Kota's eyes fluttered open at 5:42 a.m., the room still wrapped in pre-dawn gray. No alarm had gone off yet; his body simply decided it was time. He lay still for a moment, listening to the faint rattle of the air conditioner and the distant hum of a garbage truck two streets over. His sheets were tangled around his legs, and there was a pleasant, lingering ache in his thighs and lower back—souvenirs from yesterday's office session with Theo. He stretched slowly, feeling the pull of muscles that hadn't worked that hard in years, and a small, private smile tugged at his mouth. Power felt good. Control felt better.
He rolled out of bed, feet hitting the cold laminate with a soft thud. Routine kicked in automatically. Bathroom first: piss, brush teeth, splash water on his face. He avoided the mirror above the sink the way he always did, keeping his gaze down at the faucet. No need to see the reflection of a body that had suddenly become a weapon. Back in his room, he pulled on yesterday's jeans—still faintly musky, though he told himself it was just imagination—then a fresh black hoodie and his worn Jordans. He moved quietly, not wanting to wake Khalil yet.
In the kitchen he repeated yesterday's small ritual: made two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches, crusts off, wrapped in foil, tucked into a paper bag with an apple and two protein bars. He even rinsed the knife and wiped the counter. Control things. Small wins. By 6:08 he was standing in the doorway of Khalil's room, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Dad."
Khalil grunted, one arm flung over his face, sheets twisted. "Mmph?"
"Taking the bus again. Early thing at school."
Khalil's arm slid down. One eye cracked open, bleary but sharp. "Again? You said that yesterday."
Kota kept his voice even. "Yeah. Study group. Math review before first bell."
Khalil sat up slowly, rubbing his beard. "Study group at six-thirty? Who's running that?"
"Mr. Ellis. Extra help for seniors." The lie came smooth; Kota had rehearsed it in his head on the way to the kitchen.
Khalil studied him for a long beat. "You hate math."
"I need the grade." Half-true. He didn't need anything anymore, but the excuse felt plausible.
Khalil swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. "Nah. I'm driving you. Got time before my shift starts anyway."
Kota's stomach tightened. "It's fine, really. Bus is already—"
"I said I'm driving." Khalil stood, voice flat, final. "Grab your stuff. We leave in ten."
Kota opened his mouth, closed it. No point arguing when that tone came out. He nodded once, retreated to the living room, and sat on the couch staring at the wall while Khalil showered. The clock ticked. 6:19. 6:22. Every minute felt like sand slipping through his fingers. Theo would be waiting. The plan—sneak out the back, white McLaren, all day at Theo's place—hung in the balance.
Khalil emerged at 6:31, work boots laced, jacket zipped, keys jingling. "Let's go."
They descended the stairs in silence, the morning air biting through Kota's hoodie. The old Ford F-150 waited in its usual spot, exhaust already puffing white. Khalil climbed in, started the engine, and waited for Kota to buckle up before pulling out.
The first few blocks passed quietly. Radio low, some pre-Vanishing soul track crackling through the speakers. Then Khalil glanced sideways.
"You're quiet."
Kota shrugged, staring out the window at passing strip malls. "Just tired."
"Uh-huh." Khalil drummed his fingers on the wheel. "You been actin' different the last couple days. Sneaky. Bus excuses. What's up?"
"Nothing's up."
"Don't lie to me, son." The tone sharpened. "You goin' somewhere after school? Meetin' somebody?"
Kota's pulse kicked up. He forced his voice steady. "No. Just school."
Khalil's eyes narrowed. "You sure? 'Cause you look like somebody who's plannin' to cut class."
"I'm not cutting." Kota met his gaze for a second, then looked away. "I told you. Study group. That's it."
Khalil let the silence stretch, thick and heavy. "You know what happens when boys start actin' secretive in this world. They get weak. They start shakin' their asses on video, beggin' for scraps. That ain't you. That better not be you." (SON IM CRINEEEEEEEEEE THIS IS THE FUNNIEST SHIT IVE WROTE)
"It's not." Kota kept his face blank. "I'm good, Dad. Promise."
Another long pause. Khalil exhaled through his nose. "If I find out you're lyin'—"
"I'm not."
Khalil studied him for another block, then grunted. "Alright. But I'm watchin' you, Kota. Don't make me regret trustin' you."
Kota nodded, throat tight. "Won't."
They pulled into the Westfield High parking lot at 6:58. The lot was mostly empty—teachers' cars clustered near the front, a few early buses idling. Khalil killed the engine but didn't unlock the doors yet.
"Straight to class," he said. "No messin' around."
"Yeah."
Khalil reached over, clapped him once on the shoulder—firm, proud, still suspicious. "Love you, son."
"Love you too."
Kota climbed out, backpack over one shoulder, and walked toward the main entrance without looking back. He felt Khalil's eyes on him the whole way. Only when the truck's engine rumbled to life and pulled away did he exhale.
He slipped around the side of the building instead of going inside. The rear teachers' lot was tucked behind the gym, shielded by a row of overgrown crepe myrtles. He pulled out the burner phone Theo had slipped into his locker yesterday—a cheap flip model, no tracking, just texts and calls. He typed quickly.
Kota: Here. Where you at?
Theo's reply came in seconds.
Theo: White SUV McLaren, far corner of teachers' lot. Already marked you present for the whole day. Door's unlocked. Hurry, Daddy. I'm nervous-excited. 😳
Kota smiled—small, sharp, private. He pocketed the phone and cut across the grass, staying close to the building's shadow. The lot came into view: a scattering of sensible sedans, a couple hybrid minivans, and then—impossible to miss—the sleek, low-slung shape crouched at the far end like a predator among sheep.
A 2044 McLaren Artura GT, pearl white with black accents, carbon-fiber trim gleaming even in the weak morning light. Easily eight hundred thousand dollars, maybe more with custom options. The kind of car that didn't belong in a public high-school parking lot, let alone a teachers' one. Kota slowed his steps, taking it in. The curves were aggressive yet elegant—sharp angles softened by aerodynamic grace, the exhaust tips blacked out, windows tinted dark enough to hide whoever sat inside. It looked expensive in the way that made people stare and then look away, embarrassed by their own envy.
Through the windshield he could just make out Theo's silhouette in the driver's seat. The principal was checking himself in the rearview mirror, one hand smoothing his hair, the other adjusting the collar of what looked like a soft cashmere sweater. Even from fifty feet away, Kota could see the nervous little movements: a quick bite of the lip, a glance at his reflection, then another smoothing of the hair. Theo looked polished—too polished for seven in the morning—but the fidgeting betrayed him. He was waiting. Hoping. Terrified Kota might change his mind.
Kota paused at the edge of the lot, half-hidden behind a utility shed. He watched Theo for another long moment: the way the man tilted his head to check his profile, the faint blush already creeping up his neck, the quick, anxious tap of fingers on the steering wheel. Theo looked small in that massive car, swallowed by leather and luxury, yet somehow more vulnerable than he'd been bent over the desk yesterday.
Kota's smile widened, slow and predatory. He felt the familiar heat coil low in his gut—the same one that had surged when Theo called him Daddy, when those pale cheeks jiggled from a slap. Power. Control. And now an entire day to wield it.
He stayed where he was a second longer, simply observing. Letting the anticipation build. Theo hadn't noticed him yet. The principal was still fussing with his appearance, oblivious, adorable in his obvious nerves.
Kota took one step forward, then another, moving silently across the asphalt toward the gleaming white supercar and the man inside who had already given him everything—and was clearly ready to give more.