The shrill ring of the vintage brass alarm clock cut through the silence of the penthouse like a blade. Zion's hand slammed down on it, groaning into the expensive silk sheets. His room was spotless—too spotless. A curated display of wealth and order that masked the emptiness sitting just beneath the surface.
He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, letting the numbness sink in.
Another year.
Another cycle of fake smiles, forced legacies, and pretending to be someone he wasn't sure he ever chose to become.
A soft knock on his door.
"Young Master Zion," came Marla's voice—his housekeeper since he was nine. "Your breakfast is ready. The driver will be here in ten."
"Thanks," he said, barely loud enough to be heard.
He rose slowly, brushing a hand through his thick, dark hair. His uniform was already laid out on the bench at the foot of his bed: tailored blazer, silver-trimmed shirt, dark slacks, and the deep blue tie with the Goldridge crest.
As he dressed, his eyes caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like perfection.
But he felt like glass.
The penthouse dining room was as cold as ever. A single plate of eggs, toast, and fresh fruit sat untouched at the end of the long mahogany table. Zion didn't bother with it. Instead, he scrolled aimlessly on his phone, pretending to be interested in whatever news his feed was throwing at him.
His parents weren't home—again.
His mother was already in Tokyo for some fashion expo. His father was likely in Dubai, negotiating another acquisition deal.
Zion had stopped keeping track months ago.
He stepped into the elevator and rode it down to the lobby in silence. The driver was waiting beside the sleek, black Mercedes, checking his watch like every minute lost was a personal insult. Zion slid into the backseat and leaned his head against the glass as the city blurred past.
Goldridge Academy loomed in the distance—polished, ancient, and merciless.
The gates opened with a mechanical hiss. Students poured out of polished vehicles, their uniforms pristine, hair perfectly styled, laughter a little too loud. There were camera flashes, luxury bags, and conversations laced with envy and ambition.
Zion stepped out of the car and immediately felt the shift. The performance had begun.
"Z!" Mikey's voice pierced through the morning buzz like always.
Zion turned to see his best friend jogging toward him, a half-eaten croissant in hand and a carefree grin stretched across his face. "You ghosted all summer. I thought you were dead or secretly filming a reality show."
Zion managed a smirk. "Family sent me to therapy camp. Something about emotional recalibration."
Mikey blinked, then laughed, slapping Zion's back. "You rich people and your weird punishments. My parents just yell and cut Wi-Fi."
Behind Mikey, Kevin stood with his arms crossed, leaning on a stone column. He wore his uniform like armor—perfect, stiff, untouchable. His eyes scanned Zion like a strategist sizing up a rival.
"Welcome back," Kevin said coolly.
Zion nodded. "Still trying to take over the world, Kev?"
Kevin's lips curved slightly. "Some of us have a plan."
Their eyes locked for a moment too long. Tension between them had always simmered, but never boiled.
"Let's just survive this year," Kevin added. "Last lap."
Mikey threw his arm around both of them, completely oblivious to the undercurrents. "Group's back together. We've got this."
Then he lowered his voice, eyes gleaming.
"Oh—and Mabelle's back."
Zion's chest tightened.
He hadn't heard her name in months.
And as if summoned by fate, Mabelle appeared across the courtyard. Time seemed to slow.
She moved through the crowd like she was made of starlight and gravity. Every head turned, but she didn't seem to notice—or maybe she just didn't care. Her curls were pinned back with a crimson ribbon, and the gold buttons on her blazer gleamed like medals.
Her eyes scanned the crowd—
—and stopped on Zion.
She smiled. Subtle. Dangerous. Familiar.
Zion froze.
Mikey didn't notice.
Kevin did.
And something in his expression flickered. A warning. A storm forming behind his calm.
Zion barely heard the first bell ring.
He knew, in that one look, that the year had already started writing its tragedy.