*(Narrated by The Fool)*
"Every story begins with someone pretending not to care.
That's how you survive the first act of tragedy—by convincing yourself the play has nothing to do with you."
The Fool's voice, dry as dust and amused as sin, drifts over the waking city.
Halden is not beautiful. It's a sprawl of glass and rain, alleys shining with leftover night, trains crying against their rails. The sky's the color of old bruises. People hurry because that's what people do when they think motion equals meaning.
And somewhere inside this great machinery of hurry stands ,Jake Faust, eighteen, jacket zipped halfway, headphones dangling but silent.
He's the kind of boy the world edits out of its focus—the extra in the background who never blinks at the camera. He walks with the stillness of someone who has learned that attention hurts. His apartment sits above a bookstore that smells like dust and regret; he lives there with his grandmother, who talks to the walls as if they're keeping score.
Every morning he leaves early. Not to get anywhere faster, just to stay out of step with everyone else.
The Fool chuckles.
"A watcher, not a player. My favorite kind. Watching means you can't lose. Of course, it also means you can't win—but no one tells you that part until it's too late."
Jake cuts through the streets toward Halden Secondary, passing a mural that used to be art before graffiti turned it into argument. The rain's only a mist, but his hair's damp by the time he reaches the gate. He nods to the guard, doesn't smile, slides into the flow of uniforms and chatter.
Inside, the noise presses like static—laughter, lockers slamming, names called across corridors. He keeps his head down. The air smells like disinfectant and instant noodles.
In class, he takes the window seat. Always the window seat. The teacher drones about the Renaissance, and Jake stares out at the sky. The glass holds his reflection—a face too calm, too blank. He doesn't look sad. He looks paused.
"Faust," says the teacher without looking up. "You're awake, yes?"
"Yes," he answers.
"Then tell me what the *Vitruvian Man* represents."
Jake thinks, then says, "Balance. Trying to fit yourself into a shape you weren't made for."
The class snickers; the teacher frowns.
Only one person smiles.
Mira Solen sits two rows over, sunlight disguised as a girl. She waves a little, friendly but not bold, a question in her eyes: *Are you okay?* Jake looks away before he can answer with silence.
The Fool hums.
"And there she is—the one who will cling to his shadow like ivy. The girl who believes attention can cure absence. They're the same species, really, just growing in opposite directions."
---
Lunch bell.
Jake eats on the rooftop—a cracked concrete space with a view of the city and the fogged mountains beyond. He doesn't like eating alone, but he likes eating with people even less. The wind bites; the rice in his lunchbox is cold.
"Mind if I join you?"
Mira's voice. She's already sitting before he can refuse.
He blinks. "You're not supposed to be up here."
"Neither are you." She grins, pulling out a thermos. "So we'll get expelled together."
He wants to tell her he doesn't do "together," but something in her grin disarms him. They eat in silence, broken only by the hum of traffic below.
She asks, "Do you ever feel like the city's too loud?"
Jake answers without thinking. "No. Just that people talk too much in it."
She laughs. "That's fair. But it's not all noise. Sometimes it's… company."
He doesn't respond. Words feel like sharp objects—he's learned to handle them carefully.
After a pause, Mira says softly, "You never smile."
"I'm not very good at it."
"Maybe you just forgot how."
He looks at her. She's sincere, annoyingly so. And something in her eyes—a tremor of loneliness disguised as cheer—makes him look away.
The Fool sighs dramatically.
"Ah, young empathy. It's a dangerous thing, trying to fix someone who never asked to be fixed. But what can I say? Hope is the most elegant form of self-destruction."
---
The day drags. Math, history, the hollow echo of bells. By the last period, Jake's head aches with the hum of fluorescent lights. He closes his eyes, just for a moment
and hears a whisper that isn't real.
A scrape of chalk on the board. When he opens his eyes, the teacher is writing something that looks like Latin:
*"Suspensum est veritas."*
Jake blinks. The letters ripple, then vanish. The board's clean. The teacher keeps talking as if nothing happened.
He rubs his eyes, unsettled. Maybe he's tired. Maybe—
"Hey," Mira whispers, leaning over. "You okay?"
He nods. Lies.
Outside the window, the clouds have darkened. The first low growl of thunder rolls across the sky.
After school, rain. The world smells metallic, electric. Students scatter, umbrellas blooming like flowers.
Jake lingers, helping the janitor stack chairs. He doesn't know why he always helps; maybe it's habit, maybe it's guilt. The old man nods at him. "Good kid. Not many like you left."
Jake shrugs. "I'm just bored."
But that's not true. He just likes having something to do when silence gets too heavy.
When he finally leaves, the courtyard's almost empty. Rain hits the pavement in soft explosions. He zips his jacket, shoulders tense.
Across the street, a group of students huddles under a bus stop awning. Mira's among them, laughing—too bright for the gray evening.
Jake hesitates. He almost walks over. Then
A scream. Tires skidding.
A truck swerves around the corner, headlights slicing the rain. The driver's lost control. It's coming straight for them.
Time fractures.
Jake's mind blanks. His body moves before thought. He runs, boots slapping through puddles. Everything feels distant, like a movie playing one frame too slow.
"Mira!"
He shoves her backward. The world detonates into white.