touch me or my friend," Claut said, each word a blade, "I'll end your dad's career. And I'll kick you so hard you'll never forget it. Understand?"
The boy's breath hitched. Color drained from his face.
"J–just kidding," he mumbled, backing away.
Claut released him and kept walking. His pulse never changed.
Rick exhaled. "You're the best. Saved me from that clown."
Claut shook his head. "Didn't want a scene."
"Sure," Rick said with a grin. "You're still coming over, right?"
Claut shrugged. "Okay. Happy?"
"Always."
The bell rang as they entered the classroom.
Desks scraped, voices quieted.
The teacher strode in, eyes sharp as chalk.
"Seats," he said.
"Good morning, sir," the class echoed.
Claut slid into his chair and let his gaze drift back to the window.
The sky beyond was endless, indifferent, and strangely beautiful.
Morning had only begun, but the heaviness in his chest stayed—patient, unmoving—like a shadow with nowhere else to go.