And then it happened… The universe, in all its cosmic mischief, decided to roll a critical hit on Silas's sanity.
A massive boner. Out of nowhere. Well, technically not nowhere, but Silas wasn't in the mood for biological semantics.
His whole body jolted like someone had plugged him into an outlet.
He slapped his notebook onto his lap so fast it made a sharp whap, earning a side-eye from Morgan, who squinted at him as if he'd just declared war on stationery.
Silas's thoughts spiraled.
'Seriously? Now? In history class? Why? WHY? Am I cursed by the gods of embarrassing timing?!'
His blood felt like it was trying to relocate into a single location. His soul whimpered. His dignity filed for temporary leave.
He scooted his chair in, then hunched forward like he was trying to protect state secrets. This alone would've been survivable, but the universe was a comedian with no moral restraint.
Mr. Gilbert paused mid-droning, blinked, and said in that eternally dry tone:
"Silas… ah… kindly stand and answer the question."
The entire class turned.
Silas froze.
Every neuron in his brain screamed in seventeen different dialects.
'No. NO. NOPE. I can't stand! I physically CAN'T! Why today?! Why THIS classroom?! Why this stupid, heroic Spartan lecture?!'
His palms went clammy. Sweat pricked at his forehead. His notebook might as well have been a shield at this point, thin, useless, and failing moral support checks.
Mr. Gilbert raised a brow, monotone as ever.
"Silas…? The question."
Silas swallowed. Hard.
He couldn't stand, so he pulled the oldest student maneuver in history: the lean-forward-act-engaged-so-the-teacher-forgets-you're-sitting pose.
He lifted a trembling hand.
"I–I can answer from here, s-sir!"
A rippling wave of snickers passed through the class.
Silas could practically feel the gossip engines revving.
Mr. Gilbert adjusted his glasses, wholly uninterested in teenage suffering.
"Very well. In that case… what tactical advantage did the Spartans secure by taking the ridge?"
Silas's brain spun like a washing machine on high.
'Ridge. Ridge. Spartans. Capes. Spears. Something something uphill advantage. COME ON, THINK!'
He managed a voice that sounded halfway between a croak and a strangled yelp.
"Th–they, uh... they held the high ground. W-which… um… s-slowed the enemy's m-movement and made it harder to breach their formation."
A beat of silence.
Mr. Gilbert nodded. "Acceptable answer."
Silas nearly cried with relief.
He slumped back down, clutching his notebook like it was the last thread holding his dignity together. His pulse hammered in his ears. His legs tingled with adrenaline. His soul wanted to escape its vessel and apologize to every ancestor witnessing this from the spirit realm.
Morgan whispered from the side, barely hiding a grin, "Dude… you good?"
Silas kept his eyes locked on his desk.
"Never been worse," he muttered under his breath.
Mr. Gilbert resumed lecturing as if nothing catastrophic had transpired.
Silas, meanwhile, quietly prayed for the bell to ring, the rift apocalypse to start early, or for the ground to swallow him whole, whichever came first.
And life in Valecrest marched on, blissfully unaware that Silas had just survived a battle vastly more harrowing than anything the Spartans ever faced.
The final twenty minutes of class crawled by like a wounded snail.
Silas didn't learn a single thing about Spartans, Syrians, or heroic capes—only that maintaining a straight face while hiding a biological uprising was a herculean task worthy of mythic poetry.
When the bell rang, he felt spiritual deliverance.
Chairs scraped. Students bolted. Mr. Gilbert dismissed them with his usual lifeless drone, "Class is adjourned," but Silas was already halfway out the door, backpack clutched tightly against his hips like a life-preserving flotation device.
He moved fast, not suspiciously fast, but fast enough to concern anyone who knew him.
'Just gotta get to the dorm. Just walk. Casually. Normally. Nothing's happening. Nothing's wrong. I'm totally fine, this is fine...'
Fate, sensing his desperation, immediately decided to spice things up.
Damien was waiting in the corridor.
Leaning lazily against the wall. Perfect blonde hair tied back in a messy half-tail that somehow made him look annoyingly ethereal. Blue eyes full of smug amusement.
Uniform immaculate, like a poster boy for "future problem."
And when he spotted Silas, his grin spread.
"Well, well…" Damien pushed himself off the wall. "If it isn't Valecrest's favorite pink menace."
Silas's soul screamed.
'Not now. Any moment but NOW! Why is he everywhere? Does he teleport? Does gravity manipulation come with a stalker perk?!'
Damien stepped into the center of the hallway, arms casually open as though welcoming a sparring partner to a wrestling ring.
"Fancy bumping into you again. Thought maybe you'd finally wanna settle what you ran away from earlier."
Silas tightened his grip on his backpack. He kept it pressed firmly to his front, walking with a subtle sideways stance like a man escorting a baby penguin to safety.
Out loud, he managed, "Not today, Damien."
Damien raised a brow, surprised by the calm.
"You're running again?" He clicked his tongue. "That's not like you. Usually, you at least pretend you want a fair fight."
Silas sidestepped. Damien sidestepped with him. Silas tried the other direction.
Damien mirrored him again, eyes narrowing with delight.
"You're acting weird…"
'You have no idea,' Silas thought grimly.
He cleared his throat. "I'm busy."
"With what?" Damien took another step, lowering his voice. "Or… with who? That girl from earlier? She looked pretty scared of you. Did something happen?"
Silas's eye twitched. Damien had the uncanny ability to weaponize curiosity.
"No," Silas muttered. "Nothing happened. Move."
Damien spread his arms like a referee blocking a goal.
"You sure you're okay? You look… tense." He leaned in slightly. "Real tense."
Silas mentally screamed obscenities at the cosmos.
'If he gets any closer, I'm going to commit involuntary homicide.'
With the smoothest tactical dodge of his life, Silas suddenly leaned forward as though to walk past Damien, then pivoted sharply, slipping under one of Damien's outstretched arms with the speed and slipperiness of a greased ferret.
Damien blinked.
Silas power-walked away like a man whose dignity hung by a thread, backpack glued to his front, refusing to look back.
"Hey!" Damien called. "You're avoiding me!"
"No," Silas shouted without stopping. "I'm avoiding everything!"
Students watched the whole thing unfold: Silas's evasive maneuvers, Damien's baffled stance, the bizarre body language, and whispers erupted instantly.
"Is he sick?"
"Did he sprain something?"
"He's walking funny."
"Maybe it's a curse backlash."
"No, no, he always looks like that when he's trying not to fight."
Silas didn't stop or explain. He didn't breathe until the corridor curved and Damien vanished from sight. Only then did he sag against the wall, forehead touching cool plaster, whispering:
"I hate puberty. I hate this school. I hate my life."
The universe did not apologize.
It simply let him continue his shame-filled march toward the dormitory, where freedom, and hopefully a cold shower awaited.
...