Chapter Two: cracks in the crown
The cafeteria roared like a coliseum when Jake walked in.
Plastic trays clattered, laughter ricocheted off the tiled walls, and somewhere near the back, a soda can hissed open. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, bathing everything in a sickly yellow glow. But the moment Jake swaggered through the double doors, the noise bent toward him—softened, shifted. Heads turned. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Like gravity itself tilted in his direction.
He liked that part. Hell, he lived for it.
but the stares he received were due to the fact that the school are on a serious look out for bullies, one bully has been rusticated that morning, and Jake was at the top in the leaderboard of bullies.
obviously he might be next.
Tyler and Marcus trailed behind him, loyal as shadows. Tyler with his permanent smirk and baggy hoodie, Marcus with the chain dangling from his jeans like a badge of honor. They fanned out as they moved, parting tables like royalty clearing a path through peasants. Jake grinned wide enough to show teeth, his jaw sharp under the cafeteria's harsh light. His varsity jacket clung to him like armor, the back still streaked with last Friday's victory paint.
"King of the Halls," Marcus boomed loud enough for half the room to hear. He said it like a joke, but his eyes gleamed with worship.
Jake gave a lazy salute, soaking it in. Power hummed in his veins—clean and electric. This was his world. His territory. No one touched him here. No one dared.
Almost no one.
From the far corner, near the vending machines that hummed like dying engines, someone wasn't looking away. Someone never did.
The same boy, Ethan.
Skinny frame hunched over his tray, dark hoodie zipped to the throat even though the room sweltered with body heat and fryer grease. His hair curtained his face, but Jake could feel the stare like heat on the back of his neck. Ethan didn't laugh, didn't whisper, didn't blink. Just… watched. Like Jake was some animal in a cage.
Jake slammed his tray down at his usual table and dropped into his seat. His crew flanked him like knights at a feast. Around them, the noise swelled again—but quieter this time, muted by that invisible hush Ethan carried wherever he went.
Tyler elbowed Jake, nodding toward a table of freshmen. "Bet you ten bucks they scatter if you just look at 'em."
Jake smirked and locked eyes with one of them—a scrawny kid gripping his milk carton like a lifeline. The kid's face blanched, and he bolted, tray clattering. His friends scrambled after him.
Laughter erupted at Jake's table. Marcus slapped the table so hard his soda toppled.
"Untouchable," Marcus crowed between wheezes. "You're untouchable, King. They won't ever try that with you so don't bother about the School that bully was just unlucky."
Jake leaned back, wearing his grin like a crown. But something—something in those words snagged in his mind, sharp as a fishhook.
They won't ever try that with you.
Like someone could. Like maybe, someday, someone would.
His smile twitched, just for a second.
By evening, the kingdom vanished.
The roar of the cafeteria, the worshipping eyes, the easy power—they all burned away under the dim flicker of the hallway bulb in his house. A single bulb, hanging crooked from the ceiling, casting shadows across peeling wallpaper.
Jake shoved the door shut with his shoulder. The smell of fried grease clung to his jacket and mixed with the sour tang of laundry soap—if you could call it that. More like detergent watered down to last the month. He dropped his bag on the couch, careful not to crush the stack of unpaid bills fanned out like a losing hand of cards.
"That you, Jake?" His mom's voice floated from the kitchen, tired and thin.
"Yeah," he called back. He didn't add Don't worry, it's not Dad. He didn't have to. The silence that followed said it for him.
Lily appeared from the hallway, socks sliding on the herringbone parquet flooring. Eight years old, gap-toothed, hair in lopsided pigtails. She beamed at him like he was a hero coming home from war
"Jake! Can we watch a movie? Please, please, please—"
"Not now, Lily." Sharper than he meant. Her smile cracked. He softened his voice, guilt punching him in the gut. "Later, okay? Just… later."
She nodded and slunk off, clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear.
Jake collapsed onto the couch. The cushions sighed dust into the air. He pulled out his phone, the cracked screen glowing like a tired eye. Instagram notifications. DM from Tyler—memes, trash talk, plans for Friday night. And then, wedged between them like a splinter:
his phone beeped with a text notification from
@solesandshadows :Ever wonder what it feels like to be on the other side?
Jake blinked. The hell? Probably some troll. He smirked, thumbs flying: Do I look like I care.
A dot appeared. Typing.
Then stopped.
No reply.
Jake snorted and tossed the phone onto the armrest. Weirdos everywhere.
Still, the words clung. The other side. Whatever. He was Jake Ryder—top dog, king of the halls. He didn't need to wonder what it felt like to be anyone else.
Right?...
the next day, Jake as usual with his high and mighty Demi god self, was ensnared in his schemes.
he was caught bullying a few weaklings behind the cafeteria by the monitor, he was reported to the management but for timely intervention by his coach,his penalty was reduced to detention, three hours with Mr Grady.
Detention smelled like chalk dust and boredom.
Jake slouched in the back row, doodling flames on the cover of his notebook while Mr. Grady muttered something about responsibility and second chances. Like Jake gave a damn. Tyler would've sat with him, but Tyler had practice. So it was just Jake and a handful of losers… and Ethan.
Of course Ethan.
He sat two rows ahead, spine straight, hands folded like some monk at prayer. Not a single twitch, not a glance up at the clock. Just that stillness, that eerie quiet that made Jake's skin crawl.
At first, Jake ignored him. But then Ethan shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. And turned his head. Just enough for their eyes to meet.
Jake froze.
Ethan didn't smirk. Didn't glare. Just… looked. Calm. Patient. Like a man watching storm clouds roll in, knowing they'd break exactly when he wanted.
Jake instinctively tore his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck. Screw that. He was imagining things. Ethan was nobody. Always had been.
When the bell finally shrieked, Jake bolted. Nearly made it to the door before something slipped from his bag—a scrap of paper, fluttering to the floor like a dying moth.
He bent to grab it. Froze when he saw what was on it.
A sketch. His face. Sharp jaw, smirk tilted just so. But the eyes—they weren't his. They were hollow. Empty.
And scrawled beneath, in jagged black ink:
What's it like to live in your skin?
Jake crumpled it, shoving it deep into his pocket. His pulse thundered like fists on a locked door. He didn't look back. Didn't have to. He could feel Ethan watching, even as the hallway swallowed him whole.
Night draped itself over the neighborhood like a threadbare blanket.
Jake lay sprawled on his bed, ceiling fan creaking overhead. His room smelled of sweat and cologne, posters peeling at the corners. His phone glowed in his hand, screen flooding his face with cold light. Scroll. Double-tap. Scroll. Everyone's lives looked perfect—sunlit selfies, parties, smiles wide as open wounds.
He opened his own profile. Old photos. Old wins. Him with the team, with the girl he barely texts anymore. He stared at his grin in those pictures, the easy confidence. It felt like someone else's face now.
The DM pinged again.
@solesandshadows: One day, you'll understand what it means to switch places.
Jake's throat tightened. He typed fast: Who the hell is this?
Dots pulsed. Then vanished.
No reply.
He hit Block. Screen went black. Done. Over.
But when sleep finally dragged him under, the words followed.
He's in the school hallway, but it's wrong. The lockers stretch on forever, mirrors instead of doors. Every reflection shows him—his jacket, his smirk. But when he leans closer, the faces aren't his. They're Ethan's. Ethan in his skin. Ethan wearing his smile like a mask that fits too well.
A whisper coils through the hall, soft and slick as oil.
"Time to trade…"
Jake spins, breath clawing his lungs. The floor tilts. Mirrors shatter. the hall lighting flickers continuously, A figure steps through the glass, barefoot and smiling—Ethan, holding out a hand slick with shadow.
"Yours for mine."
Jake screams—wakes choking on it, heart ricocheting against his ribs. The room's dark. The clock reads 3:33 AM.
He drags a shaky hand down his face. Just a dream. Just a freaking dream.
Right?
he got up from the bed, moving towards the bathroom, once inside he reached out to the bathroom sink, switch on the faucet, and furiously washed his face. he stayed there letting the water flow, suddenly, he switched off the faucet.
water trickling down his face.
with hands still on the sink, he raised his face to look at the mirror above the sink,exhaling deeply from his mouth,he stood there staring
moments later he walked out collapsing on the bed.
turning to look at the clock it was 3:36, by then sleep has withdrew from him, he got up and tensely sat by the window.
just then.....
Through the curtain, across the street, he spotted a figure standing under the flickering streetlight.
Still. Watching.
Jake's whisper fractures the silence:
"Who… are you?"
The figure doesn't move.
And the bulb above the street… dies.