The sanctuary of Alex's apartment was the only place in the world where the suffocating layers of his double life could finally be peeled away. He stood in the center of his small, dimly lit room, his shoulders dropping from their perpetual, high-strung tension as he pulled off the stiff, uncomfortable school blazer. With a shaky, impatient movement, he tugged off the wig, feeling the cool air hit his scalp—a relief so profound it almost brought him to tears.
He tossed the wig onto the vanity, staring at his own reflection: Alex Chen, the boy with delicate, angular features and eyes that looked perpetually tired, a stark, masculine contrast to the "stunning girl" he projected at Matires Academy.
He moved to his bed, shedding the pleated skirt and the blouse for a pair of worn, comfortable gray sweatpants and an oversized, faded T-shirt. This was home. This was real.
He sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for his phone—his private phone, a cheap burner he kept hidden in a box of old textbooks. The screen lit up, showing a steady stream of notifications from a contact he had saved simply as HD.
He'd been talking to HD for almost a year, a relationship that had started a week after his transfer to Matires. HD had reached out anonymously, a digital person who claimed to be a student at the prestigious academy. HD was gay and, deeply closeted—an island of solitude in a sea of wealthy, judgmental peers. In the beginning, Alex had been terrified that HD might be someone who knew his "girl" identity, but as their conversations deepened, he realized HD knew nothing of the girl at all. He only knew the boy in the photos Alex shared: the real Alex, soft-spoken, thoughtful, and lonely.
HD had been the only person who had ever told him he was attractive without wanting something in return. "I know you're not gay, Alex," HD had texted weeks ago, his tone gentle and patient. "I respect that. I just value our friendship more than anything else."
Alex smiled, the tension in his chest loosening. HD was his anchor. He had forgotten, in the chaos of Dave's new "punishment," that today was the day they had finally agreed to meet in person to visit that retro arcade shop on the edge of the district.
His phone buzzed.
HD: Are you almost here? I'm already at the entrance. I've got the coins for the racing cabinet ready.
Alex's eyes widened. He had completely lost track of time while playing his role for Dave. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bag and shoving his phone into his pocket. He didn't bother fixing his hair—he just pulled on a dark hoodie, the hood coming up to shade his face. He didn't need to be a girl today. Today, he was just Alex.
The walk to the arcade was a frantic blur. The cool evening air felt crisp against his skin, and for the first time in months, he didn't feel like a target. He felt like a boy going to meet a friend. He felt... visible, in the best possible way.
As he turned the corner onto the bustling street, he saw the familiar neon sign of the game shop glowing against the twilight. He slowed his pace, his heart fluttering with a nervous, hopeful energy. He looked around for someone standing near the entrance—someone who looked like they might recognize him.
But then, his stride faltered. His entire body went rigid, as if a sudden, icy shock had been pumped into his veins.
Parked directly in front of the arcade entrance was a motorcycle.
It was the same sleek, black, high-performance machine that had carried him home only an hour ago. The matte finish caught the flickering neon light, the engine still ticking as it cooled. Dave's bike.
Alex's stomach bottomed out. What is he doing here?
He ducked behind a parked van, his pulse turning into a frantic, chaotic thud against his ribs. Is he stalking me? Did he track my phone? He peeked around the side of the van, his hands trembling so violently he had to grip the metal frame of the vehicle to stay steady. He peered through the large, glass front window of the arcade.
The shop was mostly empty, save for the hum of the machines. And there, standing in the middle of the aisle, illuminated by the flashing lights of the racing game, was Dave Henry.
Dave wasn't wearing his school uniform. He looked younger, more relaxed in a black bomber jacket and dark jeans, but his posture was still unmistakable—that coiled, predatory grace that commanded every inch of space he occupied. He was holding a stack of game tokens, his head tilted slightly as he looked at the entrance, as if he were waiting for someone.
Alex's mind spiraled. He looked at his own phone, then back at Dave. He checked the message from HD again. "I'm already at the entrance."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The street sounds—the distant traffic, the chatter of pedestrians—muffled into a dull roar. Alex stared at Dave, his eyes wide and unblinking, his brain struggling to process the impossible intersection of his two worlds. He looked at the bike, then at the empty street around him, and finally back at the man who had spent the entire day making his life a living hell.
Why was Dave Henry at the exact location where he was supposed to meet his only friend? And why, as Dave stood there waiting in the neon glow of the arcade, did the President look like a boy waiting for someone he truly wanted to see?
Alex pressed his back against the cold metal of the van, his breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps, paralyzed by a terrifying realization that he couldn't bring himself to name. He watched Dave check his watch, then pull out his own phone and begin to type a message.
At the exact same time, Alex's burner phone vibrated in his hand.
He stared down at the screen, his vision blurring, as the message from HD flashed in the darkness: "I'm inside."