The school bus was a long, humming beast swallowing the dawn, its engine a steady heartbeat beneath a sky still folding night into day. Inside, life clattered and sparkled: laughter ricocheted off the windows, earbuds tangled hands into small islands of private music, and friends traded half-finished jokes like trading cards. The bus smelled like cheap perfume and warm backpacks and the tiny electrifying thrill of tomorrow.
Near the middle, where teenage kingdoms met and cliques swayed like flags, one seat held a silhouette that didn't quite belong. He sat small and careful by the window, a book pressed to his knees like armor. His eyes skimmed the glass; his palms, folded on the bag strapped tight to his chest, betrayed a rhythm of nerves.
"Hey," a sun-bright voice said as a boy slid into the seat beside him. "You the new kid?"
The quiet boy turned, paint-fresh uncertainty on his face. "Y-Yeah," he said. "I'm Kevlar."
Kevlar. The name landed in the aisle like a thrown coin—unfamiliar, sharp, slightly futuristic. An echo of Kevlar's silence made a few heads tilt toward them.
Someone snorted. "Kevlar? Like… KTG?"
"KTG?" the new kid repeated, eyebrows knitting. Confusion spread into interest. Conversation scrabbled its way across the rows.
"You don't know KTG?" a girl whispered far too loudly. "He's the legend."
A ripple of playful envy passed between seats. For a moment Kevlar sat under the heat of attention, tiny and bewildered and curious, while the bus rolled on, its tires singing against the asphalt like a promise.
---
Somewhere else, the morning detonated in a smaller, more chaotic rhythm.
Alarm. Flinging covers. A boy's bare feet hit floorboards. Posters peeled at the corners of the walls: heroes, dragons, neon logos, triumphs rendered in glossy paper. Kevin Rukky moved like somebody who both belonged and didn't—half dancer, half sprinting blur. His hair, a crown of black spikes that caught the light like lacquered metal, bobbed as he pulsed through routine at impossible speed. The spikes rose and fell when he laughed. They bristled when he concentrated. When he ducked into sunlight, they threw tiny staccato shadows across his forehead.
"Kevin!" his mother called from below. "Breakfast!"
"Five minutes!" he shot back, voice already swallowed by the rush.
Kevin was the kind of kid who looked like he'd been cut from a game opening sequence: sharp angles, a grin that claimed odds as a dare, and eyes that measured risk like a player sizing up an enemy's weak points. He could move through chaos and make it performance—socked-footed, sandwich in hand, a backpack slung over one shoulder like a gamer hero slinging a cape.
Outside, the morning had already started without permission; the sun lifted like a breath. Kevin slammed the door, hopped three steps, and dove into the stream of students boarding the bus. He didn't just step in—he arrived.
A chorus of murmurs rose, quick and electric. "There he is."
"KTG."
"Kevin the Gamer."
Half the bus pivoted on their seats like the end of an opening scene. Someone thrust a handheld console toward him. "Dude—help me on Cursed Galaxy? I've been stuck."
His fingers moved with the kind of speed that belonged to someone with more lives than ordinary people. A minute of key-tapping produced an explosion of confetti on the screen: YOU WIN. Gasps carved the air.
"Under sixty seconds?" someone whispered.
Kevin shrugged, the smirk already folding into something like a promise. "Piece of cake."
"KTG! KTG! KTG!" The chant rose, nothing less than a tide.
Kevlar blinked, watching the magnetism like a scientist. Legend was not a rumor; legend sat in the middle of their bus wearing a uniform like a second skin.
"Hey Kevin," called a kid in the row behind, voice high with the conspiratorial delight that only teenagers could wield. "You heard about Fatal Re:Spawn?"
Kevin cocked his head. "Fatal what?"
"Fatal Re:Spawn," the kid repeated. "It dropped two days ago. Next-gen VR. People are lining up. They say it's insane. Sold out everywhere."
Kevin's interest snapped like a filament. "If it's that good, I'll get it."
The driver laughed—something between amusement and admonition. "Alright everyone, settle down. We're here."
---
Class moved like a sequence of small traps: the bell clanged, the teacher's shoes tapped, the clock counting down like a bomb. Mr. Benson stood at the front of Classroom 3B with a grin that read trouble and treasure at the same time. He was young—too young to be that cruel—yet his eyes performed a dry performance of mischief.
"All right," he said, clipboard a throne in his hands. "Today—surprise quiz."
The room sighed in the way rooms do when fear is handed out like homework.
"Top five scores," Benson continued, twisting the knife, "will each receive a VR headset—and a copy of… Fatal Re:Spawn."
For a second the world tilted. Every pencil stoped. Every breath stilled. "WHAT?!" rose in unified disbelief.
Kevin's heart found a new rhythm. This was the kind of beat he lived for: a challenge, stakes, and the promise of a new world behind a glossy black case.
"ninety minutes," Mr. Benson added. "Begin."
The quiz was a chessboard of concentration. Pens scratched furiously. Kevin felt the tide of brains around him and rode it, not drowning, not rising either—just carving a path. He felt the old thrill in his chest: focus like a melee, vision like a scope. He answered like someone speaking a language he'd practiced in his sleep.
When the time came, Mr. Benson dressed the moment with flair. "First place… Emily Elite."
A name. A pause. A stillness. The room pivoted. Emily sat like a statue: black hair, posture a ruling line, eyes that cut the air cold. Her uniform was ironed like strategy, her expression something sculpted. Heiress, genius, a girl who could make a test feel like a defeat you were proud to have lost.
Second place went to Jerry Thompson, who celebrated with the burst of someone who'd just cheated at life in the best way.
Three more spots left. Kevin's jaw tightened. This was his moment. He tasted it—electric and clean—like a notification that was about to flood his chest.
"Third place…" Benson paused, and the room exhaled in the universal hush that comes before a reveal. "Kevin Rukky."
The reaction was instantaneous: cheers, slaps, and a ripple of respect. Kevin rose, the black box in Mr. Benson's hands feeling like an asteroid suddenly in orbit around his destiny. On its face, letters glowed: FATAL RE:SPAWN.
The type on the box seemed to twist for an instant, a faint stutter of light, like a hiccup in the world. Kevin felt it—an itch at the back of his head—and then the moment snapped normal again as if nothing had happened. He clutched the case. He felt the weight of it like a new badge.
"I'm going to master this," he said, stepping toward the desk, voice easy as a thrown challenge. "Watch me."
The classroom was a cathedral of cheering. Kevin raised the box; the applause rolled into him like warm tide. He carried the prize like a protagonist carrying an inciting incident.
From the back of the room, Kevlar watched the boy who'd won with an expression too quiet to name. The name Fatal Re:Spawn hung in the air like a summoning. Kevlar's fingers closed into a fist around the strap of his backpack. He mouthed the word once more, careful, testing it on his tongue. Fatal Re:Spawn.
Today the world felt small and monstrous all at once—the bus, the bell, the box with its gloss and its promise. Outside, the sun had climbed higher. Somewhere on the edge of the city, the first copy of the new game would be blistering in new owners' hands. For Kevin it was a new door. For Kevlar it was a question.
The gears that moved destinies began to click.
The starter pistol had fired.
To be continued…
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