The boy lay sprawled across his bed, pale morning light spilling through the window and across his face. His eyes were shadowed with dark circles, the skin beneath hollow and bruised—proof that sleep had long abandoned him. Every breath came heavy, weighted with the exhaustion of countless sleepless nights, and even the soft sunlight couldn't reach the fatigue etched into his features.
He stirred beneath the tangled sheets, eyelids thick and sluggish, as if weighed down by iron. The morning light slanted through the window, painting streaks of gold across his messy black hair and the cluttered desk by the wall. For a long moment, he lay still, letting the warmth wash over him, though it did little to shake the heaviness that clung to his body.
Finally, he blinked, slow and unsteady, his eyes barely opening. "Mama… what time is it?" His voice was hoarse, soft, and hesitant, like a whisper carried through fog.
From the kitchen, his mother's sharp gaze met him over the rim of a steaming cup. "It's 8:34," she said, a trace of impatience threading her tone. "You're already late for school. Hurry up."
The boy groaned, dragging a hand across his face. Dark circles framed his eyes, remnants of another sleepless night, and every muscle ached under the weight of yesterday's fatigue. Slowly, reluctantly, he pushed himself upright, letting the morning light slice across him like a reluctant promise of the day ahead.
Panic flashed across his face as he scrambled to his feet. "Mama! Why didn't you wake me earlier? Now I'm late for school!"
His mother's voice floated from the kitchen again, calm but teasing. "I called you countless times, but you didn't wake up. Eventually… I gave up."
He was eighteen, tall, with sharp, piercing eyes and hair as black as midnight. Even his dark irises seemed to shimmer, reflecting thoughts that moved faster than he could express. Today was his Plus Two second-year Botany exam, and true to form, he was running late.
He studied at Ravenshaw Higher Secondary School, one of the state's most prestigious merit-based institutions, where students completed the combined 11th and 12th grades after their 10th. Discipline and punctuality were demanded, yet he was already a step behind.
He rushed through the morning routine—teeth brushed, a quick shower, breakfast eaten in a flurry. As he scrolled through Instagram, the familiar digital tide of the world washed over him: corruption, murder, pollution, scandals of every kind. The powerful turned a blind eye, and worse, some of the worst offenders—rapists, criminals—rose to positions of authority, becoming ministers while the people suffered in silence. His stomach churned as he finished his meal, a bitter taste lingering even over the sweetness of the toast.
Bag slung over his shoulder, he mounted his bicycle and pedaled into the morning air, the world around him crisp and indifferent. Yet fate seemed intent on mocking him. The chain slipped once, then twice. Each time he fixed it, it snapped again. By the fifth attempt, frustration and exhaustion weighed him down like a dark cloak, and his muscles trembled with every pedal.
Then a thought struck him—a spark of rebellion, of sudden instinct. He veered sharply, away from the familiar road to school, away from the looming exam, and onto a narrow, winding path that seemed to call to him. The world stretched before him, uncertain and shadowed. This was a road that led to the unknown—a road that would mark the beginning of another, unpredictable chapter of his life.
He navigated the narrow, winding streets on his bicycle, the morning air still crisp with faint mist that clung to the edges of the road. Shadows of old buildings stretched across the ground like long, black fingers, and the world seemed quieter than usual, as if even the city itself was holding its breath.
Finally, he reached the familiar house of his friend, a modest home tucked between narrow alleys. He stopped outside, slinging his bag over one shoulder, and dug his mobile from his pocket. The screen lit up his pale, tired face as he scrolled for his friend's number.
After a moment, he pressed the call button. The line rang once, twice, and then a familiar voice answered, cautious yet curious. "Hello?"
"Come down," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the pulse in his temples betrayed his anxiety. "I'm in front of your house."
There was a pause. Then the voice replied, tinged with suspicion, "Wait… you have exams today, or not?"
"Yes," he admitted, shrugging against the chill, "but I didn't give it." His words fell like a stone in the quiet morning. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "I'll explain everything later. Just… come down."
For a moment, silence stretched over the line, thick with unspoken questions. Outside, the faint rustle of wind in the trees and the distant crow of a bird were the only sounds. Something about the boy's tone—half desperate, half urgent—seemed to carry weight beyond mere words, as though a storm was gathering just behind his eyes.