Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A lone figure stood in front of a beautiful, towering building. Dread curled tightly in his stomach, heavy and insistent.

His new college.

It really was beautiful. The Victorian-style architecture rose proudly against the sky, all sharp angles and elegant curves, with multiple towers and narrow balconies that looked like they belonged in another century. A copper-tiled roof caught the light, dulled by age but still warm in color. Massive oak trees surrounded the campus, their branches stretching wide as if to shelter it. The few orange and yellow leaves clinging stubbornly to the limbs swayed softly in the wind, fluttering down now and then to crunch beneath passing feet.

He felt a familiar mix of excitement and dread settle over him. Excitement at the prospect of being a couple thousand miles away from home—far from expectations, routines, and people who thought they knew him. Dread at what was to come. New places, new faces, new rules. He had never been good with the unknown, and college was nothing but unknowns stacked on top of each other.

Wemmbu took a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp autumn air. It was cool and clean, sharp enough to wake him up. Beneath it lingered another scent—warm, savory, unmistakable. Tacos. The delicious smell wafted over from a food stand somewhere nearby, teasing him and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in far too long.

“Let’s do this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, and finally started walking.

As he made his way toward his dorm, his suitcase rolling softly behind him, his thoughts drifted to the goals he’d set for himself this semester. Simple ones. Reasonable ones. At least, in theory.

1. Don’t stand out.
A laugh almost escaped him at that. Hard thing to do, given his bright purple, obscenely long hair that practically screamed for attention. He tugged absently at a strand, already imagining the looks he’d get.

2, Get grades good enough so that his parents wouldn’t bother calling.
More doable than the first one. Studying was familiar. Predictable. Safe.

3. Don’t get too close to people.
That one sat heavier than the rest. He didn’t elaborate on it, not even to himself. He just tightened his grip on the suitcase handle and kept walking, boots crunching softly against the path as the college loomed closer—beautiful, intimidating, and full of possibilities he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

His finger gripped the suitcase handle tighter as he opened the door to his dorm building. The old door creaked and groaned as it unlocked, a sound that echoed like a warning through the empty hallway. The scent of polished wood and faint mildew hit him immediately. He wrinkled his nose but forced himself forward.

He stepped into the hallway. The door swung shut behind him with another long creak, and his boots echoed on the stone floor as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Each step made him flinch slightly—the building sounded alive, almost like it was complaining about the weight of newcomers.

The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by narrow windows that let in streaks of late afternoon sun. Wemmbu’s reflection caught briefly in a dusty pane. He looked… tired, but determined. Good start, he thought.

He made his way down the hall, listening to the faint hum of heating pipes and the distant chatter of students moving in. Some doors were wide open, furniture spilling out, and he caught glimpses of backpacks, posters, and half-unpacked boxes. One student leaned lazily in a doorway, scrolling on their phone, giving him a distracted nod. Wemmbu nodded back. Social interaction achieved—sort of.

Finally, he reached his dorm door. A clinking sound accompanied the lock as he turned the key, and the old door swung open. The room was empty. His roommate wasn’t here yet. The air smelled old and dusty, mixed with a faint hint of floor polish and the distant scent of the trees outside.

The dorm was divided into two identical sides. Each had a single bed, a desk, and a closet made from the same thin, bland wood. The walls were bare, the ceiling high and slightly echoey. The room felt like a blank canvas waiting for someone—him—to make it alive.

This really needs decorating, he thought. Good thing I have time before the semester starts. And hopefully before my roommate arrives. He imagined a splash of color, maybe some posters, a few trinkets, a small purple lamp. Anything to make it feel like his.

He set his suitcase down and decided to start transporting his stuff from his car to his dorm. The first trip wasn’t so bad. The second one made his shoulders ache. By the third, he was already questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.

It took over an hour of sweat, grunting, and careful balancing, but he managed to get everything out of the trunk of his purple Rolls-Royce. What could he say? He really liked purple. The car gleamed faintly in the fading light of the afternoon, reflecting streaks of orange and pink from the sky. For a brief moment, as he shut the trunk and wiped his brow, he felt a tiny spark of pride. At least he had good taste.

Back in the dorm, he finally got to the part he’d been looking forward to. He reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a sheer black fabric, climbing onto a chair to hang it across the ceiling. Tiny fairy lights were woven through it, and once he plugged them in, a soft glow spread across the room, hiding the cracks and stains time had carved into the ceiling. The harsh overhead lighting suddenly felt unnecessary.

He added black curtains next, the thick fabric blocking out the last of the daylight and giving the room an almost cocoon-like feel. One by one, posters went up—bands he loved, abstract art, half-forgotten movies that had meant everything to him at one point. Trinkets from his travels found their way onto shelves and the desk: small souvenirs, odd little objects with stories attached to them, each one grounding him just a bit more. A few paintings followed, carefully spaced, their colors breaking up the monotony of the plain walls.

The room was already looking much better. More like his.

He tossed dark purple bed sheets onto the mattress, smoothing them out before piling on decorative pillows and layering multiple blankets on top. It looked inviting—soft, warm, and unapologetically dramatic. A rug came next, placed carefully so it softened the cold floor beneath his feet.

Next to the rug, he leaned his violin case and bass case against the wall, familiar and comforting in their presence. Nearby, he set up a tall mirror that doubled as jewelry storage, already glittering faintly with rings and chains that caught the fairy lights when he moved.

His clothes rustled softly as he hung them in the closet, organizing them more out of habit than necessity. Shirts, jackets, and scarves lined up neatly, their colors ranging from deep purples to blacks and muted tones.

He dragged a small wooden shelf out of one of the boxes and positioned it against the wall near his desk. The shelf was nothing special, but it would do. One by one, he began stacking his books onto it, the familiar weight of them grounding him.

Textbooks went on the lower shelves first—thick, heavy, and practical. Not fun to look at, but necessary. Above those, he placed his novels, arranging them by size at first before stopping and rearranging them by color instead. It looked better that way. A little chaotic, but intentional.

He paused occasionally, fingers lingering on worn spines, memories surfacing with each title. Some books had followed him for years, dog-eared and annotated, while others were still pristine, waiting for the right moment to be opened. A few he placed facing outward, covers on display like small pieces of art.

When he was finished, he stepped back and adjusted the shelf slightly until it sat just right. The books gave the room weight—history, personality, proof that he belonged here just as much as anyone else.

Finally, he added a few more lights—small lamps and soft LED strips tucked into corners and behind furniture. When he turned them on, the room was bathed in a warm, gentle glow. Cozy. Safe.

He stepped back, hands on his hips, and took it all in. The dorm no longer felt empty or temporary. It felt lived in. It felt like a space where he could breathe.

For the first time since arriving on campus, Wemmbu smiled.

I really need to get food. I don’t even remember when I last ate.

He approached his suitcase and opened it. Everything was still neatly folded, the kind of neat that made him almost proud of himself. Probably best to keep it that way—he’d only get a new closet tomorrow, and besides, unpacking was more of a luxury than a necessity right now. He carefully pulled out some fresh clothes: basic sweatpants and a t-shirt. Nothing fancy. He could barely be bothered to make an effort. After all, he was just going to get food.

He swung the suitcase closed. The campus was bathed in the soft golden light of late afternoon, the shadows of tall oak trees stretching across the cobblestone paths.Very few Students wandered around, some with backpacks slung low, others laughing in small groups. The air smelled faintly of autumn leaves and, more importantly, of sizzling meat.

He remembered the tacos. That food truck from earlier. He followed the scent, which grew stronger with every step, winding through the campus streets like a savory breadcrumb trail.

If these tacos are good, I might just become a regular.

The food truck was parked right on the edge of campus, bright red and cheerful, with a small line of People already waiting. Wemmbu stepped up, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Two beef tacos, please,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.

The vendor nodded, slipping the warm tortillas onto a small paper plate. Wemmbu paid and stepped aside, tucking a few bills into his pocket. The aroma hit him again, stronger now—smoky, spicy, utterly irresistible. He couldn’t wait.

He took his first bite while walking back along the sidewalk. The meat was perfectly tender, bursting with flavor, the cumin and chili warming his mouth like a hug from the inside. The tortilla crunched just enough to remind him it was handmade. He let out a small moan, trying to be discreet but failing entirely.

“Oh…oh yeah,” he muttered, eyes closing briefly in bliss. “I’m definitely becoming a regular here.”

He took the second bite more carefully, chewing slowly this time, savoring the flavor. The students passing by barely registered him, too caught up in their own conversations. A dog ran past on a leash, wagging its tail and making him smile. Somewhere behind him, a guitar strummed softly, carried by the breeze from a busking student.

Wemmbu leaned against a low stone wall, finishing the last bite, and let the flavors linger. For once, he didn’t think about the looming presence of his parents in his mind. He only thought about how good it felt to be alive and hungry and satisfied.

As he tossed the empty paper plate into a nearby bin, he wiped his hands on his pants and grinned. Maybe college wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

He was standing on a sidewalk. Paralyzed. His feet felt rooted to the concrete, as though the ground itself had claimed him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The air pressed in on his chest, thick and unyielding.

In the distance, a car was approaching fast—far too fast. Its headlights burned white against the dark, growing larger with every heartbeat. It wasn’t slowing down. It wasn’t even swerving.

He tried desperately to move. To scream. To shout a warning to the figure running blindly into the street. His throat burned with the effort, his lungs aching as he forced air upward—but nothing came out. Not a sound. His body betrayed him completely.

Crash.

The horrible cracking sound of bones folding the wrong way, the violent screech of tires skidding against asphalt, and his own scream—all of it collided at once, deafening and overwhelming. The world seemed to shatter with the impact.

The only thing he could see was red.

It smeared across his vision, soaked into the pavement, splashed up onto his hands. The smell of iron filled his nose, thick and nauseating. Somewhere, glass tinkled as it settled. Somewhere else, someone was crying—but he couldn’t tell if it was the boy on the ground or him.

Distantly, he realized he could move again. His legs carried him forward without his permission, stumbling, slipping as he ran toward the body. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“Please,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was begging.

He dropped to his knees beside the boy, hands shaking violently as he reached for his neck. The skin was cold. Too cold. Slick with blood that clung to his fingers, warm and sticky in a way that made his stomach twist. He searched desperately for a pulse, any sign of life—

—and just as his fingers pressed against the boy’s throat, he startled awake with a sharp gasp.

The sound of his own breathing filled the room, loud and ragged, echoing in the silence. His chest heaved as he sucked in air like he’d been underwater for too long. His hands clenched into the sheets, half-expecting them to be soaked in red.

“It was just a dream,” Wemmbu whispered, though his voice trembled.

Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings—the dim glow of his fairy lights, the familiar shadows of his room, the steady hum of the building settling around him. His heart still raced, refusing to calm.

He turned his head toward the clock on his desk. 4:00 a.m. The red digits glared back at him. Way too early to be awake. Way too late to fall back asleep.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, afraid that if he closed his eyes, he’d see it all again. The red. The sound. The helplessness. His chest tightened at the thought, breath catching halfway in.

He couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t wallow in these memories, couldn’t let them pull him under.

Abruptly, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sudden movement making the room tilt for a moment. He stood and reached for the bedside lamp, flicking it on. A soft yellow glow spilled across the room, chasing away the worst of the shadows but leaving just enough behind to remind him it was still night.

The fairy lights on the ceiling glimmered faintly, their reflection wavering as his breathing slowly steadied.

Decidedly, he marched over to his closet and yanked it open. His hands moved with purpose as he pulled out dark, baggy jeans and a black hoodie marked with a purple cyber-sigilism design. Familiar. Comfortable.

The only sound was his heavy breathing and the quiet rustling of fabric as he changed, movements quick and practiced. The cool air brushed against his skin before being replaced by the comforting weight of the hoodie. He tugged the sleeves down over his hands, grounding himself in the sensation.

He turned toward the mirror and opened it, revealing the hidden jewelry compartment inside. His fingers hovered for a moment before selecting a necklace and lifting it free.

The cold metal felt good against his skin as he fastened it around his neck. The necklace was silver, delicate vines curling upward to cradle a sunflower at its center. The design was intricate, almost alive, catching the light as it moved.

The quiet clinking of metal echoed softly in the room as he let the necklace settle beneath his hoodie. He pressed a hand briefly over his chest, feeling its weight there—real, solid, grounding. A reminder.

He exhaled slowly. The panic hadn’t vanished, but it had loosened its grip. For now, that was enough.

He stepped away from the mirror, letting it fall closed with a soft click, and walked to the door. He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his keys from the small tray by the desk, and shrugged into his protective leather jacket. The familiar weight settled over his shoulders like a second skin.

Wemmbu stepped out of his dorm and into the hallway, locking the door behind him as quietly as he could. The lock clicked loudly in the stillness, and he froze for a second, listening. Nothing stirred. Satisfied, he continued down the stairs, boots carefully placed, every step deliberate as he tried not to wake anyone.

The door opened with a soft creak, and the fresh, cold night air hit his face all at once. He sucked in a deep breath, the chill burning his lungs in the best way. It smelled like damp pavement and distant trees, clean and grounding. He paused for a moment, eyes closed, letting the night settle around him.

Eventually, he headed toward the parking lot where his car and motorcycle were parked. The lot was mostly empty, lit by tall lamps that cast long shadows across the asphalt. His gaze went straight to his bike.

It was a beautiful Kawasaki Ninja, sleek and sharp, the purple graphics catching the light just right. He’d installed them himself, every line placed with care. His pride and joy.

He unlocked it, the quiet beep sounding louder than it should have, and pulled his helmet over his head. The world immediately became muted, distant. Safe. He tugged on his protective gloves, flexing his fingers as the leather warmed to his hands.

With a smooth motion, he swung his leg over the bike and settled into the seat. As he adjusted his grip, he glanced to the side and noticed another motorcycle parked next to his. A Yamaha R6, aggressive and clean, with sick red graphics that contrasted sharply against the dark.

“Huh. Wonder who that belongs to,” Wemmbu muttered, curiosity briefly cutting through his fog.

He turned the key.

The engine roared to life, the sound echoing against the buildings and shattering the silence of the night. The vibration traveled up through the bike and into his bones, steady and familiar. It anchored him.

He rolled out of the parking lot and into the city streets. At night, the city was something else entirely—alive in a quieter, softer way. Neon signs glowed against dark brick buildings, streetlights reflected off the pavement like scattered stars, and the traffic was light enough that he could breathe.

As the bike picked up speed, the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. The wind rushed past him, tugging at his jacket and making his hair flow behind him, carrying away the lingering echoes of the dream. His thoughts loosened, stretched thin by the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road.

For the first time since waking up, his mind wasn’t stuck in that moment on the sidewalk. There was only the road ahead, the city lights blurring into color, and the steady reminder that he was moving—alive, in control.

He drove around like this for three hours, letting the city slowly change around him. His mind was pleasingly empty, stripped of noise and memory. The only things that mattered were the steady hum of the bike beneath him and the stretch of road ahead. Turns came and went, traffic lights blurred into color, and time lost its shape. Nothing else mattered right now—and that felt like freedom.

He reached campus just as the sun began peeking over the horizon. The sky bloomed into soft pinks, purples, and golds, the colors bleeding into one another as the world slowly started waking up. Morning dew clung to the grass, and the buildings looked gentler in the early light, less imposing than they had the day before.

He rolled into the parking lot, passing the first few students already up and about—some jogging with headphones in, others clutching coffee cups like lifelines. He parked next to the red motorcycle again, killing the engine and locking his bike. The sudden silence felt loud after hours of motion.

Slowly, he swung his leg over and pulled off his helmet, carefully avoiding snagging it on his piercings. Cool morning air brushed his face, and he exhaled softly. He decided to drop off his gear in his dorm before heading to the cafeteria for breakfast.

With a plan in mind, he walked back toward his dorm, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

My roommate is probably arriving today.

The thought lingered as he made his bed, smoothing out the blankets more neatly than usual. He crossed the room and stopped in front of the mirror. His hair was completely disheveled from hours under the helmet, strands sticking out in every direction. He sighed, grabbed his brush, and carefully worked through the knots.

Once he was satisfied, he pulled the top half of his hair into a loose bun, making sure to leave the face-framing pieces out. It wasn’t perfect, but it was presentable—and that was good enough.

Feeling refreshed, he headed toward the cafeteria, totally not getting lost in any way. He only had to double back twice.

The cafeteria was already lively. A large group of students filled the space, their chatter blending into a constant, low hum. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, and the smell of fresh food hung warmly in the air.

Wemmbu made his way to the breakfast buffet and paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. Fruit, pastries, eggs, toast, hot dishes he didn’t even recognize—it was a lot for this early in the morning.

Unstable was a very strange college. Their prices were surprisingly low, and on top of that, they had an incredible financial aid and scholarship department. Taking all that into account, they probably didn’t make much money, yet somehow they still managed to offer so much—both in food and in classes.

Wemmbu was studying finance, but you could pretty much study anything here. Pre Med. Computer science. Law. Criminology. Psychology. Even art and music. Unstable offered it all.

That was why he had chosen it.

Ripping himself out of his thoughts, he grabbed a plate and loaded it up with fruit and toast. He felt a few stares prickling against his back but, surprisingly, not as many as he’d expected. Glancing around, Wemmbu realized why.

The diversity was incredible. Different styles, accents, body types, expressions—people who looked like they belonged nowhere else but here. Suddenly, his purple hair didn’t feel quite so loud.

I guess Goal 1 isn’t so hard after all.

After finding an empty table near the window, he sat down and started eating. The fruit was fresh, the toast warm. Outside, sunlight spilled across the campus, and students continued to filter in, laughing, yawning, existing.

After finishing his food, he decided to head back to his dorm and wait for his roommate. There wasn’t much else to do, and he figured it would be better to be there when the other person arrived rather than awkwardly missing each other.

When he got back, he tossed himself onto his bed, the sheets rustling beneath him as he stared up at the ceiling for a moment. Eventually, he pulled out his phone and began scrolling through social media, half-paying attention to videos and posts while his thoughts drifted. Whoever he was cursed to share a room with would show up eventually.

Turns out, he didn’t have to wait long.

About half an hour later, the lock clicked. The sound snapped Wemmbu out of his scrolling just as the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was a fairly tall guy with a white mullet, the kind that looked intentional rather than accidental. His skin was lightly tanned, and he wore a cozy sweater and jeans, dragging a suitcase behind him.

“Yo, what’s up,” the man said. His voice was deep and steady. His gaze swept across Wemmbu’s side of the room—over the fairy lights, the posters, the violin and bass cases—before settling on Wemmbu himself.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Wemmbu, your roommate,” he said politely, pushing himself upright on the bed.

“Wemmbu, huh?” The guy nodded once. “I’m Egg. Nice to meet you.”

Wemmbu noticed that Egg didn’t put much inflection into his words. Not unfriendly—just calm. Almost unreadable.

Egg stepped fully into the room, dragging his suitcase behind him. The wheels rattled and squeaked loudly, as if they were on their last legs.

“Do you… need any help getting your stuff up here?” Wemmbu asked hesitantly, unsure if he was overstepping.

Egg blinked, clearly a little surprised. “Uh, yeah. Maybe. There’s not too much—just two more bags.”

Wemmbu nodded and stood. “Then let’s go.” He headed for the door before he could overthink it.

“Oki doki,” Egg said easily, following him out.

They walked side by side down the hallway and toward the stairs, the silence stretching comfortably for a few seconds.

“So,” Egg said at last, “what are you studying?”

Wemmbu glanced at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected small talk—at least not so soon. “Uh, I’m studying finance. What about you?”

“Nice, bro. I’m pre-med.”

“Oh. Wow,” Wemmbu said, genuinely impressed. “Do you already have your course schedule?”

As they walked, they pulled out their phones and compared schedules, stopping briefly near the entrance to scroll and squint at screens. Turns out, they had both chosen philosophy as an elective.

“Oh, nice,” Egg said. “Then we’ll share at least one class.”

“Yeah. Awesome,” Wemmbu replied. It would be nice to have at least someone familiar in a lecture hall full of strangers. Not a friend. Just… someone to talk to.

They reached the parking lot, the morning sun warming the asphalt as Egg led him to his car. After grabbing the remaining bags from the trunk, they headed back inside, making idle conversation as they climbed the stairs—about professors, campus food, and how confusing the layout of the buildings was.

By the time they reached the dorm again, the awkward edge had dulled. The room didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.

They continued talking as they set up Egg’s side of the room. Egg went for a much lighter, airier vibe—soft-colored bedding, a white desk lamp, and an impressive number of plants that immediately claimed every available surface. Potted vines trailed along the windowsill, and small succulents were carefully lined up on the desk like they were being inspected. For some reason, it worked. The greenery softened the room and created a nice contrast to Wemmbu’s darker, moodier side.

Egg also owned a surprising number of fish-related trinkets. Little carved wooden fish, framed pictures of lakes, even a ceramic trout that ended up on the shelf. When Wemmbu finally asked about it, Egg shrugged.

“I’m really into fishing,” he said simply. “Always have been.”

Wemmbu nodded, accepting that explanation easily. Everyone had their thing.

Chapter Text

“Yo, what time is it?” Egg asked suddenly, stretching his arms over his head with a long yawn.

“Uhhh,” Wemmbu lifted his arm to check his silver watch. “It’s around eleven. Why?”

Egg groaned dramatically. “Ugh, I’m so hungry, bro.” There was a slight miserable edge to his voice, like he was seconds away from lying down on the floor.

Wemmbu laughed softly. “Bro’s miserable.”

“I am,” Egg insisted. “I’m gonna collapse if I don’t get some food in me, bro.”

“If you want, we can explore the city a little and grab something on the way,” Wemmbu offered. “My treat.”

Egg’s face lit up immediately. “Dude, that would be awesome. I would be eternally grateful and forever in your service.”

Wemmbu chuckled, shaking his head.

“Do you wanna walk,” he asked, “or be backpack on my bike?”

Egg blinked. “You have a bike?” His grin widened. “That’s sick, dude. I’ve never been on one, but I’m open—as long as you don’t crash and kill me or something.”

Wemmbu winced, the images from his nightmare flashing uninvited through his mind. The red. The sound. He pushed it away quickly.

“Nah, trust,” he said, forcing a steady tone. “I’ll be careful.”

Egg nodded enthusiastically. “Alright then. Let’s go!”

He bounced slightly on his heels, clearly excited—whether about the bike, the food, or just the idea of getting out and doing something together, Wemmbu wasn’t entirely sure. But as he grabbed his keys and jacket, he realized something quietly surprising.

He didn’t feel the usual urge to retreat.
And that felt… terrifying.

He quickly pushed those thoughts out of his mind and grabbed both his helmet and the backup one from his closet. The familiar weight of them in his hands helped ground him, pulling him back into the present.

“So, what type of food do you wanna get?” Wemmbu asked Egg, mostly to distract himself.

Egg shrugged as he followed him outside. “Hmm. Probably just whatever we come across first. I’m not picky.”

“Then let’s start our epic hunt for food,” Wemmbu said dramatically.

Egg laughed, shaking his head.

They made their way to the parking lot, the late-morning sun already warming the asphalt. Wemmbu’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the space where the red bike had been parked the night before. It was still in the same spot as yesterday. He averted his gaze to his own bike.

He walked over to his bike and unlocked it, the familiar beep cutting through the quiet. He turned around and saw Egg standing a few steps away, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, looking completely unsure of what he was supposed to do next.

“Come here, Egg.”

Egg perked up at the sound of his name and walked over. Wemmbu set his own helmet down and lifted the spare one, carefully placing it over Egg’s head. He had to reach up slightly—Egg really was taller than him.

“Okay,” Wemmbu said, adjusting the strap and making sure it was secure. “That good?”

Egg nodded, though the helmet made his movements look slightly exaggerated.

Wemmbu pulled on his own helmet and swung his leg over the bike, settling into the seat with practiced ease. “Alright, now,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder, “sit behind me.”

“Oh gosh,” Egg muttered, carefully maneuvering himself onto the bike. He shifted once. Then twice. “This feels illegal.”

Wemmbu snorted.

“Brother,” Egg continued, voice tight with nerves, “how do I avoid flying off this thing?”

Wemmbu laughed, throwing his head back. “Don’t laugh at me!” Egg protested.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wemmbu said, still smiling. “Just hold onto me and put your feet behind mine.”

Egg hesitated for a moment before carefully wrapping his arms around Wemmbu’s waist, which was surprisingly small. He made sure not to pull any part of the other man's hair. Wemmbu noticed, distantly, how cautious the movement was—like Egg didn’t want to overstep. His grip tightened slightly once he found balance.

Egg adjusted his feet onto the footpegs near the rear wheel and leaned forward just enough to feel secure. The bike dipped slightly under their combined weight.

“Ready?” Wemmbu asked, hand settling on the throttle.

Egg took a breath. “Ready,” he confirmed.

The engine roared to life beneath them, vibrating through their bodies as Wemmbu eased the bike forward. And just like that, they were off.

Egg yelped the moment the bike roared to life, making Wemmbu chuckle slightly inside his helmet. As they eased into a steady rhythm and the road smoothed out beneath them, the tension in Egg’s shoulders slowly melted away. He wasn’t gripping Wemmbu nearly as tightly anymore—no longer clinging for dear life, just holding on enough to stay balanced.

They rode through the streets for a while, neon signs and shop windows sliding past in a blur as Wemmbu kept an eye out for somewhere to eat. Eventually, Egg tapped his shoulder and pointed ahead excitedly.

A food truck sat parked on the corner, bright lights glowing against the dull pavement, a sign advertising hot dogs in bold letters.

“Wanna just go over there for food?” Egg yelled, trying to make himself heard over the rush of wind.

“Yeah, sure—let me pull over!” Wemmbu shouted back.

He slowed carefully, guiding the bike to the side of the street before easing it to a stop. The engine quieted as he put the kickstand down. Egg slid off shakily, feet hitting the ground a little too hard as he steadied himself, still reeling from the ride.

Wemmbu pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair and running his fingers through it to smooth out the tangles. Across from him, Egg was doing the same, helmet tucked under his arm as he laughed softly to himself. Wemmbu locked the bike before joining him.

“That was awesome,” Egg said, a grin spreading across his face.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Wemmbu replied.

They walked over to the food truck and ordered a hot dog each. Once the food was ready, Wemmbu pulled his card from his wallet and paid before Egg could protest.

“You wanna just eat over here and then keep exploring?” Wemmbu asked, gesturing vaguely down the street.

Egg shrugged easily. “Yeah, I’m down.”

They leaned against a nearby railing while they ate, the city humming softly around them.

“So,” Egg said between bites, “what were you doing before coming here?”

“I took a gap year and traveled for a bit,” Wemmbu answered. “Which was… honestly really fun.”

“Nice! Where’d you go?”

“Mostly Europe and Asia,” Wemmbu said. “A lot of bouncing around.” He glanced over. “What about you?”

“Woah, that’s cool,” Egg said. “I took a gap year too, but I mostly just… rested. Took a break. You know how it is.”

Wemmbu sighed quietly. “Yeah. I get it. High school is exhausting.”

Egg nodded rapidly. “Exactly! You get it.”

He finished his hot dog and wiped his hands on a napkin, glancing around at the street—at the light reflecting on various surfaces, the passing cars, the soft hum of the city around them. “This place is kinda beautiful,” he said, almost thoughtfully.

Wemmbu followed his gaze, taking it all in—the lights, the movement, the quiet life tucked between the noise. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “It really is.”

Behind them a motorcycle driving by could be heard.

Chapter Text

Flame was driving through the city on his red Yamaha R6, the engine purring smoothly beneath him as the streets blurred by. He had arrived just yesterday, and after setting up his shared dorm with his brother Mane, he’d decided to take the bike out and map some decent routes. Riding helped him think. Helped him settle.

He was also keeping an eye out for a boxing gym—somewhere close to campus if he got lucky. Training was non-negotiable. It grounded him, kept his head clear.

And, if he was being honest with himself, there was another reason he was out here.

A small, almost embarrassing part of him hoped he’d see the owner of the purple motorcycle. The one he’d noticed in the parking lot last night. It had stood out immediately—clean, well-kept, unmistakable. When it hadn’t been there this morning, Flame found himself oddly disappointed. Curious.

As he rode, his eyes flicked from street signs to storefronts, memorizing turns and intersections. That was when he passed a hot-dog truck parked near the curb. He slowed just a fraction, considering it. His stomach rumbled, but he shook his head. He’d eat later. Probably with Mane.

Then his gaze drifted to the opposite side of the street—and everything else seemed to stop.

There he was.

Flame didn’t know how he knew, but his instincts screamed it immediately: that’s him.

Next to him stood the purple motorcycle but that wasn't what Flame was focusing on.

The purple hair was the first thing he noticed, long and vivid, catching the light as it spilled down the man’s back like liquid amethyst. It shouldn’t have looked that natural, that effortless—but it did. The color didn’t wear him; he wore it.

He was laughing at something the guy beside him had said, head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed. The skin around them crinkled softly, genuine and unguarded, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone at all. Flame felt something tighten in his chest at the sight.

For a split second, the man turned just enough for Flame to see his face in profile—the sharp line of his nose, the curve of his lips pulled into a smile, piercings catching the light. Despite the baggy hoodie and loose jeans, Flame could tell he was lean, graceful in the way he moved, like every motion was deliberate without being stiff.

Beautiful.

The word hit Flame out of nowhere, heavy and undeniable.

And then he was past him.

Just like that, the bike carried him forward, the street swallowing the moment whole. Flame didn’t even realize he’d slowed until a car behind him honked, snapping him back into motion. His heart was beating faster than it had any right to.

He rode on, but the image refused to fade—the purple hair, the smile, the way he’d looked so alive. It replayed over and over in Flame’s mind, uninvited and persistent, no matter how much he tried to focus on the road.

By the time he finally pulled over near a small boxing gym not far from campus, he’d accepted defeat. He’d found a gym, sure—one with decent equipment and good hours, which was a win.

But all he could really think about was the stranger by the hot-dog truck.

And the purple motorcycle.

When he eventually reached campus again, the other motorcycle was back, parked neatly in its usual spot—and the sight of it sent Flame’s heart into a frenzy all over again. The purple paint caught the late light, unmistakable even from a distance.

So he lives here, Flame thought, slowing just a bit as he passed.

On his walk back to the dorm, his eyes kept drifting, scanning faces without him fully meaning to. He told himself he was just being observant, just taking in his surroundings. But deep down, he knew what he was really doing.

He was looking for him.

Hoping, irrationally, that the guy with the purple hair would somehow appear around a corner or step out of a building at just the right moment. Flame wasn’t even sure he’d have the courage to talk to him if he did. The idea made his stomach twist. Still, even a glimpse would’ve been enough.

But the campus remained stubbornly ordinary. Students passed in clusters, laughing, arguing, carrying boxes or coffee cups. No flash of violet hair. No familiar silhouette.

Eventually, he gave up and headed back to his dorm, figuring Mane was probably exactly where he’d left him.

“Mane?” Flame called as he pushed the door open.

The man in question was sitting criss-cross applesauce on his bed, munching on something from a crinkled wrapper while scrolling on his phone. His hair was a curly disaster, sticking out in every possible direction. Flame would never understand why his brother insisted on wearing it as an afro—his own dreads were infinitely more practical.

“Yeah?” Mane replied without looking up.

“Brother,” Flame said flatly. “There’s no way you’re still in the exact same position I left you in. I was gone for like two hours.”

“Well excuse me,” Mane shot back, finally lifting his gaze. “I’m just trying to relax before classes start. Can’t a man even chill?”

Flame scoffed. “Yeah, well, while you were being lazy, I found us a boxing gym near here. Pretty good hours too.”

“Lazy? I’m not lazy!” Mane protested, then grinned. “Thanks for finding a gym though—that’s actually awesome.”

Despite being the older sibling—even if only by a year—Mane often acted younger. Flame didn’t mind. If anything, he liked it. Mane had practically raised him, taking on responsibility way too early. Seeing him sprawled out, carefree and joking, felt like a small victory.

They were both adults now. Mane didn’t have to take care of him anymore. Still, when it came time to choose a college, neither of them had even considered separating. Staying together just made sense.

Flame flopped onto his own bed with a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling as it slowly darkened. Almost immediately, the image from earlier crept back into his mind—purple hair, easy laughter, that brief, stolen moment across the street.

His jaw tightened.

“Get outta my head,” he muttered under his breath.

He grabbed his phone, thumb scrolling aimlessly through apps, anything to distract himself. But even as the screen glowed in his hand, his thoughts drifted back to the parking lot.

To the purple motorcycle.

And to the stranger he was starting to hope he’d see again.

Chapter Text

Wemmbu and Egg eventually made it back to campus after another hour of sightseeing and driving around.
When they pulled into the parking lot, Wemmbu immediately noticed the distinct lack of the red bike next to where he had parked his own. He hesitated for just a second, eyes lingering on the empty space, before deciding not to dwell on it and pulling into his spot instead.

“Here we are again,” he said, shutting off the engine and pulling off his helmet.

Egg carefully got off the bike and removed his helmet as well, running a hand through his hair. “Made it back in one piece. That was very fun though—thank you for taking me. And for the food, of course.” He chuckled at that last part.

Wemmbu laughed softly. “Of course, bro. I had fun as well.”

They chatted idly as they walked back toward their dorm, trading opinions about their favorite parts of the city so far—the lights, the little food trucks, the way some streets felt alive. It was easy, comfortable conversation, and for once, Wemmbu didn’t feel like he was putting on an act.

When they reached the dorm building, Wemmbu slowed to a stop. His gaze flicked toward the campus map posted near the entrance, lingering on the section marked Music Wing.

“I think I’m gonna check out the music rooms,” he said after a moment. “Get some practice in before classes start tomorrow.”

Egg nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. Don’t practice too hard though.”

Wemmbu smiled, gave a small wave, and headed back inside. He grabbed his violin case from his side of the room and made his way across campus toward the music building. The familiar weight of the case in his hand was oddly comforting, grounding him in a way few things ever did.

The case itself was plastered with stickers—bands, symbols, places he’d been. His parents would’ve lost their minds if they saw it now.

A distant memory surfaced uninvited: ten-year-old him, marker in hand, drawing clumsy shapes on the pristine case. His mother’s shouting. Hours of yelling. The sting across his cheek that lingered far longer than it should have.

His fingers brushed his face unconsciously.

Wemmbu shook his head, forcing the memory away. Things were different now. He was different. He made his own choices.

The music wing was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of instruments bleeding through the walls. He counted the practice rooms as he passed—around fifteen total, most of them occupied. Soft piano notes drifted from one room, a trumpet from another.

He found an empty room near the end of the hall and slipped inside, closing the door gently behind him.

Setting the case down, he unlatched it with a soft click and lifted the violin free. The polished wood was cool beneath his fingers, familiar in a way nothing else was. He tuned it quickly, ear sharp and practiced.

Without thinking too much, he raised the bow and began playing Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20. Even after all these years, classical music was still what came most naturally to him. It was almost ironic, considering everything else about him.

As the first notes filled the small room, something in his chest loosened. The melody flowed smoothly, aching and gentle, wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. His breathing evened out. His heart slowed.

The thoughts that had been racing through his mind—about school, his past, the future, about how much he didn't want to be studying finance and why he was still letting his parents influence his life when he had moved across the country to get away from them and how pathetic he was for still being scared of them even with the distance between them—quieted one by one.

There was only the bow gliding across the strings.
Only the sound.
Only the music.

He completely lost track of time, but judging by how raw his fingertips felt—despite the calluses that had built up—he had probably been there for hours. After checking that he hadn’t actually broken the skin on his fingers (don’t ask him how, but it had happened before), he carefully packed his violin away and headed back toward his dorm.

When he stepped outside, the sun was already sinking low on the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold. The evening air was fresh, cool enough to raise goosebumps along his arms, and it felt grounding after being cooped up in a small practice room. He walked slowly, letting himself enjoy the quiet hum of campus as students drifted between buildings, laughter and conversation floating through the air.

Entering his room again, Egg was still there.

“Yo, dude, how was practice? You were gone for a long time, you missed dinner.” Egg said as Wemmbu stepped inside.

“Practice was good,” Wemmbu replied, setting his case down carefully and sitting on the edge of his bed. “I wanted to squeeze in as much time as I could before tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot classes start tomorrow. When’s your first one?”

“Uhh, nine a.m. First-year writing,” Wemmbu said after quickly checking his schedule on his phone. “But I can be quiet if yours start later.”

“Nah, it’s chill. My first class is at nine-thirty anyway, so you’re good,” Egg replied, yawning slightly as he stretched his arms above his head.

Wemmbu smiled faintly. “Looks like we’re both gonna be suffering tomorrow then.”

Egg snorted. “Yeah, but at least it’s the first day. Professors never do anything serious on the first day.”

“Hopefully,” Wemmbu said, leaning back against his pillows. His muscles were starting to protest now that he’d stopped moving, a dull ache settling into his shoulders and arms. Still, it was the good kind of tired—the kind that came from doing something he loved.

Egg shuffled around his side of the room, tidying a few things before flopping onto his own bed. “I’m probably gonna crash early,” he said. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Wemmbu replied. “I might just shower and then sleep too.”

The room settled into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of blankets and the distant sounds drifting in from the hallway. As Wemmbu lay back, staring up at the ceiling, he felt a rare sense of calm settle over him—heavy, warm, and welcome.

True to his word, after a few moments of rest, Wemmbu pushed himself up and grabbed his shower things before stepping into the attached bathroom and locking the door behind him.

He undressed slowly, carefully removing the sunflower necklace and placing it on the small shelf beside the sink. For a brief moment, he lingered, fingertips brushing over the cool metal before letting go. Then he stepped into the shower and turned the water on.

After adjusting it to the right temperature, he tilted his head back and let the water cascade over him, shoulders loosening almost instantly. He began detangling his hair with practiced patience, fingers working carefully to avoid pulling or ripping strands out.

His showers always took longer thanks to the sheer amount of hair he had, but eventually he finished. Changing into the pajamas he’d brought with him, he decided he couldn’t be bothered fully drying his hair. He wrapped it up in a towel instead, promising himself he’d deal with it tomorrow. After a quick cleanup of the shower, he stepped back into the room.

Egg glanced up briefly. He had changed as well and was already lying on his bed, phone in hand.

Wemmbu followed his example, crossing the room and throwing himself onto his bed. He barely remembered to plug his phone in before crawling under the covers. The mattress dipped comfortably beneath his weight, the familiar smell of clean sheets surrounding him.

As sleep claimed him almost instantly, his thoughts faded into a soft blur—no worries, no memories, no expectations.

Just quiet.

Wemmbu woke up the next morning peacefully. He didn’t have any nightmares and, surprisingly, hadn’t woken up at all during the night. He felt… well-rested.

That alone felt like a small miracle.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a moment to look around the room. Soft morning light filtered through the narrow gaps in the curtains, washing everything in a warm orange glow. Dust motes floated lazily in the air.

Egg was still asleep, sprawled across his bed without a care in the world. Not wanting to wake him, Wemmbu moved quietly as he picked out an outfit and grabbed a handful of jewelry before slipping into the bathroom. The lock clicked softly as he shut the door behind him.

The towel that had once been wrapped around his hair had fallen off sometime during the night, but his hair was completely dry. He brushed through it carefully, fingers working out the last stubborn knots before styling it into a familiar half-up, half-down look. After a few adjustments and a critical look in the mirror, he nodded to himself, satisfied.

He changed slowly, still a little groggy from sleep. The white tank top hugged his frame and he layered a baggy leather jacket over it—straps, small spikes, and fur lining the collar. He left it open, deciding he’d risk the morning chill. A pair of black jeans with various stitched-on patches completed the outfit.

For jewelry, he stacked a few necklaces around his neck before swapping out his usual piercings for spiked ones. He carefully removed the old eyebrow, nose, and lip jewelry, replacing them piece by piece. He adjusted the snake bites with his tongue until they sat just right, then gave his reflection one last assessing glance.

Satisfied, he stepped back into the dorm and quietly packed the things he’d need for class—his notebook, a couple of pens, his schedule. He slung his bag over his shoulder and paused for a moment, glancing back at Egg, who was still fast asleep.

Today was the first day.

And Wemmbu didn't know if he was ready to face it.

Chapter Text

As Wemmbu walked back into the dorm, he noticed Egg was awake, propped up on one elbow and squinting at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“Good morning, Wemmbu,” Egg murmured groggily, his voice thick with sleep.

“Morning, Egg. Sleep well?” Wemmbu asked as he gathered his bag and checked that he had everything. A quick glance at the clock told him it was 8:30. Still time for a quick breakfast.

“Yeah,” Egg said, though it came out muffled as he promptly buried his face back into his pillow. “Didn’t wake up once.”

“Lucky,” Wemmbu said with a small smile. “I’m gonna go grab breakfast. You wanna come?”

Egg lifted one finger in a vague gesture. “You go ahead. I gotta actually become a functioning human first.”

“Fair enough,” Wemmbu replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder before heading out.

The cafeteria was noticeably quieter than it had been the day before, filled with tired students clutching coffee cups and staring blankly at their phones. The energy was subdued, almost reverent, like everyone had silently agreed that talking this early was a crime.

Wemmbu grabbed some fruit and a yogurt before settling at an empty table. He had just started eating when someone stopped in front of him.

“Hi—sorry, can I sit here?”

He looked up to see a pink-haired girl holding a breakfast tray. Her voice was soft and melodic, and she wore dark blue overalls over a white long-sleeved shirt. The overalls were splattered with paint in every color imaginable.

Art student, he guessed.

“Yeah, sure. You’re good,” Wemmbu replied.

She smiled brightly. “Thanks!”

She set her tray down and took a seat across from him. “I’m Loppez, by the way. First-year art student. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Wemmbu,” he said between bites. “First-year finance. Nice to meet you as well.”

Loppez blinked, clearly surprised. “Finance? Wow. I never would’ve guessed that.”

Wemmbu let out a small, dry chuckle. “Yeah, I get that a lot. It wasn’t exactly my first choice, but here we are.”

She tilted her head curiously. “What class do you have first?”

“I think first-year writing at nine,” he said, quickly checking his schedule to be sure.

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, awesome! I have that class too!”

Wemmbu smiled, genuinely pleased. “Nice. Have you heard anything about the professor?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Fingers crossed they’re at least decent.”

“Yeah,” Wemmbu agreed. “That’d be nice.”

They chatted easily after that—about classes, campus, and how overwhelming everything felt—until a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Yo, what’s good?”

Egg approached their table, tray in hand, looking far more awake than he had earlier.

“Oh, hey!” Loppez said immediately. “I’m Loppez, nice to meet you.”

“Egg,” he replied, offering a casual nod. “Wemmbu’s roommate. Nice to meet you too.”

The two of them hit it off quickly, trading jokes and light conversation. Egg complained about early classes, Loppez teased him for it, and Wemmbu mostly listened, chiming in now and then.

Eventually, Wemmbu checked the time again. “We should probably head out,” he said, standing up. “Don’t wanna be late on day one.”

“Yeah,” Loppez agreed, grabbing her bag. “Good luck surviving class.”

Egg raised a hand in a lazy salute. “Good luck, you two.”

After quick goodbyes, Wemmbu and Loppez headed toward the lecture hall together, the quiet buzz of the campus slowly growing louder as the day officially began.

The lecture hall was already partially filled when they walked in. Students were scattered throughout the rows—some chatting quietly, others hunched over laptops or scrolling through their phones. The space smelled faintly of coffee and paper, and the low hum of conversation echoed softly off the walls.

After a brief, whispered deliberation, Wemmbu and Loppez decided to sit near the back. It felt safer there. Less visible.

A few students were already occupying the row. One was a guy with brown hair tipped in green, slouched comfortably in his seat. Next to him sat a black-haired guy wearing glasses, a silver yin-and-yang necklace resting against his chest as he listened intently. Beside them sat an absolute amalgamation of colors in human form, their clothes clashing loudly but somehow working together. And next to that student was another guy, wearing a red headband and leaning back in his chair like he owned the place.

As Wemmbu and Loppez settled into their seats, the brown-haired guy looked up.

For just a moment, it felt like his gaze cut straight through Wemmbu, sharp and assessing, as if he were cataloguing every detail. Wemmbu resisted the urge to shift under the scrutiny. After a second, the guy gave a small nod—acknowledgment, not quite friendly, not quite dismissive—before turning back to the black-haired student beside him.

The colorful student noticed them next. They grinned widely and waved with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Hey!” they stage-whispered before immediately turning back to the person beside them, launching into an excited rant that involved wild hand gestures and at least three references to “that one thing from yesterday.”

The guy with the red headband snorted softly, shaking his head like this was a regular occurrence.

Loppez leaned slightly toward Wemmbu, lowering her voice. “This class already feels interesting.”

Wemmbu huffed out a quiet laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

The chatter around them gradually softened as more students filtered in. Chairs creaked, bags were shifted, laptops snapped open. Wemmbu rested his elbows on the desk and let his gaze drift briefly around the room before settling forward again.

He noticed two more students arriving, and one of them immediately caught his eye.

The man was tall, noticeably muscular, and wore a dark red jacket that complemented his dark skin beautifully. He moved with an easy confidence, posture relaxed, a lazy smile playing on his lips as he listened to the person beside him talk. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself, like he was completely at ease wherever he went.

He was definitely handsome.

With that realization, Wemmbu’s gaze drifted to the person walking next to him.

His breath hitched.

The lecture hall blurred for a split second as memories crashed into him without warning.

Seven-year-old Wemmbu, small and nervous in borrowed fencing gear. The smell of metal and sweat. The sharp clash of blades. He remembered standing off to the side, watching the older students spar—until one of them stole his entire attention.

The boy moved like it was second nature. Every step was deliberate, every strike clean and precise. He dominated his opponent effortlessly, blade flashing with confidence that seemed unreal to someone so young. Watching him made something ignite in Wemmbu’s chest.

I want to be like that.

From that day on, whenever he had the chance, young Wemmbu would linger by the training floor just to watch him. Copy his stance. Memorize his movements. Dream.

Eventually, he learned the boy’s name.

Mane.

The memory shifted—warped—like a reflection in rippling water.

The fencing mask came off. Hands shook out a thick afro, curls springing free as sweat dripped down his temples. Then the image aged, sharpened, grounded itself in the present.

That same face—older now, broader, stronger—was walking into the lecture hall.

Real.

Here.

Sitting in the same row as him.

Wemmbu’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of his desk as his heart began to race.

Next to him, Loppez leaned closer. “You good?” she whispered. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I’m okay,” Wemmbu replied quickly, tearing his eyes away and forcing himself to blink. “I thought I saw someone I recognized.”

He shook his head, as if that might dislodge the memories threatening to pull him under. His breathing slowed, though his chest still felt tight.

He took a steadying breath just as the professor stepped up to the podium and the room finally began to quiet, the present pressing back in around him.

The lecture went fine. Wemmbu already knew most of the material, having been forced to learn ahead for most of his life. He still made an effort to look attentive—eyes forward, posture decent—but his mind wandered more often than not. Every once in a while, he felt someone’s gaze linger on him, prickling at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t be bothered to turn and see who it was.

Professor Williams eventually wrapped things up by announcing that their first assignment would be a group project.

A collective groan rippled through the lecture hall.

The professor laughed, clearly expecting the reaction. “I’ll email you the details,” he said, “and we’ll assign groups next lecture. Don’t worry—you’ll survive.”

That earned a few reluctant chuckles. With that, he began packing up his things and heading out. The rest of the class followed suit, the room filling with the familiar sounds of zippers, backpacks, and books being shoved away.

Wemmbu walked out alongside Loppez, the two of them speculating about what the assignment might be—essays, presentations, peer reviews. As they made their way down the hallway, a colorful poster on the wall caught Wemmbu’s attention.

He slowed to a stop.

“Loppez, wait,” he called out.

She turned back as he stepped closer to the poster, reading it more carefully. It advertised a brand-new Music Club, founded by a freshman named Parrot. First meeting tomorrow. Open to anyone who played an instrument.

“Ohhh, interesting,” Loppez said, already pulling out her phone to snap a picture. “I might actually join this.”

“What instrument do you play?” Wemmbu asked. “Also—could you send me that photo?”

“I play the harp,” she said proudly. “And yeah, of course. Just give me your number.”
She paused, then added, “What about you?”

“Violin,” Wemmbu replied, showing her his phone so she could type her number in.

“Oh, that’s cool!” Loppez said, eyes lighting up. “Are you thinking of joining too?”

“Maybe,” Wemmbu said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

“I think it’d be really cool if you joined,” she said as they resumed walking.

Wemmbu nodded, half-lost in thought. “Do you know where Egg is? If he has time, maybe we could all hang out.”

“Yeah, I’d love that,” Loppez said. “I think he still has about half an hour of class though.”

“I’ll text him to meet us when he’s done,” Wemmbu said. “Where do you wanna go?”

“There’s a bowling alley like five minutes from campus,” Loppez replied eagerly. “If you’re up for it?”

“Yeah, sure—let’s do it,” Wemmbu said. “I’ll send Egg the address.”

And just like that, they were off.

The bowling alley was lively but not too crowded. They rented a lane and started playing. Loppez turned out to be shockingly good, winning round after round while Wemmbu struggled, his throws either veering dramatically to the side or lacking power entirely.

“I swear it’s rigged,” Wemmbu muttered after yet another gutter ball.

Loppez laughed. “Sure it is.”

Egg joined them shortly after, immediately roasting Wemmbu for his score while somehow doing only marginally better himself. The rest of the morning—and most of the afternoon—passed in easy conversation and laughter, punctuated by Wemmbu’s growing, dramatic determination to win at least one game.

At some point, the music club came up again.

“Oh, I play bass,” Egg said casually, lining up a shot.

“Wait,” Loppez said, eyes widening. “Do we all wanna join together?!”

“Yeah, sure, I’m down,” Egg replied, releasing the ball.

Wemmbu shrugged lightly. “Sure. I don’t have anything against it.”

“Yay!” Loppez exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

Wemmbu felt something warm settle in his chest.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way—easy laughter, idle chatter, and a growing sense of comfort between them. Eventually, hunger won out, and they decided to grab dinner at a small sushi place not far from campus.

They squeezed into a booth, the low hum of conversation and clinking dishes surrounding them. Egg ordered far too much, insisting he needed “fuel for his brain,” while Wemmbu stuck to something simple. They shared plates, traded opinions, and laughed over spilled soy sauce and poorly timed jokes. It felt… normal. Nice.

By the time they made their way back to campus, the sky had already darkened, streetlights flickering on one by one. They walked Loppez back toward her dorm, exchanging tired smiles and promises to meet up again soon—especially for the music club meeting.

After saying their goodbyes, Wemmbu and Egg headed back to their own dorm. The exhaustion of the day settled in all at once, heavy and unavoidable. They barely spoke as they changed into comfortable clothes, the room filled with the quiet sounds of drawers opening and blankets rustling.

“Long day,” Egg muttered with a yawn as he climbed into bed.

“Yeah,” Wemmbu agreed softly, already sinking into his mattress.

The lights were turned off soon after. Wrapped in the familiar quiet of the room, sleep came quickly—deep and untroubled, carrying them both into the night.

Chapter Text

Wemmbu startled awake with a gasp, lungs burning as if he’d been underwater for too long. His heart was hammering against his ribs, frantic and uneven, but the reason escaped him the moment he tried to grasp it. There were only fragments—white flashes of plates shattering against the floor, the sound sharp and deafening, a looming figure moving closer no matter how far he backed away. A voice, raised and cutting, but the words themselves were gone, swallowed by the panic that lingered like a bad taste in his mouth.

For a second, he couldn’t tell where he was.

The ceiling above him swam into focus slowly, familiar cracks and faint discolorations grounding him back into the present. A dorm room. His dorm room. The air smelled faintly of detergent and old paper. Safe. Supposedly.

He dragged a shaky hand down his face, fingers trembling when they came away damp with sweat. His sheets were twisted around his legs, tangled and tight, like they were trying to hold him there. The room was too quiet, too still, the kind of silence that pressed in on his ears until it felt deafening—like it was waiting for something to happen.

His gaze fell to his hands.

He stared at them longer than necessary. At the small cuts along his knuckles from fencing practice. At the rough calluses lining his fingertips, earned through endless hours of bow against string. At the thin, pale scar carved into the base of his palm—leftover from the night he’d cleaned up broken porcelain with bare hands because he hadn’t been allowed to stop.

His fingers curled in on themselves.

The memories stirred, restless and sharp-edged, threatening to rise up now that the door had cracked open. He could feel them pressing behind his eyes, tightening his throat. He didn’t want to think about this. Couldn’t. Thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant being there again.

Before the spiral could take hold, he shoved himself upright, the movement abrupt enough to make the room tilt. Dizziness washed over him, but he ignored it, already moving. He grabbed his violin case without hesitation, fingers wrapping around the handle like it was a lifeline, and slipped out of the dorm. The door clicked shut behind him far too loudly in his ears, the sound echoing like an accusation.

He didn’t care that it was late. Didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to be there. The practice rooms were soundproofed. Mostly. And right now, he needed something—anything—that wasn’t his own head.

The walk to the music wing passed in a blur. By the time he reached it, his breathing was uneven and shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, like he’d been running even though his legs barely remembered moving. The world felt wrong, distant, like he was watching it through thick glass. His hands tingled, numb and hypersensitive all at once.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as he moved down the hallway, each step echoing faintly against the linoleum floor. He barely registered the door he pushed open, the familiar click of it closing behind him sealing him inside the room.

He didn’t remember unzipping the case.

He didn’t remember lifting the violin to his shoulder.

He just stood there, bow slack at his side, the instrument resting against him like a ghost of something once comforting. His eyes were unfocused, staring through the far wall as if something waited beyond it—something he didn’t want to see but couldn’t stop searching for. His hands shook, fingers stiff and aching, but they knew what to do even if he didn’t.

Slowly, his bow lifted.

The first note rang out, raw and unsteady, slicing through the quiet like a confession he hadn’t meant to make. The sound wavered, thin at first, then grew louder as he adjusted instinctively. And then he kept going.

It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t planned. His fingers moved on instinct alone, guided by years of repetition and muscle memory. The melody twisted and bent under his touch, sharp where it should have been gentle, dragging where it should have flowed. Every note sounded strained, almost painful—like the violin itself was protesting, crying out with him.

The music was wrong.

It trembled and lurched forward, heavy with things he couldn’t say aloud. Anger bled into sorrow, sorrow into fear, fear into something dangerously close to breaking. His bow pressed harder against the strings, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached and his wrist burned. The sound swelled, filling the room with something raw and desperate, something that clawed its way out of him without permission.

And still he played.

Time stopped meaning anything. There was only sound and motion and the relentless ache in his chest. His shoulders hunched forward, breath coming in short, sharp pulls between phrases. Sweat soaked into his shirt, his fingers screaming as they dragged across the strings again and again.

Because as long as the music existed, he didn’t have to.

The first thing he registered again was the soft morning light flowing through the window. Pale gold spilled across the floor, dust motes drifting lazily in its path. The second was the warm, sticky blood coating his fingers.

He blinked a few times, disoriented, his head pounding dully as if he’d been awake for days instead of hours. His mouth felt dry, his throat sore. His hands ached—no, burned—and when he looked down, he saw why. The skin on his fingertips had split open, raw and angry, the calluses torn apart from hours of relentless playing. Blood had pooled in the grooves of his fingers and smeared across the strings, dark and tacky now that it had begun to dry.

That was going to be a pain to clean up, he thought distantly, the concern feeling strangely disconnected, as if it belonged to someone else.

His gaze drifted around the practice room, slow and unfocused. His violin case lay discarded on the floor where he must have dropped it, the lid gaping open. The chair was pushed back awkwardly, nearly toppled over. Against the far wall stood the upright piano, silent and untouched, its polished surface catching the morning light like it was watching him.

Then his eyes returned to the violin in his hands.

For a brief, traitorous moment, a thought slipped in—sharp and venomous.

Pathetic.
His fingers couldn’t even handle playing.
Weak.

His breath hitched. His shoulders drew in as if he’d been struck, and he physically recoiled from the thought, heart stuttering painfully in his chest. His grip tightened instinctively around the violin before he forced himself to loosen it, afraid he’d crack the wood.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely to no one, shaking his head once, hard. The word felt fragile, but it was enough to stop the spiral in its tracks. He couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t.

Moving quickly now, almost frantically, he slid the violin back into its case, wincing as his fingertips brushed against the velvet lining. He tried to be careful, but crimson still stained the fabric in a few places. He shut the latches with shaking hands, ignoring the sting and the wet warmth creeping down his fingers.

When he finally straightened, his head swam, vision blurring at the edges.

He crept to the door and cracked it open, peering into the hallway. Empty. Quiet. The building was still half-asleep, the early morning hush settling over everything like a held breath.

Good.

He slipped out of the practice room and started back toward the dorms, his steps slow and uneven. Every so often, a drop of blood fell from his hand onto the floor, marking his path in small, shameful dots. He noticed them but didn’t stop to wipe them away. He didn’t have the energy to care.

By the time he reached his dorm door, his fingers were numb, pain dulled into a distant throb.

He eased the door open carefully, wincing at the soft creak of the hinges. He held his breath and peeked inside. Egg’s bed was a tangled bundle of blankets, his form barely visible beneath them. Still asleep.

Relief washed over him so strongly his knees almost buckled.

He closed the door behind him just as quietly and stood there for a moment, back pressed against it, staring down at his hands. The blood had begun to dry, flaking slightly when he flexed his fingers. They throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

He swallowed hard.

Carefully, he crossed the room and disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a soft click. Only then did he let himself sink down onto the closed toilet lid, elbows braced on his knees.

His hands shook again.

This time, he didn’t stop them.

Slowly, he stood up and unlatched the case. The blood on his violin looked almost grotesquely beautiful—dark streaks against polished wood, proof of devotion taken too far. Like evidence that he’d given everything he had left.

The thought made his stomach twist, and he shuddered sharply, forcing himself to look away before it rooted itself any deeper.

He grabbed a cloth and dampened it in the sink before carefully wiping the strings. Pink bloomed across the fabric, then deepened into red as he worked, each pass of the cloth erasing the night piece by piece. The smell of metal lingered faintly. When the instrument was finally clean, he cradled it for a moment longer than necessary before setting it back into its case and closing it with a soft, final click.

His gaze dropped to his fingers.

Most of the blood had rubbed off while he cleaned, revealing the damage beneath—raw skin split open, edges swollen and angry. They throbbed dully now, less sharp pain and more a constant reminder.

He decided to take a shower.

Clothes hit the floor without ceremony, and he stepped under the spray, turning the water on without bothering to adjust it. Cold, hot—he couldn’t really tell. The water rushed over his hands first, instantly blooming pink as it carried the blood away. He watched it trail down his arms, swirl around the drain, and disappear.

For a while, he just stood there.

Blank. Empty. Letting the water do all the work he couldn’t bring himself to do.

Eventually something clicked back into place, and he reached for the soap, scrubbing mechanically until the water ran clear again. By the time he shut the shower off, his skin felt oversensitive, almost fragile.

He wrapped a towel around himself and looked down at his hands once more. The bleeding had started again, slow and stubborn, the forming scabs washed away as if they’d never been there in the first place.

With a tired sigh, he reached under the sink for the first aid kit. His movements were practiced, as he cleaned and bandaged his fingers, careful not to wrap them too tight. Only one hand was injured, thankfully. At least his bow hand was safe.

When he was done, he slid the kit back into place and picked up his violin case once more, the familiar weight grounding in a way nothing else ever quite managed.

He cracked the dorm door open again, just enough to peek inside. Egg shifted under his blankets, clearly awake now but not fully stirring. Good. He didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want the concern.

Wemmbu slipped inside, set the case down gently, and opened his closet. He grabbed the first clothes his hands brushed against and retreated back into the bathroom.

He changed quickly, not bothering to check the mirror. A grey t-shirt with scattered designs, baggy blue jeans—comfortable, unremarkable. Safe. Before leaving the bathroom, he reached for his sunflower necklace and clasped it around his neck.

The cool metal pressed against his skin, solid and real.

He closed his eyes briefly and curled his fingers around the charm.

“I’m gonna need you close today, Rejoice,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

For the first time since waking up, his chest loosened—just a little.

Chapter Text

As he stepped back out into his dorm again, Egg was fully awake now, sitting upright on his bed and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning, Wem,” he yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

Wemmbu raised an eyebrow at the nickname but chose not to comment on it—for now.

“Good morning, Egg. Sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Uhm… yeah. Definitely,” Wemmbu answered, the pause just a fraction too long.

Egg squinted at him, clearly unconvinced.

“You excited for the club meeting today?” Wemmbu cut in quickly, not giving Egg the chance to follow up.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say excited—”

“Nah, bro’s tryna be nonchalant,” Wemmbu interrupted with a grin.

Egg rolled his eyes. “Fine. Yes. Sure. I’m excited. Whatever.”

Wemmbu laughed, the sound light and genuine.

They went through their morning routines together and eventually made their way to the cafeteria. Pushing the doors open revealed a sea of exhausted students—some hunched over trays, others fully passed out with their heads on the tables. The low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery filled the air.

They grabbed some food and sat down at a nearby table.

Wemmbu stared at his plate, poking absently at the scrambled eggs. His stomach felt hollow, like it could swallow the entire room, yet the thought of eating made his chest tighten.

Egg’s voice pulled him back.

“What happened to your hand?”

Wemmbu’s head snapped up. “Huh?”

Egg nodded toward his fingers. “Your hand. What happened?”

Wemmbu’s mind raced for an excuse, but nothing convincing came. Eventually, he exhaled and settled on the truth.

“I cut them on my violin strings.”

Before Egg could respond, Loppez slid into the seat across from them.

“Oof, that’s rough,” she said sympathetically. “I had the same thing when I first started playing. Good morning, by the way.”

Egg looked between the two of them, clearly reassured by her casual acceptance of the explanation.

They talked for a bit longer—mostly light conversation, mostly Loppez rambling about an art project she was already stressing over—until it was time for Wemmbu to head to his first lecture of the day.

The class passed without incident. The professor was energetic, clearly passionate, and somehow managed to keep even the most sleep-deprived students awake. Wemmbu listened, took notes, and kept his thoughts mostly in line.

After the lecture ended, he decided to check out the library. Since it was close to the club rooms, he swung by his dorm first to grab his violin.

Inside, the air was immediately warmer, carrying the faint, familiar scent of aged paper, ink, and polished wood. It wrapped around him like a blanket. The ceiling stretched high above, supported by dark wooden beams, and the sound inside the library was never truly silence—just a gentle hush. Pages turned softly, keyboards clicked in restrained rhythms, and footsteps were careful, almost reverent.

Towering bookshelves lined the walls and formed narrow aisles that seemed to go on forever. Each shelf was packed tight with books of every imaginable size and color, their spines worn and loved, some cracked with age, others pristine and untouched. Little handwritten labels marked entire worlds: philosophy, history, science, art, fiction. Knowledge stacked neatly, patiently waiting.

Large windows let in soft natural light, illuminating long wooden tables scattered throughout the space. Small lamps sat at each one, casting warm pools of yellow light that made the library feel alive despite its quiet. Students occupied nearly every table—some hunched over notebooks with furrowed brows, others half-asleep with their heads resting on open textbooks, a few whispering urgently before being shushed by a librarian’s sharp glance.

Toward the back, plush armchairs were tucked into corners beside low shelves, perfect for disappearing into a book for hours. Plants hung from the ceiling and sat on windowsills, their leaves catching the sunlight and adding soft touches of green to the otherwise muted palette.

Somewhere deeper in the library, a staircase led up to a second level, its railing lined with more shelves and quiet study nooks hidden just out of sight. The entire place felt like a sanctuary—built for thinking, for learning, for existing without expectation.

Wemmbu adjusted the strap of his violin case on his shoulder and took a slow breath.

He walked further inside, slowly weaving through the shelves, his fingers occasionally brushing over spines as he passed. Each section felt like its own small world, neatly labeled and waiting to be explored. Eventually, almost without thinking about it, he found himself in the music section.

Rows and rows of books stretched out before him—thick volumes of sheet music bound in worn covers, memoirs written by musicians long gone, dense books on music theory filled with diagrams and notes scribbled in the margins, and scientific studies dissecting sound, rhythm, and perception down to the smallest detail. Some books looked ancient, their pages yellowed and fragile, while others were new and crisp, barely cracked open.

A quiet sense of relief settled in his chest.
This—this was familiar. Safe.
If there was one corner of the world where he felt he belonged, it was here.

He pulled a few books from the shelves almost at random, stacking them carefully in his arms, and made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Up there, the library felt even more hushed, as if the sound itself knew better than to follow. Small study nooks were tucked between shelves and windows, hidden away just enough to feel private.

He slid into one of them, set the books down, and picked up the top one.
The cover read: Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain.

Curiosity flickered across his face as he opened it.

The book explored the strange and deeply human relationship between music and the brain—how sound could heal, harm, haunt, and comfort all at once. It told stories of people who could no longer recognize faces but could still play entire symphonies from memory, of patients with neurological disorders who found clarity through rhythm, of those who were overtaken by music so completely it shaped their identities.

Page after page described how melodies could rewire the brain, how repetition carved pathways deeper than words ever could, how music could trigger memories long buried or emotions too complex to name. There were sections on muscle memory, on obsession, on how the brain clung to music even when everything else fell apart.

Wemmbu felt something tighten in his chest as he read.

It made sense.
Why his hands knew what to do even when his mind didn’t.
Why he could lose himself entirely in sound, sometimes to a frightening degree.
Why he could play when he couldn't do anything else.

He leaned back slightly, the book resting open in his hands, sunlight spilling across the pages.

The words didn’t feel distant.
They felt uncomfortably close—like someone had reached into his head and written down things he’d never been able to explain himself.

And despite the ache that came with that realization, he kept reading.

Eventually he realized he had read almost all of the books he had picked out. Startled, he grabbed his phone and checked the time.

Five minutes before meeting time.

“Oh—shit,” he muttered under his breath.

He sprang up, nearly knocking his chair over, and gathered the books into his arms. He hurriedly returned the ones he’d finished to one of the carts, fingers fumbling as he stacked them neatly despite the rush. The remaining books were checked out in record time before he stuffed them into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and bolted from the library.

The cool air hit his face as he ran, sneakers slapping against the pavement while he made his way toward the club building. His lungs burned slightly by the time he burst inside, slowing only to jog as he scanned the hallway signs.

“2B… 2B…” he muttered, eyes flicking from door to door.

When he finally stopped in front of the right room, he took a second to smooth his hair and steady his breathing. Then, pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

The room itself was… underwhelming. A few mismatched chairs were scattered around, two beanbags slumped sadly in one corner, and a desk had been shoved against the wall. The white paint was peeling in places, giving the space a slightly neglected feel. Still, it had potential.

His attention shifted to the people already there—and he froze.

He recognized them immediately. No, more than that—he recognized all of them.

Bandana Dude and Colorful Dude were mid-conversation, animated as ever. Green-tipped hair sat next to Yin-and-Yang, both leaning over a notebook. Egg was there too, lounging in a chair. And then—

The guy in the dark red jacket.

And sitting right next to him—

Mane.

Wemmbu felt his chest tighten.

Before he could fully process it, a head popped into view over his shoulder.

“Oh hey!” Loppez said cheerfully. “Looks like we made it.”

Wemmbu hadn’t even realized she’d caught up to him.

The guy with the green-tipped hair spoke up first, smiling easily.
“Oh! Hello—welcome to the music club. I’m Parrot.”

“Yo,” Wemmbu replied, forcing himself to sound normal. “I’m Wemmbu.”

“And I’m Loppez!” she added brightly, stepping fully into the room.

The colorful guy perked up immediately.
“Oh! Loppez! I didn’t know you were joining too!”

Loppez blinked, then grinned. “Spoke! This is awesome—so many people I know are here!”

The bandana-wearing guy tilted his head. “I’m Mappic. You two know each other?”

“Yeah!” Spoke said excitedly. “We’re both art majors—same classes and everything.”

“Fun,” Yin-and-Yang said calmly. “I’m Wifies. Law.”

“I'm Egg.” Egg added.

The guy in the red jacket finally spoke, his voice deep and smooth.
“I’m Flame. Nice to meet you all.”

Wemmbu’s heart sped up despite himself.

“I’m Mane,” the man beside Flame added casually. “Flame’s brother.”

Wemmbu swallowed.

Parrot clapped his hands together, breaking the moment.
“Alright, I don’t think anyone else is coming, so—welcome to the Music Club, everyone! This first meeting is just to figure out what we want to do. Jam sessions, composing, performances, hanging out—whatever you’re into. If anyone has ideas, throw them out.”

“How about we start with instruments?” Wifies suggested, already holding a notebook labeled Music Club. “I play cello.”

“Good idea,” Parrot nodded. “I play clarinet.”

“I play Piano!” Spoke said, practically bouncing.

“Saxophone,” Mappic added.

“Bass guitar,” Egg said, lifting a hand lazily.

“I play harp,” Loppez said, taking a seat. Wemmbu followed, lowering himself into the chair beside her.

“Violin,” Wemmbu said. He noticed Parrot’s eyes flick briefly to the bandages on his fingers, but he didn’t comment.

“Drums,” Mane said, crunching on what looked like nuts.

“And electric guitar,” Flame finished.

Parrot looked around the room, clearly pleased.
“Okay—yeah. That’s a really solid mix.”

Wifies scribbled notes furiously as Parrot continued,
“We could start with a jam session next meeting, see how everyone vibes together?”

Spoke grinned. “I’m down. Chaos jams are the best.”

Egg snorted. “As long as we don’t blow out the speakers.”

Flame leaned back slightly, glancing around the group. “Could be fun to work toward a performance too. Something small at first.”

Loppez’s eyes lit up. “Oh! A showcase would be amazing.”

Wemmbu listened quietly, fingers curling slightly in his lap. The room felt… strange. Full. Loud in a way that wasn’t overwhelming—just alive.

Parrot smiled, tapping the notebook.
“Alright then. Sounds like this club might actually become something.”

Wemmbu cleared his throat and decided to cut in.
“Uh—can we decorate this room? Potentially as soon as possible. No offense,” he added quickly, gesturing around, “but this is just… sad.”

For a split second there was silence.

Then Spoke practically lit up.
“I AGREE!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “The walls are begging for color. And honestly? New paint is non-negotiable.”

Wifies nodded thoughtfully.
“I think that’s a good idea. This is our space, after all.” He glanced around the room. “If everyone has time, we could start today?”

A chorus of nods followed, mixed with murmured agreement.

“Yeah, I’m free.”
“Works for me.”
“Better now than later.”

“Awesome!” Loppez said, already half out of her chair. “Spoke and I should have paint. That should probably be priority number one.”

Parrot laughed softly, shaking his head.
“I love the enthusiasm. Alright—Spoke, Loppez, you two grab the paint. The rest of us can prep the room.”

“ON IT,” Spoke said, already sprinting toward the door.

“Don’t spill anything!” Parrot called after them.

“No promises!” Loppez shouted back, laughing as the door slammed shut behind them.

The remaining group got to work immediately. Chairs were dragged, beanbags shoved into the center of the room, and the desk was awkwardly lifted and scooted along the wall.

Egg struggled with one of the beanbags, nearly losing his balance.
“Why is this thing heavier than it looks?”

Mappic snorted. “Nah bros struggling with a beanbag.”

Flame reached over and helped steady it. “Careful, man.”

Wemmbu found himself next to Mane as they pushed the desk together, the legs scraping softly against the floor. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“So,” Mane said casually, breaking the silence. “You’re the violinist, right?”

Wemmbu blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Mane hummed, sounding impressed. “That’s sick. Violin’s not an easy instrument.” He shot Wemmbu a quick glance, smiling. “I play drums. Mostly just hit things until they sound right.”

Wemmbu let out a quiet, almost relieved huff of a laugh. Mane didn't remember him. “Sounds effective.”

“Usually is,” Mane said, adjusting his grip on the desk. “You’ve been playing long?”

“…Most of my life,” Wemmbu answered after a brief pause.

“Damn,” Mane replied. “That explains the vibes.”

They finished pushing the desk into place, and for a second Wemmbu just stood there, grounding himself in the ordinariness of the interaction.

Parrot clapped his hands.
“Alright! Once the paint arrives, we’ll figure out colors and assignments. Today we transform this place from depressing to legendary.”

Egg raised a hand. “Do we get snacks as compensation?”

“Absolutely,” Parrot said. “Creative labor requires fuel.”

Wemmbu exhaled softly, watching everyone move around the room—laughing, talking, working together.

The moment was interrupted by the door bursting open, Spoke and Loppez practically exploding into the room, arms full of paint cans that clinked and rattled loudly with every step.

“We’re backkk!!” Spoke sang out, nearly tripping over his own feet as he skidded to a stop.

“Finally, dude,” Parrot remarked with a smirk, arms crossed. “I was starting to think you got distracted by, like, a shiny object.”

Spoke gasped dramatically, one hand flying to his chest. “Hmph. You don’t deserve me. I work so hard for you, and this is how you repay me?”

“By letting you live?” Mappic offered helpfully.

“That was uncalled for,” Spoke said, pointing at him. “Deeply hurtful.”

Loppez dropped her load of paint cans with a loud clatter, grinning. “I told him to stop monologuing and start walking.”

“I was adding flair!” Spoke protested. “Art needs flair!”

After a beat of silence, the room dissolved into laughter.

Spoke and Loppez started unloading everything they’d brought—brushes of every size, rollers, drop cloths that looked suspiciously like old bedsheets, and more paint cans than seemed strictly necessary.

Wifies blinked at the growing pile. “Do we… need this many colors?”

Spoke squinted at him. “Need? No. Deserve? Absolutely.”

Flame nudged one of the cans with his foot. “Why is there glitter paint.”

Loppez beamed. “Because life is better with glitter.”

Mane cracked open another packet of nuts. “I feel like we should establish rules.”

“No rules,” Spoke and Loppez said at the same time.

Parrot sighed. “Okay, at least tell me who’s painting what.”

Spoke grabbed a roller and pointed it like a weapon. “Everyone paints everything. Chaos is the theme.”

“That explains a lot,” Egg muttered.

Someone popped open a can—far too enthusiastically—and bright blue paint sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

“Careful—!” Wemmbu started.

Too late.

A splash of blue hit the floor, narrowly missing Parrot’s shoes.

Everyone froze.

Spoke looked down at the spreading puddle, then slowly looked up. “So. We’ve crossed the point of no return.”

“WHY is it always you,” Parrot groaned.

“That was the floor’s fault,” Spoke said firmly.

“Spoke,” Wifies said flatly, already rolling up his sleeves, “hand me a brush before I lose my moral high ground.”

That was all the permission anyone needed.

Within seconds, lids were being pried open, paint being poured into trays, and brushes grabbed with reckless enthusiasm. Music blasted faintly from someone’s phone—no one was quite sure whose—and suddenly the once-empty room was alive with motion.

Loppez dipped a brush and immediately started painting sweeping gold arcs across one wall. “I’m thinking abstract sunburst!”

Spoke was already halfway up a chair, painting neon pink zigzags. “I’m thinking aggressive optimism.”

“You’re gonna fall,” Egg warned.

“I’m gonna fall artistically,” Spoke shot back.

Mappic accidentally flicked green paint onto Mane’s sleeve.

Mane looked down at it, then back up. “You realize this means war.”

“Oh come on—”

Too late. Mane dipped his brush and retaliated, swiping a streak of orange across Mappic’s arm.

“HEY—!”

Parrot rubbed his temples. “I leave you alone for five minutes—”

Wemmbu hesitated near the wall, brush hovering uncertainly. Flame appeared beside him, holding out a can.

“Blue?” Flame offered.

Wemmbu glanced at it, then nodded. “Yeah. Blue’s good.”

They painted in silence for a moment—until Spoke leaned over.

“Aw, look at them. So focused. Boring.”

Wemmbu immediately flicked a bit of blue paint at Spoke.

It hit him square in the cheek.

The room went dead quiet.

Then Spoke slowly grinned. “Oh. It’s like that now.”

Paint flew.

Laughter echoed off the walls as colors layered over each other—handprints, messy strokes, accidental splatters turning into intentional patterns. Someone painted musical notes that warped into stars. Someone else added vines creeping up the corners. The peeling white vanished beneath layers of color, personality bleeding into every inch.

At some point, amidst the noise and laughter, Wemmbu found himself standing in front of one of the last mostly-blank walls. He dipped his brush into a deep, rich purple, watching the color soak into the bristles.

He liked purple. It was calm. Controlled. It didn’t demand attention—it earned it.

He started with long, deliberate strokes, painting upward in smooth arcs. The color spread evenly, clean and intentional, a sharp contrast to the chaos everywhere else.

“Careful there,” Flame’s voice drawled from behind him. “You’re making it look… thoughtful.”

Wemmbu glanced sideways.

Flame had claimed the other end of the same wall.

With red.

Bright, unapologetic red.

Flame rolled the paint on in bold, sweeping motions, fast and confident, like he wasn’t worried about precision in the slightest. The red bled outward, vibrant and aggressive, demanding space.

“We’re gonna meet in the middle,” Flame continued, smirking. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

Wemmbu huffed softly. “Lose what?”

“The wall.”

Wemmbu dipped his brush again, purple dripping slightly. “That implies you think red automatically wins.”

Flame laughed. “It does.”

“Overcompensating color,” Wemmbu muttered, painting faster.

“Oh?” Flame raised an eyebrow. “Funny. I was thinking yours looked like it was trying to disappear.”

That earned him a sharper glance.

They worked in silence for a few moments, the gap between red and purple shrinking inch by inch. The contrast was striking—cool, controlled violet pressing against fiery crimson, neither willing to give ground.

Spoke noticed first.

“Oh my god,” he whispered loudly. “They’re having a paint duel.”

“I call purple,” Loppez said immediately.

“Traitor,” Flame said without looking away from the wall.

Wemmbu added a sharper angle to his strokes, layering darker shades into the purple, making it deeper, richer. “Red’s loud,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t mean it’s better.”

Flame leaned back, examining his work. “Purple’s cautious. Afraid to take up space.”

Wemmbu stepped closer to the middle, deliberately crossing the invisible boundary and dragging a streak of purple into the red.

Flame’s grin widened.

“Oh, so we’re crossing lines now?”

He dipped his roller and dragged a slash of red right back through the purple.

“HEY—” Wemmbu snapped, then stopped himself, jaw tightening.

The two colors twisted together at the center, blending where neither would yield, streaks of crimson and violet colliding into something darker, messier—and unexpectedly striking.

Mane whistled. “That actually looks sick.”

Egg nodded. “Yeah. Kinda… intense.”

Wemmbu stared at the wall, breathing a little faster than before. He hadn’t realized how much he cared until now.

Flame stepped back too, arms crossed, eyes flicking to Wemmbu. “Call it a draw?”

Wemmbu hesitated.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No.”

Flame laughed, genuine this time. “Good.”

They exchanged brushes without another word, both of them adding smaller details now—sharp lines, gradients, accents—no longer fighting for dominance but still pushing, testing, refusing to fade.

The wall ended up neither red nor purple.

It was both.

By the time they finally stepped back, all of them splattered with paint and out of breath, the room barely looked the same.

Egg stared around, blinking. “We… might have gone too far.”

Spoke, paint in his hair and glitter on his nose, beamed. “No such thing.”

Wemmbu looked at the walls—at the chaos, the color, the proof that something lived here now—and felt his chest ease, just a bit.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, smiling despite himself. “I think this is perfect.”

Parrot stepped back, arms crossed, eyes roaming over the walls like he was evaluating a questionable art exhibit.

“It definitely has… character,” he said carefully.

“I think it’s awesome!” Spoke’s voice rang out from above, somehow perched atop a stack of chairs that absolutely should not have been able to support a human being.

Mapicc hovered nearby, hands half-raised like he could catch Spoke if gravity decided to intervene. “Dude, you’re going to fall.”

Spoke waved him off dramatically. “No I’m no—”

The chair tower collapsed with a clatter of wood and metal, and Spoke went down with it, landing flat on his back.

“Oh,” he said after a beat.

The room exploded.

Loppez doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach. Egg snorted so hard he had to sit down. Even Flame cracked, turning his face away with a grin he didn’t quite manage to hide. Mane let out a loud bark of laughter.

Wifies waited until the chaos died down before clearing his throat. “Alright. I’m calling it here. For safety reasons. And also because there is literally no wall left to paint.”

“Ugh, fine,” Spoke groaned, sitting up and rubbing his shoulder. “What do we do now?”

Parrot snapped his fingers. “Music.”

Every head turned.

“How about we all play something? Just to show off our instruments.”

Mane’s eyes lit up instantly. “Hell yeah. But I need my drum set here.”

That was all it took.

Within minutes the room was in controlled chaos again—chairs being dragged, a keyboard wheeled in for Spoke, cables appearing from seemingly nowhere. Mane set up his drum kit with practiced ease, testing the pedals and tapping the rims lightly. The room suddenly felt different, charged in a way paint never quite managed.

Parrot clapped his hands together. “Alright! Who wants to go first?”

Spoke’s hand shot up so fast it was a miracle his shoulder didn’t dislocate. “Me! Me! Me!!”

Parrot laughed. “Alright, Spoke. You’re up.”

Chapter Text

Spoke practically skipped to the keyboard, cracking his knuckles dramatically before settling onto the bench. He took a breath.

Then he played.

The opening was slow and bluesy—his left hand laying down heavy, dragging chords that hummed low and melancholy, while his right hand traced lazy, wandering lines across the keys. The notes felt like dusk, like the last light before night fully settled in. The room quieted almost immediately, everyone instinctively listening.

Then—something snapped.

The tempo jumped, sharp and sudden, and the music lit up.

His left hand transformed into a bouncing, rolling rhythm, classic boogie-woogie bass lines thumping like a heartbeat, while his right hand took off, dancing across the keys in quick, playful runs. The melody twisted and flipped, bright and mischievous, slipping effortlessly between bluesy grit and joyful chaos.

Spoke’s shoulders moved with the rhythm, his head bobbing as his fingers flew. The music felt alive—like laughter, like motion, like the walls themselves wanted to move along with it. Egg tapped his foot without realizing it. Loppez swayed gently, eyes shining. Even Wemmbu found his fingers twitching, phantom notes tracing along his bandaged hand.

Mane let out a quiet, impressed whistle. “Damn.”

The song surged toward its end, faster and brighter, until Spoke dragged both hands across the entire keyboard in a wild, glittering cascade of sound and slammed down one final, triumphant chord.

Silence.

Then—

“That was INSANE,” Loppez burst out.

Egg clapped enthusiastically. “Dude, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

Spoke spun around on the bench, bowing dramatically. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all semester.”

Parrot grinned. “Alright, yeah. That’s a tough act to follow.”

Wemmbu swallowed, glancing down at his bandaged fingers.

…Yeah. Tough act indeed.

“So who wants to play next?” Parrot asked, glancing around the room.

“I’ll go,” Egg said casually, already reaching for his bass as if the decision had been made long before the question was asked.

He picked the Bass up from where it had been leaning against the wall—no one had even noticed him set it there—and dropped into a chair. The bass looked well-loved, the strings slightly dulled from use. It was white with a giant blue Eye printed on it. Egg rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, and plugged the cable in with a quiet click.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his thumb came down on the strings.

The first note hit deep and sharp, a punch straight to the chest. Egg launched into a funky slap rhythm, his right hand moving with practiced ease—thumb popping, fingers snapping the strings back against the fretboard in quick, percussive bursts. The bass didn’t just play the rhythm, it became it, filling the room with a thick, bouncing groove that made it impossible to sit still.

His left hand slid effortlessly up and down the neck, hammer-ons and pull-offs blending seamlessly into the slap pattern. The sound was playful and confident, almost cocky, like the bass itself was grinning. Every pop rang out crisp and bright, every low note grounding the melody before it leapt back into motion.

Spoke’s foot immediately started tapping.

Loppez blinked, then smiled wide, swaying slightly in her chair.

Egg leaned into it, adding syncopation, muting strings with the side of his palm to create sharp, staccato hits that turned the bass into a drum. The rhythm twisted and danced, dipping into brief pauses before snapping back harder, funkier than before. It felt spontaneous, alive—like he was just following wherever the groove wanted to go.

He threw in a rapid run up the neck, ending with a bright pop that rang out and echoed for half a second before he cut the sound clean.

Silence.

Then—

“Okay WHAT—” Spoke blurted out.

“That was insane,” Parrot said, genuinely impressed.

Wemmbu stared at the bass, then at Egg. “You just… casually had that in you?”

Egg shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “What? It’s just bass.”

“Just bass,” Flame repeated flatly. “Yeah, sure.”

Loppez clapped enthusiastically. “That was so fun! I felt that in my soul.”

Egg chuckled, setting the bass back against the chair. “Glad you liked it.”

Parrot grinned, flipping a page in the notebook. “Alright, I officially love this club already. Who’s brave enough to follow that?”

Flame perked up immediately. “I’ll go next.”

He moved with easy confidence, slipping into the chair Egg had just vacated and pulling the guitar onto his lap. Up close, the instrument was even more striking—sleek black lacquer, the body licked with a deep red flame design that seemed to glow under the harsh ceiling lights. It looked well-loved, edges worn just enough to prove it wasn’t decorative. This guitar had stories.

He plugged in, rolled his shoulders once, and adjusted the strap before resting his fingers on the fretboard.

Then he started playing.

The first notes were low and controlled, a slow build that filled the room like a held breath. The sound wasn’t soft—far from it—but it wasn’t overwhelming either. It was full, rich and vibrating through the floor, the kind of loud that settled into your chest instead of rattling your skull. Each note rang clear, threaded with a faint distortion that gave it warmth instead of bite.

His fingers moved with practiced ease, sliding and pressing with absolute confidence. He wasn’t rushing. He let the notes linger, bending them just slightly, drawing emotion out of every string. The melody unfurled smoothly, familiar yet undeniably his.

Wemmbu recognized it almost immediately.

Swim — Chase Atlantic.

But Flame wasn’t just playing it. He was owning it.

He leaned into the chorus, strumming harder now, letting the sound swell and crash like waves against rock. There was something intimate in the way he played—controlled but unguarded, like he was letting the room hear something personal without ever fully giving it away. His foot tapped against the floor in time, head dipping slightly as he got lost in the rhythm.

The higher notes cut clean through the air, sharp and aching in the best way. Every slide, every vibrato felt deliberate, charged with quiet intensity. It was the kind of playing that made you stop breathing for a second without realizing it.

Wemmbu found himself frozen, eyes locked on Flame’s hands.

For someone who played something so different from his own style, the emotion felt… familiar. Heavy. Pulling.

Flame finished the last line with a slow, lingering note, letting it fade naturally until the room fell silent again.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then Spoke exhaled loudly. “Okay. Wow. That was—yeah. That.”

Loppez nodded enthusiastically. “I think I just got emotionally attacked.”

Egg tilted his head, impressed. “Didn’t expect that much control. Respect.”

Flame unplugged his guitar and glanced up, catching Wemmbu staring a second too long.

A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“Glad you liked it,” he said quietly.

Wemmbu swallowed, forcing himself to look away. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It was… really good.”

Loppez said: “I wanna go next!” and immediately started pulling her harp over.

She sat down carefully, the instrument’s weight familiar in her lap, and positioned her fingers above the strings. Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath, as if drawing the music out of the air itself.

Then she started playing.

The first notes were soft, delicate, almost like sunlight filtering through morning mist. Her fingers glided across the strings with precision and grace, coaxing out the opening chords of her cover of “Golden Brown”. Each pluck rang clear and crystalline, the tones overlapping in a hypnotic pattern that seemed to twist and shimmer in the air around them.

The melody was at once melancholy and uplifting, a strange juxtaposition that made it feel like time itself was bending. The arpeggios flowed like water over stones, gentle yet insistent, pulling the listener into a rhythm that was both comforting and uncanny. The harmonics she drew out added a shimmering overlay, almost as if the light in the room had begun to bend and dance along with her music.

Wemmbu found himself leaning forward, captivated. The purity of the harp’s tone contrasted beautifully with the other instruments in the room, carrying a kind of elegance that was almost otherworldly. Even the chaos of the earlier paint session and laughter seemed to fade into the background, leaving only her music, resonating and alive.

Her fingers moved faster now, tracing the intricate melody of the song. It was hypnotic, lilting between tension and release. Egg’s foot tapped involuntarily in rhythm, while Parrot’s clarinet case seemed to hum along, as if acknowledging her artistry.

When she reached the final chord, she lingered on it, letting the vibration hang in the air like sunlight trapped in glass. The sound seemed to stretch on, then slowly faded into silence, leaving a kind of awe-struck stillness in the room.

For a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Then Spoke let out a low whistle, and Mane clapped slowly, the rhythm catching the others.

“That… that was unreal,” Wemmbu breathed.

“You’re amazing, Loppez,” Egg added, still swaying slightly to the echoing tones in his head.

Loppez opened her eyes, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks… I just… I love how the harp can make something so simple feel… magical, you know?”

Flame leaned back, strumming an air chord on his guitar. “Yeah, you’ve officially raised the bar. No pressure for the rest of us, right?”

Laughter rippled through the room, but the warmth of her performance lingered, like a golden glow wrapping around them all.

“I’ll go next,” Mane said, sliding onto the drum stool with a casual ease that belied the storm he was about to unleash.

He tapped the rims of his drums twice, then clapped his sticks together sharply, the sound echoing off the walls like a starting gun. Everyone leaned forward instinctively.

Then he hit the kit.

The first strike of the bass drum was like a punch to the chest, hard and deliberate. His snare cracked sharply, each hit precise, cutting through the hum of the room. The cymbals screamed when he crashed them, their metallic shimmer adding chaos to the beat. Mane’s arms moved in a blur, hammering toms and snare in syncopated bursts that sounded almost too fast to be human.

He shifted into a rolling rhythm, driving the groove with relentless energy. His left foot stomped the hi-hat pedal in a staccato chatter, while his right foot thumped the bass drum in a steady, unyielding pulse. Mane’s fills were explosive—rapid-fire flurries of snare and toms that rolled across the kit like a controlled hurricane, cymbals flying in arcs of silver as he punctuated each phrase with a crash.

It wasn’t just skill; it was attitude. Every hit had swagger, every pause had tension, and every roll built into a crescendo that made the room vibrate under the power of it. The drums weren’t just keeping time—they were roaring, screaming, daring anyone to ignore them.

Even the rhythm of the bass line in Egg’s fingers would have to bend to this storm. Wemmbu’s chest tightened as he watched, recalling his childhood memories of Mane dominating the fencing strip—precision, confidence, and raw power all wrapped into one. Now it was fully embodied in percussion, every strike a command, every crash a challenge.

Mane’s solo climaxed in a chaotic flurry of cymbal crashes, rapid tom rolls, and snare rattles, ending with a final explosive slam of the bass drum that left the air trembling. He leaned back, chest heaving, a grin of pure satisfaction on his face.

The room was silent for a heartbeat, everyone stunned by the intensity. Then Spoke let out a whistle.

“That was insane,” Egg breathed, leaning forward, the corners of his mouth twitching in awe.

“Damn,” Wemmbu muttered under his breath, feeling a pang of admiration and something else he couldn’t quite name. The older version of Mane in front of him—this unrestrained, fiery version—was exactly the same person he had idolized all those years ago.

“Yeah,” Loppez said softly, still tingling from the vibrations. “He didn’t just play the drums… he owned the room.”

Parrot chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, that’s a level of chaos I can respect. Anyone else brave enough to follow that?”

“Me!” Mappic said, standing up and carefully pulling his saxophone from its case. The polished brass gleamed under the overhead lights, reflecting tiny flecks of color from the painted walls.

He lifted it to his lips and took a slow, measured breath, letting the instrument warm up with a soft hum. Then he began to play.

The song wasn’t fast. It didn’t need to be. Each note was deliberate, clean, and precise, but layered over them was something more—a feeling, a heartbeat. The melody flowed like warm sunlight spilling across the floor, soft and golden, embracing everyone in the room without a word. It wrapped around the chaos of the painted walls, the echoing laughter, and even the lingering echoes of Mane’s explosive drum solo, smoothing it into something almost tender.

Mappic’s fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, shifting from smooth, lingering tones to subtle, delicate trills. The saxophone’s sound swelled and softened, rising like a gentle tide and receding like a sigh. There was a quiet intimacy to it, the kind of music that seemed to speak directly to your chest, filling the space between your ribs with warmth.

Even Flame, who had been idly tuning his guitar in the corner, paused and leaned against the wall, letting the music wash over him. Egg’s usual confident grin softened, his fingers drumming idly on the edge of the bass as if keeping time with the melody. Wemmbu closed his eyes, letting the notes slip past him like warm smoke, coaxing a rare smile onto his lips.

Mappic’s solo wasn’t just about skill—it was about connection. Every note breathed life, every pause lingered like an unspoken thought, and the entire room seemed suspended in that delicate moment. By the time he finished, the last note hung in the air like a whisper, fading slowly until it dissolved completely, leaving behind a calm, satisfied hush.

“Wow…” Loppez whispered, leaning back in her chair. “That… that was beautiful.”

Parrot nodded, his fingers still lightly resting on his clarinet. “Yeah, man. That was like… pure warmth. Totally different vibe from the rest of us, but amazing.”

Spoke clapped softly, a grin spreading across his face. “Dude, that was straight-up magic. I could listen to that all day.”

Even Mane, still catching his breath from his rock drum solo, tilted his head, a rare moment of quiet respect in his eyes.

Mappic stood up and bowed laughing. “Thank you, Thank you.” Then he stopped aside.

“I’ll play something next,” Wifies said, moving with calm precision as he pulled his cello upright and positioned it between his knees. He took a slow, steadying breath, letting his fingers dance lightly over the strings before pressing them down with deliberate force.

The first notes emerged, low and resonant, vibrating through the room like the rumble of distant thunder. It was Phantom of the Opera, but transformed. The deep, melancholy tones of the cello made the music feel intimate, almost as if the shadows themselves were whispering. Wifies drew the bow across the strings with a practiced elegance, each stroke full of tension, drama, and longing.

The melody swelled, rising and falling like a storm, weaving through the room. The lower notes rumbled like a heartbeat, steady but filled with unease, while the higher notes trembled and reached upward, sharp and haunting, echoing like ghostly whispers in the corners of the room. The energy was theatrical, cinematic—the music didn’t just play; it told a story of unspoken passion, hidden desire, and the weight of secrets long kept.

Wemmbu, Flame, and the rest of the group fell silent, caught in the hypnotic pull of the cello’s voice. Even the usually exuberant Spoke sat back, letting the sweeping waves of emotion wash over him, frozen in awe.

Wifies leaned into the instrument, his movements fluid and commanding. The bow jumped and danced across the strings during the faster passages, a flurry of controlled chaos, before settling again into those dark, haunting melodies that clung to the air like velvet. The notes dripped with emotion—sorrow, longing, and an almost theatrical grandeur that filled every inch of the room.

By the time he finished, the last note lingered in the air like a sigh, vibrating softly against the walls. The silence afterward was heavy, reverent, as if everyone in the room had been holding their breath.

Parrot was the first to break it, giving a slow clap. “Man… that was epic. So dramatic.”

Spoke’s grin spread wide. “Yeah! That was like… movie-level awesome.”

Even Flame, still holding his guitar, let a small whistle escape. “Damn… Wifies, that’s some serious talent right there.”

Wemmbu found himself staring at the bow in awe, imagining how every stroke carried not just sound but emotion, every vibration telling a story far beyond the notes on the page.

Wifies gave a small, humble nod, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thanks… it’s just… the music speaks for itself. You just have to listen.”

The room was quiet for a moment longer, everyone still feeling the echo of the cello’s voice.

The silence was broken by Parrot’s voice, calm but carrying a quiet energy that immediately drew everyone’s attention.

“I’ll play something next then,” he said, carefully pulling his clarinet out of its case. He gave it a small tap and a twist, checking the keys, and then placed it to his lips.

The first note emerged—smooth, rounded, and warm. It rolled through the room like a soft breeze, curling around the edges of the other instruments’ echoes that still lingered. Parrot’s fingers moved with precision, the notes flowing in a seamless cascade, weaving a melody that was both playful and introspective.

His piece was lighter than Wifies’ intense cello, but no less captivating. The clarinet sang with a delicate sweetness, each tone clear and melodic, gliding effortlessly between low, velvety notes and higher, piercing tones that seemed to dance in the air. There was a jazz-like rhythm to some passages, a gentle swing that made the room feel alive, as if the walls themselves were tapping along. Other sections were softer, almost melancholic, carrying a wistful, reflective air that hinted at hidden stories and quiet emotions.

Parrot’s playing was fluid and expressive; he leaned into the instrument at times, letting the sound swell and fill the space, and at other moments, he pulled back, teasing the audience with nearly whispered phrases, a breath away from silence. The clarinet’s voice curved and arched, turning familiar scales into something intimate, something almost personal, as if the instrument itself were telling a secret to anyone willing to listen.

Even Spoke, who had been bouncing with excitement earlier, slowed his hands on the keys, mesmerized by the fluidity of Parrot’s performance. Flame tilted his head, the strings of his guitar momentarily silent in his lap, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied how Parrot’s fingers danced over the keys, the subtle shifts in tone, the control of breath and pressure that gave the music life.

There was a lightness to the melody that contrasted beautifully with the dramatic tension of Wifies’ cello, the boisterous energy of Spoke’s piano, and the rhythmic thunder of Mane’s drums.

When the last note lingered in the air and faded into silence, the room stayed quiet for a moment, caught between awe and the urge to applaud. Then, one by one, the other club members began to clap. The sound was warm, genuine, a mix of admiration and encouragement, and Parrot gave a modest bow, eyes flicking around the room to take in their reactions.

“That… that was incredible,” Loppez said, her voice soft but excited, a smile lighting her face.

“Yeah,” Egg added, nodding vigorously. “So smooth… like silk.”

Parrot chuckled quietly, slipping the clarinet back into its case. “Thanks, i appreciate the compliments”

The atmosphere in the room shifted after that—lighter, more connected. Everyone had played their part, yet each performance had left a mark, and now the stage was open for Wemmbu.

Wemmbu smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Best for last, huh?” he said, the joke light but his eyes sharp. Everybody chuckled at that, though Egg just rolled his eyes, pretending to be unimpressed.

He knelt slightly to unfasten the case of his violin. The familiar velvet lining greeted him, faintly tinged with dried blood from his last desperate practice session. He touched it lightly, a small shiver running through him, before carefully lifting out the instrument. The scent was faint but there, a reminder of the intensity he poured into music when the world got too heavy. He shook the memory off, placing the violin on his shoulder.

After a brief pause to center himself, he decided to play one of Chopin’s pieces—the Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2.

He drew his bow across the strings, and the first note rang out—a soft, almost whispering call that seemed to pull the room into itself. The melody was immediately recognizable, sweet and melancholic, curling like smoke through the air. His fingers danced lightly across the fingerboard, delicate but precise, coaxing the music from the violin with the kind of control that came from years of practice.

Almost immediately, a dull, nagging ache flared in his fingertips—the raw wounds from the previous night reminding him they were still there. Each note pressed against the broken skin, each slide of the bow a tiny shock of pain. It burned, insistent, almost distracting—but somehow, it made the music sharper, more urgent. Every note was now colored with a subtle tension, a raw edge that mirrored the ache in his hands.

The opening phrases were tender, almost fragile, but as the piece progressed, his interpretation brought in subtle flourishes—trills and slight swells that gave the Nocturne a more personal voice. The ache in his fingers spiked with a few faster passages, but he ignored it, letting the pain and passion merge. The result was hauntingly beautiful: the music trembled with vulnerability, but with strength underneath.

The room felt suspended, caught in the ebb and flow of his music. The soft melancholy of the melody intertwined with subtle bursts of passion, the dynamics rising and falling like gentle waves before a storm. His bow pressed harder on certain passages, creating a deep, almost yearning resonance that seemed to vibrate through the wooden floor. Even the aching wounds added to the texture, giving each note a grit, a human imperfection that made the music feel alive. He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-closed, lost in the sound, his every movement in sync with the emotion of the piece.

Even in the quiet parts, the violin sang with intention. A gentle, lingering vibrato made some notes tremble delicately, and quick, playful runs added texture, like whispers of thought brushing past the main theme. The Nocturne was both haunting and beautiful, a perfect balance of restraint and expression—something only someone who had lived, bled, and suffered for music could achieve.

By the time he reached the final chord, the room was utterly still, hanging on the final note as it resonated and faded. The silence after was profound, broken only by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the quickened breaths of the listeners. It was as if the violin had spoken for him, and for a moment, all the messy thoughts, all the anxiety, the lingering pain, and the sting in his wounded fingers had been transformed into something beautiful, tangible, and shared.

Wemmbu lowered his bow slowly, letting the last vibrations die naturally. He exhaled softly, eyes lifting to take in the faces around him. Loppez’s smile was wide, almost glowing, Egg was nodding in approval, and even Flame and Mane, usually unreadable, looked impressed. Parrot gave a subtle, appreciative nod, and Wifies leaned back slightly, still caught in the lingering melancholy of the piece.

“...Wow,” Spoke finally said, breaking the silence, his voice quiet but filled with awe.

“That… that was insane, Wemmbu,” Egg added, his usual nonchalance gone. “You really… you really make it feel alive.”

Flame was just staring at him, mouth agape.

Wemmbu allowed himself the smallest smile, a rare flicker of pride. “Thanks,” he said simply, letting the violin rest against his shoulder for a moment before carefully setting it back in its case. The faint scent of past blood lingered again, but he didn’t mind. It was a reminder of the price of something this pure. His fingers throbbed dully, a lingering reminder of both pain and perseverance, but it no longer felt like a punishment—it felt like proof.

Chapter Text

When Flame decided to join the music club, he would’ve never expected to see the purple-haired stranger there. He already counted himself lucky when he realised he shared a class with him, but being in a club was even better. And seeing him walk through that door, alive and in front of him, was nothing short of a stroke of luck.

Up close, Wemmbu was… startling. His long hair caught the light in a way that made it almost glow, flowing across his back like liquid. The faint beauty mark beneath his eye drew Flame’s attention immediately, delicate and distinctive. And the bandages on his fingers—fresh, pink-tinged—made Flame’s chest tighten with worry. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew whatever it was, it meant Wemmbu had been pushing himself, and he felt a rush of something fierce and protective he couldn’t quite name.

And yet, there was pride there, too. Pride that Wemmbu hadn’t cowered when the club had descended on the walls, pride that he had held his ground even when chaos erupted around him. There was a quiet strength about him that drew the eye—and the heart.

And then he started playing the violin.

Flame felt something ignite inside him, a visceral, almost painful energy that clawed at his chest. The music wasn’t just notes, it wasn’t just rhythm—it was fire and air and blood and longing, all at once. Every stroke of the bow carried a piece of Wemmbu, and Flame couldn’t look away. He felt like he’d been standing on the ground his whole life and suddenly been lifted into something vast and endless, something impossibly bright.

It was unreal. How could it be real? And yet, every sound proved that it was. He needed to get closer. Not just to hear it better, but to be near the source of it—to be near Wemmbu himself.

Parrot spoke up about meeting officially next week, the club room being open whenever they wanted, and the words washed over Flame like background noise. His mind was too full, too tangled in the sound of the violin, in the sight of Wemmbu’s delicate, yet determined hands, the way he hunched slightly over the instrument. It wasn’t until Wifies suggested making a group chat that Flame’s focus snapped back.

Of course. The perfect excuse. The perfect way to reach Wemmbu.

Numbers were exchanged. Phones were pulled out. Profile pictures popped up one by one, and Flame saved them all with a distracted, reverent sort of attention. And then he saw it. Wemmbu’s photo.

High up on a mountain, wind tousling his hair, the purple-haired boy smiling genuinely. He looked so… alive. So real. Flame stared for a long moment, heart hammering, before finally sliding his phone into his pocket.

“Alright everyone! I think that was a great first meeting! Thank you everyone for coming and for playing. It's getting late so me and Wifies will head out. You guys can do whatever though,” Parrot said with a warm smile, grabbing his clarinet and waving.

One by one, the others departed. Mapicc, Spoke, and Loppez trickled out, leaving just Wemmbu, Egg, Mane, and Flame behind. The room felt quieter, heavier, intimate in a way it hadn’t before.

Wemmbu fidgeted, restless, unsure. Mane sat nearby, casually tapping a drumstick against his leg, but the presence of someone from his past—someone who had once been everything he aspired to—made the air thick. It felt surreal, impossible almost, to have Mane here again.

Mane was… someone he had looked up to with everything in him. The boy who had taken his seven-year-old self seriously, who had corrected his stance, adjusted his grip, patiently endured his mistakes and pushed him toward something greater. And then one day, a few months after his eighth birthday, Mane had vanished. Disappeared from school, from fencing, from his life entirely.

He had asked his parents. They had given him excuses—maybe he wasn’t good enough, maybe Mane had grown tired of him—but those were lies he swallowed because he was too small, too young to understand. The memory still stung, even now. That heartbreak had been a fuel, a bitter ember that had driven him to train harder, to practice longer, to vow silently that one day, he would be the fencer worthy of Mane’s attention, worthy of admiration.

And now Mane was here, older, confident, part of this strange, chaotic little ensemble, a man forged from all those years of absence. Wemmbu’s chest tightened, a mix of nostalgia, awe, and a little unease curling in his stomach.

Wemmbu decided he needed to talk to him.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, steady and unavoidable. Looking back on it now, Mane disappearing so suddenly had never made sense. Not really. It had always been a loose thread in his life, something that tugged at him whenever he thought too hard about the past. He didn’t want assumptions anymore. He wanted the truth. Needed answers—for the kid he used to be, and maybe for himself now.

Both Flame and Egg were occupied with their respective instruments, lost in their own worlds. Mane, meanwhile, was packing up his things, movements unhurried, casual. Perfect.

Wemmbu carefully placed his violin back into its case, shutting it with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. He slung his bag over his shoulder, murmured a quick goodbye that barely registered, and slipped out of the building before he could second-guess himself.

The air outside was cool, the sky darkening into deep blues and purples as evening settled over campus. He sat down on a nearby bench, fingers nervously twisting the strap of his bag. His heart was beating far too fast for someone who was just waiting.

Not even a minute passed before the door opened again.

There he was.

Mane stepped outside, adjusting the strap of his own bag, clearly about to head off—until Wemmbu stood up.

“Mane,” he called, voice steadier than he felt.

Mane turned, confusion flickering across his face for a split second before recognition hit. “Wemmbu?” he said, blinking. “What’s up?”

“I—uh,” Wemmbu hesitated, then pushed through it. “I need to talk to you for a second.”

Before Mane could fully respond, Wemmbu lightly grabbed his arm and guided him back toward the bench. Not rough, just urgent.

“O—okay?” Mane said with a small laugh, clearly caught off guard but not resisting.

Wemmbu let go and turned to face him, suddenly very aware of how long he’d rehearsed this moment in his head—and how none of that preparation helped now.

“Do you remember,” he started slowly, “about eleven years ago? Farlands City. The fencing club.” He swallowed. “There was a kid you mentored.”

For a moment, Mane just stared at him.

Then his brow furrowed.

And then his eyes widened.

“Oh my—” He laughed softly, incredulous. “Bu? That was you, wasn’t it?”

Wemmbu felt heat rush to his cheeks. He hadn’t heard that nickname in years. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That was me.”

Mane’s face broke into a wide smile. “I can’t believe it. I never thought I’d see you again.” He looked Wemmbu over, clearly trying to reconcile the memory with the person in front of him. “Damn. You grew up.”

Wemmbu huffed out a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

“How have you been?” Mane asked, genuine concern in his voice. “Really.”

“I’ve been… okay,” Wemmbu said. Then, more carefully, “I mostly wanted to ask if you were okay back then. You just—disappeared. One day you were there, and the next you weren’t.”

Mane’s smile faltered.

“Oh,” he said softly. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Yeah. I figured I owed you an explanation if I ever saw you again.”

Wemmbu tensed slightly.

“My parents died,” Mane said quietly. “Not long after that. Flame and I got moved to another city, put into a group home. Everything happened really fast.” He shook his head. “I didn’t have your contact information. I didn’t even know how to find you.”

Wemmbu’s eyes widened, guilt crashing into him all at once. “Mane—god, you don’t have to apologize for that. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mane said quickly. “I just… I hated leaving like that. I always wondered what happened to you.”

“I'm glad youre ok Mane” Wemmbu said softly.

“Me too, Bu,” Mane said, smiling softly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The night air felt cooler out here, carrying distant laughter from somewhere on campus and the low hum of streetlights flickering on. Wemmbu realized he hadn’t taken a proper breath in a while and forced his shoulders to relax.

“I… I thought it was my fault,” Wemmbu admitted quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. “When you disappeared, my parents told me maybe I wasn’t good enough. That you got tired of helping me.”

Mane’s smile vanished instantly.

“What?” he said sharply, stopping in his tracks. “No. No, Bu—never. You were talented. You worked harder than anyone I knew, especially at that age.” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “I hate that they told you that.”

Wemmbu let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Looking back, it was kind of obvious it wasn’t true. But eight-year-old me didn’t exactly have the best critical thinking skills.”

Mane snorted despite himself. “Fair enough.” Then, more seriously, “I’m really sorry you carried that. You shouldn’t have had to.”

There was another pause, heavier this time—but not uncomfortable. Wemmbu finally looked up at him.

“You helped me a lot back then,” he said. “More than you probably realized. I kept fencing because of you. Kept trying to be… better.”

Mane’s expression softened again, something proud flickering in his eyes. “Yeah? Well, judging by how you move now, it paid off.” He nudged Wemmbu’s shoulder lightly. “You always had it in you.”

Wemmbu smiled, small but genuine.

“I guess we both ended up here anyway,” he said. “Kind of wild.”

“Yeah,” Mane agreed. “Guess the universe has a weird sense of humor.”

They stood there for a few seconds longer before Mane glanced back toward the building.

“So you and Flame have met now huh?”

At the mention of Flame’s name, Wemmbu felt his chest tighten just a little.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual. “He seems… nice.”

Mane raised an eyebrow, a knowing grin creeping onto his face. “Nice, huh?”

“Don’t start,” Wemmbu muttered.

Mane laughed. “I’m just saying, he’s been staring at you since the first note you played.”

Wemmbu groaned, covering his face briefly. “Please don’t tell me that.”

“Too late.” Mane clapped him lightly on the back. “But hey—listen. If you ever wanna talk again, about anything, I’m around. I’m not disappearing this time.”

Wemmbu nodded, something warm settling in his chest. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Mane smiled. “I was gonna head back to my dorm if you wanna come? I would love to hear what you've been doing.”

Wemmbu smiled back. “I would love that.”

As they started walking back toward the building, Wemmbu glanced up at the night sky, feeling lighter than he had in years. The questions that had haunted him for over a decade finally had answers. And for once, those answers didn’t hurt.

They healed.

Chapter Text

Mane’s dorm room was cozy in a way that felt lived-in, not curated. Rugs layered over one another covered nearly every inch of the floor, soft and mismatched, their edges curling slightly from use. Plants hung from the ceiling in macramé holders, their vines trailing lazily downward, casting leafy shadows along the walls. Pillows were everywhere—on the beds, stacked in corners, slumped against furniture as if they’d been abandoned mid-conversation.

Flame’s side of the room mirrored the warmth, but with a sharper edge. Boxing trophies were scattered across the shelves, metal catching the light whenever someone moved. Polaroids were pinned haphazardly to the wall—snapshots of Mane and Flame at different ages, some smiling, some bruised, some laughing so hard they were blurry. And on Flame’s desk, placed carefully like something important, sat his motorcycle helmet.

Wemmbu’s gaze lingered on it longer than he meant to.

So the bike is his.

The realization made something flutter in his chest—half curiosity, half nerves.

Mane’s voice broke the silence, casual but attentive.
“So,” he said, leaning back against his desk, “what’ve you been up to all this time bro?”

He sounded genuinely curious, not just making conversation.

“Not too much,” Wemmbu replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “After high school I took a gap year. Traveled for a while.”

Mane’s eyebrows lifted. “Seriously? Where’d you go?”

“A bit of everywhere,” Wemmbu said with a small shrug. “Started in Europe. Austria first—Vienna, Salzburg. Really beautiful. Very… polished.”

Mane smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I liked it,” Wemmbu continued. “Museums, old buildings, way too many cafés. I didn’t need to go into all of them. I just… did.”

Mane laughed. “You’re the kind of person who sits down ‘for a minute’ and leaves three hours later.”

“That is slander,” Wemmbu said, then paused. “But also correct.”

“Thought so.”

“Germany was next,” Wemmbu said. “Berlin mostly. I got lost within the first hour.”

Mane’s grin widened. “Of course you did.”

“In my defense,” Wemmbu said, pointing vaguely, “the city is laid out like a suggestion. Not a rule.”

“I’m sure that’s what the city planners were going for.”

“I asked for directions. Got four different answers. None of them matched my map.”

“So you picked one at random.”

“I walked confidently in a direction until it felt right.”

Mane laughed. “Ah. Vibes-based navigation.”

“It’s never failed me emotionally,” Wemmbu replied.

“France?” Mane prompted.

“Paris,” Wemmbu said. “Nice, but crowded. I spent half a day in a bookstore and forgot I was supposed to be sightseeing.”

Mane blinked. “Half a day?”

“I regret nothing.”

“Honestly? Fair.”

“Switzerland was calmer,” Wemmbu went on. “A lot of hiking. Which I enjoyed. Until the uphill parts.”

Mane nodded knowingly. “The betrayal of the incline.”

“I thought I was prepared,” Wemmbu said. “Turns out, mountains take that personally.”

Mane snorted.

“Asia was different,” Wemmbu said. “Japan especially. Tokyo felt overwhelming in a good way. I spent an entire afternoon learning how not to be in the way.”

Mane raised an eyebrow. “And did you succeed?”

“Temporarily,” Wemmbu said. “I accidentally rode the same train loop three times before someone politely intervened.”

Mane burst out laughing. “You’re kidding bro.”

“I am not. The staff were very nice about it. I think they were impressed by my commitment.”

“Or concerned.”

“Probably both.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Thailand,” Wemmbu said. “Beautiful. Hot. Humbling. I learned very quickly what ‘hydration’ actually means.”

Mane smiled, softer now. “Sounds like you had a good time.”

“Yeah,” Wemmbu said quietly. “I really did. It was… grounding. I needed space to just exist for a bit.”

Mane nodded, leaning back against the desk. “Makes sense.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Then Mane smirked. “So what I’m hearing is: you wandered the world with money, confidence, and absolutely no sense of direction.”

Wemmbu smiled. “Correct.”

“Proud of you bro.”

Wemmbu let out a small laugh. “Thanks. I think.”

Mane’s expression softened. “I missed you, Wemmbu.”

Wemmbu’s chest tightened, but he smiled back. “Yeah,” he said. “I missed you too.”

The conversation continued like that, stories were traded, laughter was shared until Flame came into the dorm.

After Wemmbu and Mane left, Flame stayed behind and talked to Egg for a while. The guy was easy enough to get along with—dry humor, relaxed posture, the kind of person who didn’t try too hard. Flame learned he was Wemmbu’s roommate, which explained a few things he hadn’t been able to put his finger on earlier.

Eventually, the conversation fizzled into comfortable silence, and Flame checked the time on his phone.

“Yeah, I should head out,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Might hit the boxing gym.”

Egg nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. Don’t break anything important.”

Flame smirked. “No promises.”

The hallway outside the club room was quieter now, the earlier noise replaced with the low hum of the building settling for the night. His boots echoed faintly against the floor as he walked, the smell of paint still clinging faintly to his clothes. By the time he reached his dorm, his shoulders had finally started to relax.

That was when he heard voices.

He slowed, brow furrowing. Weird. Mane hadn’t mentioned having anyone over.

Flame pushed the door open carefully, already forming a casual greeting—until his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

Wemmbu.

He was sitting cross-legged on one of the many pillows scattered across the floor, shoulders relaxed, laughing openly at something Mane had just said. The room felt warmer somehow, fuller, like it had been breathed into.

“Hello, bro?” Flame said, confusion slipping into his voice before he could stop it.

Mane’s head snapped around, eyes lighting up instantly.
“Flame! Remember Bu? The kid from fencing I told you about?”

Flame blinked. Once. Twice.

“Yeah?” he said slowly. “What does that—”

The realization hit him all at once.

His eyes widened.

Wemmbu lifted a hand in a small, slightly awkward wave.

“Wemmbu is Bu!” Mane said, grinning like he’d just solved a years-old puzzle.

“Oh—wow,” Flame said, genuine surprise bleeding through. “That’s… that’s awesome, bro.”

And it was. Truly. He’d seen how much never finding him had haunted Mane, how often he’d wondered if Bu was okay, if he’d ever get answers. Seeing them here together—alive, laughing—it felt like something had finally been stitched back into place.

Wemmbu smiled.

Flame’s chest did something unpleasantly tight.

Mane nodded, clearly pleased. “It really is, bro.”

“Well,” Flame said, forcing his tone back into something casual, “I was just coming in to grab my boxing gear, so don’t mind me.”

He moved quickly, maybe a bit too quickly, crossing the room to his closet. He pulled his gear out on autopilot, the familiar weight of wraps and gloves grounding him. He grabbed his helmet off the counter too, tucking it under his arm.

“Okay!” Mane called after him. “Don’t stay out too late, Flame.”

Flame rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Okay, Dad.”

Mane laughed. Even Wemmbu let out a small chuckle, soft and surprised.

Flame slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.
“See you,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The night air outside was cool, sharp against his skin. He walked toward the parking lot, the sounds of campus fading into distant murmurs and rustling trees. He told himself he was happy for Mane—and he was. He really was.

He ignored the faint twinge in his stomach. The one that had nothing to do with boxing or exhaustion.

There probably wasn’t anything going on between them anyway. And even if there was—so what? Flame barely knew Wemmbu. They’d only met properly today. That didn’t mean anything.

He had other things to focus on.

Classes, for one. The semester had just started, but that was exactly why he couldn’t afford to relax. Comfort led to mistakes. Mistakes led to falling behind. And falling behind wasn’t an option.

He reached his bike, unlocked it, and slid his helmet on. The world narrowed to the quiet hum of the engine beneath him, the vibration steady and familiar.

Without looking back, Flame pulled out of the lot and headed toward the gym, the city lights stretching ahead of him like a challenge he already knew how to face.

He drove fast.

Too fast.

The city blurred into streaks of light and shadow, streetlamps stretching into glowing lines as he leaned into turns with reckless confidence. The engine roared beneath him, vibrating through his bones, demanding his full attention. Wind tore past his helmet, cold and sharp, ripping thoughts right out of his head before they could settle.

That was the point.

You couldn’t think when you were busy making sure you didn’t crash. Couldn’t replay smiles that weren’t meant for you. Couldn’t linger on the way someone laughed, or the way a room felt warmer when they were in it. There was only the road, the bike, the next second.

He reached the gym faster than he probably should have.

Flame parked, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, helmet still on, chest rising and falling hard. When he finally dismounted, his movements were sharp, restless. He locked the bike and stepped inside, the familiar smell of rubber mats, sweat, and metal hitting him immediately.

A few people were still around—night regulars, the kind who avoided mirrors and conversation alike. Flame nodded at them as he passed. They nodded back. No questions. No small talk. Perfect.

The locker room was quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He changed quickly, movements practiced and rough, wrapping his hands with more force than necessary. Each pull of fabric felt grounding, constricting, like he was holding himself together one layer at a time. He shoved his clothes into the locker and slammed it shut a little harder than needed.

Then he walked back out.

The gym floor was mostly empty now, echoes carrying farther than they should have. He stopped in front of an unoccupied heavy bag, stared at it for a second, and took a deep breath that burned all the way down.

Then he hit it.

The first strike landed with a dull, satisfying thump. Then another. And another. His punches were clean, precise—years of training showing in every movement—but there was nothing controlled about the emotion behind them. Anger, frustration, fear, longing—all of it bled into each blow.

He hit harder.

The bag swung, chains rattling overhead. Flame followed it, relentless, fists snapping out in quick combinations. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. Every punch carried something unspoken, something he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Flame didn’t know what to do.

Besides his brother, he had no one. And the realization sat heavy in his chest, sharp and suffocating. Mane was everything—family, anchor, constant—but what happened when even that wasn’t enough? What happened when the world felt bigger than the two of them?

That thought scared him more than he liked to admit.

So instead of talking about it—like a normal, healthy person—he poured it all into violence. Controlled violence. Safe violence. At least it wasn’t people.

At least he was still sane enough to choose a bag.

Boxing felt good. Fighting felt good. The pain in his muscles, the burn in his lungs—it was honest. Simple. You didn’t have to overthink a punch. You didn’t have to wonder if it was wanted.

He could turn his brain off here.

The world narrowed until there was only the heavy bag in front of him and the steady, rhythmic thump of his fists connecting with it. Breath in. Punch. Breath out. Punch. Over and over, until the sound drowned out everything else.

Time stopped meaning anything.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a distant awareness surfaced—his arms were aching now, shoulders screaming with each movement. His knuckles throbbed beneath the wraps. Sweat dripped down his spine, soaking into his shirt.

He wondered briefly how long he’d been there.

Then he dismissed the thought just as quickly.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

So long as he kept hitting, he didn’t have to feel the hollow ache in his chest. So long as his fists kept moving, he didn’t have to remember the sound of gunfire echoing too loud in a child’s ears—or the quiet that followed when the people who were supposed to protect you were suddenly gone.

Chapter Text

The thing that finally snapped him out of it was a soft tap on his shoulder.

Flame jolted slightly and turned around, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. The gym owner stood there, arms crossed loosely, concern written all over his face.

“Hey man,” he said gently, voice lowered like he didn’t want to spook him. “Just wanted to let you know we’re closing soon. You… uh. You okay?”

Flame blinked once, then twice, like he was recalibrating back into his body.

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “I’m good, bro. Thanks for checking.”

The owner studied him for half a second longer, clearly unconvinced but smart enough not to push. “Alright. Just don’t break my bags, yeah? They’re expensive.”

Flame huffed out a short laugh. “No promises.”

That earned him a snort and a shake of the head before the owner walked off.

Flame grabbed his water bottle and took a long pull, the cold water burning pleasantly as it slid down his throat. It helped—just a little—washing away the taste of sweat and metal.

Back in the locker room, he changed quickly, muscles protesting with every movement now that the adrenaline was fading. As he tugged his hoodie on, his gaze flicked to his hands.

Red.

His knuckles were split open, blood smeared across the wraps.

He paused, staring at them.

“…Oops.”

He wiped his hands off as best he could, rewrapped them loosely, and grabbed the rest of his stuff before heading outside. The night air hit him immediately, cool and crisp, a welcome contrast to the stuffy gym.

And then—

A motorcycle rolled past the gym entrance.

Purple flashed in his peripheral vision.

Flame barely had time to register it before the bike screeched slightly as it braked hard, tires skidding just enough to make his stomach jump. The rider slowed, turned, and rolled toward the curb.

They locked eyes.

Flame froze.

Wemmbu.

“What the—” Flame muttered under his breath.

Wemmbu pulled his bike to a stop and lifted his visor, eyes lighting up instantly. “Flame! What’s up, bro?”

Flame just stared for a second, brain lagging behind reality. “Wemmbu? What are you—” He gestured vaguely. “—doing here?”

“I was just riding around aimlessly,” Wemmbu shrugged, helmet tilted slightly. “Guess I found you randomly.”

Flame snorted. “Yeah, randomly. Outside my gym. Totally normal.”

Wemmbu grinned. “Hey, destiny works in mysterious ways.”

“Oh my god,” Flame muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

An awkward beat passed. The kind where neither of them quite knew what to do with their hands.

Then Wemmbu leaned forward on his bike, clearly scheming. “Soooo,” he said slowly, “wanna race?”

Flame blinked. Once. Then his mouth curved into a grin before he could stop it.

“Oh, you’re on.”

He moved fast, unlocking his bike, tugging his helmet on, and swinging a leg over the seat with practiced ease.

Wemmbu straightened, clearly pleased. “Alright. From here to the McDonald’s on the other side of the city. Loser buys fries.”

Flame laughed. “Bold of you to assume you’re getting there first.”

“Talk big for someone about to eat my dust,” Wemmbu shot back.

“Count it down,” Flame said, revving his engine.

“Three… two… one—”

Wemmbu didn’t even wait for zero.

His bike shot forward like a bullet, engine screaming as he tore down the street, purple flashing under the streetlights. Flame swore under his breath and gunned it a split second later, the roar of his engine answering like a challenge.

Wind slammed into him immediately, tugging at his clothes, roaring in his ears until it drowned out everything else. The city blurred into streaks of neon and concrete, traffic lights bleeding red and green as they blew past intersections.

“Cocky bastard,” Flame muttered, leaning forward.

Wemmbu had the early lead, weaving effortlessly between empty lanes like he’d memorized the road. Flame pushed harder, body low, knees tight against the bike. The first real curve came up fast—a long, sweeping bend—and Flame took it aggressively, leaning so far his knee nearly kissed the asphalt.

The world tilted.

His tires screamed in protest, but they held.

He came out of the curve faster than he’d gone in—and suddenly, Wemmbu was right there, just a bike-length ahead.

Flame grinned ferally inside his helmet.

“Oh, you messed up now.”

He accelerated, slipping into Wemmbu’s blind spot. The two bikes thundered side by side for a moment, engines harmonizing in raw, mechanical fury. Flame shot him a glance—Wemmbu’s eyes were bright behind his visor, focused and alive, hair whipping wildly behind him.

Wemmbu noticed him and laughed, the sound lost to the wind but clear in the way his shoulders shook.

Then he sped up.

They tore through a series of tighter turns, the road twisting like it was actively trying to throw them off. Wemmbu took the inside line on one corner, forcing Flame wide. Flame compensated immediately, slingshotting out of the turn with sheer momentum and reclaiming the lead by inches.

Streetlights flickered past faster now.

A stray car appeared ahead, cruising way too slowly for their liking. Wemmbu darted left, Flame right, both slipping past it in a heartbeat. Flame heard a horn blare behind them but didn’t even flinch.

His entire world had narrowed down to the stretch of road ahead—and the purple bike just barely in front of him.

They hit a straightaway.

Flame twisted the throttle harder, the engine screaming in response. The speed pressed him back against the seat, his vision tunneling as the distance between him and Wemmbu shrank rapidly.

Side by side again.

For a few glorious seconds, neither of them had the advantage.

Then the final turn loomed.

Sharp. Narrow. Unforgiving.

Flame’s jaw clenched.

He took it tighter than he should have.

The bike leaned dangerously low, tires skidding just enough to make his heart spike—but he held it. The world snapped back into alignment as he burst out of the turn ahead, McDonald’s golden arches glowing like a finish line beacon.

“Yes—”

He slammed the brakes, tires screeching as he skidded into the parking lot, coming to a stop just as Wemmbu rolled in beside him seconds later.

They cut their engines almost in sync.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, breathing hard, adrenaline buzzing under their skin, the night air thick with the smell of hot asphalt and gasoline.

Wemmbu lifted his visor first, laughing breathlessly. “Okay—okay. That last turn? Insane.”

Flame yanked his helmet off, hair damp with sweat, grin sharp and victorious. “You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Wemmbu scoffed as he dismounted gracefully. “You’re just reckless.”

“And you’re slow,” Flame shot back, swinging off his bike. “Accept it.”

Wemmbu crossed his arms, pretending to glare, but the smile kept breaking through. “Rematch. Tomorrow.”

Flame cracked his knuckles, heart still pounding. “Name the place.”

“And next time,” Wemmbu added, eyes glinting, “I’m winning.”

Flame laughed, loud and real. “Sure you are.”

“Okay, I’m starving now,” Wemmbu said, nodding toward the glowing McDonald’s sign like it had personally offended him. “You wanna get dinner?”

“Sure, bro,” Flame replied easily, already turning toward the entrance. “But you’re paying. Loser’s rule.”

Wemmbu groaned dramatically. “Wow. Robbed and humiliated in one night.”

“Hey,” Flame shot back, smirking, “you challenged me.”

Wemmbu rolled his eyes but reached up to tug off his helmet anyway, shaking his head slightly as he freed his hair. He took a moment to smooth it down, fingers running through the long strands with practiced ease.

Flame noticed. He very much noticed.

They walked inside together, the warm air and smell of fries hitting them immediately. After ordering, they slid into a booth by the window, plastic seats squeaking faintly beneath them.

Flame leaned back, resting one arm along the top of the booth. “Gotta say,” he started casually, “you drive well.”

Wemmbu blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Oh. Uh—thanks.”

Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t.”

Flame burst out laughing, head tipping back. “That’s foul. Absolutely foul.”

“I’m just being honest,” Wemmbu said innocently, lips twitching. “You’re reckless.”

“And you’re slow,” Flame shot back without missing a beat.

“Excuse you?” Wemmbu scoffed. “You won by, like, a sliver.”

“A win is a win.”

“I’m winning next time,” Wemmbu said, leaning forward, tone light but confident. “No question.”

Flame grinned, sharp and amused, eyes lingering on him a second longer than necessary. “We’ll see about that.”

Just then, their number was called. They both stood, grabbing their trays before returning to the booth. Flame slid his tray aside and eyed Wemmbu’s food.

“You really went all out, huh?” he teased. “Trying to soften the blow?”

“Hey, if I’m paying, I’m doing it right,” Wemmbu replied. “Besides, I need the energy to beat you later.”

Flame snorted. “Bold talk for someone who just lost.”

Wemmbu shot him a look, then smiled—soft, almost challenging. “Careful. I might make you nervous.”

Flame raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? I don’t get nervous.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Flame stole one of Wemmbu’s fries without asking.

Wemmbu stared at him, horrified. “Did you seriously just do that?”

Flame shrugged, completely unrepentant. “Tax. For emotional damages.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Wemmbu said, but he was smiling as he nudged the fries a little closer to himself. “You already won. You don’t get compensation.”

“Pretty sure I do,” Flame replied. “You talked a lot of trash for someone eating defeat-flavored nuggets.”

Wemmbu snorted. “Says the guy who nearly clipped a curb back there.”

Flame leaned forward. “That was tactical.”

“That was reckless.”

“Efficient.”

“Unhinged,” Wemmbu corrected.

Flame laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head. “You’re fun, you know that?”

Wemmbu paused, fry halfway to his mouth. “Fun?”

“Yeah,” Flame said, meeting his eyes. “You don’t freak out. You don’t back down. Most people do.”

Wemmbu’s expression softened just a little. “Guess I could say the same about you.”

“Oh?” Flame smirked. “What, you impressed by my driving now?”

“Don’t push it,” Wemmbu replied, though his tone was light. “But… you’re not boring.”

Flame tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “That might be the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

“Get used to it.”

The dinner continued like that—easy conversation, a constant back-and-forth of banter that never quite ran dry. They talked about stupid things and small things and things that didn’t really matter: bad professors, worse drivers, the eternal tragedy of soggy fries. Every joke landed. Every pause felt comfortable instead of awkward.

Talking with Wemmbu felt… effortless. Safe. Like Flame didn’t have to measure every word or brace himself for something to go wrong. He caught himself laughing more than he had in weeks, the sound surprising even him. And yeah, his traitorous heart was still pounding a little too fast, especially when Wemmbu smiled at him over the edge of his cup, or leaned in closer without even seeming to realize it.

For once, Flame didn’t feel like he was being pulled apart by everything he carried with him. The noise in his head, the old ghosts that never really left—they all faded into the background. Here, in a plastic booth under flickering lights, things felt lighter.

For the first time that evening, Flame let himself think that maybe things could be okay.

Good, even.

Maybe this semester wouldn’t just be about surviving. Maybe it could be about moments like this—late dinners, stupid races, laughter shared with someone who made the world feel a little less sharp.

He glanced at Wemmbu again, who was mid-sentence, hands moving as he talked, eyes bright.

Yeah.

Good sounded… possible.

Chapter Text

Wemmbu felt strange.

It had been a little while since the first race with Flame, and they had rematched a few times since then—late nights, empty streets, engines humming like secrets. Right now the score stood at Flame: 3, Wemmbu: 2. Close enough to sting. Close enough to make him want another rematch every time he thought about it.

Spending time with Flame was fun. Too fun. And that was the problem.

He had promised himself—sworn it, really—that he wouldn’t get too close to people again. Friends were fine. Friends were temporary, safe in their impermanence. College friends drifted apart all the time; that was normal, expected, manageable. But a crush? Worse—falling in love?

That was dangerous territory. That was how you got hurt.

And yet, every single time Flame asked for a rematch, or shot him a message just to hang out, Wemmbu said yes. Every time. As if his resolve folded the second Flame smiled at him, as if his carefully constructed rules didn’t stand a chance against the sound of an engine revving beside his own.

It frustrated him—how easy it was to break his own promises.

As if that wasn’t enough, Parrot had been acting… off.

The man had seemed nice enough when they first met, relaxed and welcoming in that effortless way some people had. But lately, every time their paths crossed, Parrot’s gaze lingered on him a second too long. Studying. Weighing. Like he was searching for something hidden just beneath the surface. Like he thought Wemmbu had done something wrong and just hadn’t figured out what yet.

Wemmbu didn’t like it.

It made his shoulders tense, his thoughts spiral. It felt like being put on trial without knowing the crime.

He wasn’t sure what to do about it, though, so he did what he always did best—ignored it. Buried it. What was the worst that could happen?

He tried to concentrate on studying instead.

That didn’t go particularly well.

Microeconomics sprawled across his desk in neat notes and highlighted paragraphs, but none of it stuck. Numbers blurred together. Graphs meant nothing. His phone buzzed softly beside his notebook—a message from his mother earlier that day, still lingering in his mind.

How’s college going? Are you studying? You know how your father gets, so study hard!

A simple text. And yet it had cast a shadow over his entire afternoon, dredging up thoughts he didn’t have the energy to unpack. He exhaled slowly, rubbing at his temples.

He was bored. Restless. He never had the best attention span, and right now it was particularly unforgiving. With a quiet sigh, his gaze drifted across the room—past the desk, past the bed—and landed on the double bass standing in the corner.

Untouched.

He hadn’t practiced in a while.

That realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.

Almost without thinking, he stood and crossed the room, gripping the neck of the instrument and lifting it—

“Oh my god,” he muttered, staggering slightly. “This is heavy.”

He always forgot. Every single time.

Adjusting his grip and muttering another complaint under his breath, he managed to wrestle the bass into its case. Going to the practice rooms made his stomach flip. After what happened there… The club room would be quieter. More open. It was closer to his dorm anyways.

He slung the strap over his shoulder, feeling the weight settle in immediately, and made his way out into the hallway. Each step was slow and deliberate, the case bumping lightly against his side as he walked.

Studying clearly wasn’t happening tonight. Maybe playing would help.

As he reached the door to the club room and pushed it open, he noticed someone already inside. It was Spoke, in all his colorful glory. He was slumped into one of the beanbags like he’d melted into it, legs sprawled awkwardly, staring up at the ceiling with the unmistakable expression of someone who had been bored for far too long.

“Oh! Wemmbu! Hello!” Spoke said, immediately perking up the second he noticed him, springing upright as if he’d been powered by sheer enthusiasm alone.

“Hey, Spoke,” Wemmbu replied, shifting the weight of the bass as he stepped inside. “What’s up? What are you doing here?” He leaned the instrument carefully against the wall, rolling his shoulder afterward with a quiet wince.

“Oh, you know,” Spoke said, waving a hand dramatically. “I was bored, so I thought I’d chill here and maybe someone would show up. And someone did!” He beamed, practically vibrating with excitement. “My plan worked perfectly.”

Wemmbu snorted softly. “Truly a mastermind.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Spoke said, bowing from the waist. “I’ll be here all week.”

Wemmbu shook his head, amused. “You wanna play something together?” he asked, gesturing vaguely between the bass and the keyboard. “I came here to practice anyway.”

“Yeah, sure!” Spoke said instantly, shooting up from the beanbag and nearly tripping over it in his haste. He bounded over to the keyboard they’d set up for him, cracking his knuckles dramatically. “Man, we really need to get a real piano in here at some point. This thing’s fine, but it just doesn’t have soul, you know?”

“Careful,” Wemmbu said dryly as he opened the bass case. “You’re going to offend it.”

Spoke gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I would never! I’m just… brutally honest. Wait since when do you play another instrument?”

“Since always. I just play the violin more.” Wemmbu responded.

“Oh Ok! Let's play then!” Spoke said, accepting Wemmbu's answer easily.

Wemmbu smiled faintly at Spoke’s enthusiasm. It was honestly kind of infectious.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the bass again. “But fair warning—I’m rusty.”

Spoke gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Impossible. You? Rusty? I refuse to believe it.”

Wemmbu snorted. “You’ll believe it in about thirty seconds.”

He carefully unlatched the case and pulled the double bass free, the wood catching the overhead light. He adjusted the endpin, shifting it until the instrument felt steady against his body. Even setting it up felt grounding—familiar in a way that settled the restless buzzing in his chest.

Spoke watched him with open curiosity, chin propped on his hands. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “every time you pick up an instrument you look like you’re about to tell it a secret.”

Wemmbu paused, eyebrow quirking. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“I’m observant!” Spoke declared proudly, spinning around and plopping onto the bench in front of his keyboard. “Okay, what are we doing? Sad? Jazzy? Dramatic? World-ending?”

“Let’s maybe start with something simple before the apocalypse,” Wemmbu said dryly. “You good with improvising?”

Spoke’s grin stretched impossibly wide. “Born ready.”

He cracked his knuckles dramatically and played a few exploratory notes, light and curious, letting them hang in the air. Wemmbu listened for a moment, then answered with a low, warm note from the bass—slow, deliberate, vibrating through the floor.

Spoke froze mid-motion. “Oh. Oh I like that.”

“Focus,” Wemmbu said, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

They eased into it together, sound weaving back and forth. Spoke’s right hand picked out a playful melody while his left filled in soft chords, and Wemmbu followed, grounding the music, adjusting his rhythm to match. The bass was heavy against him, his fingers already starting to ache slightly, but he welcomed it. The ache meant he was present.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Spoke missed a note and immediately gasped. “Did you hear that? Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“I absolutely heard that,” Wemmbu replied. “I’ll be telling everyone.”

“Nooo,” Spoke whined, slumping over the keyboard. “Betrayal. I thought we had something special.”

Wemmbu laughed softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Relax. I’ve messed up worse.”

“Wow, comforted. Truly.”

They kept playing anyway, mistakes and all, the club room filling with sound instead of silence. Outside, the world felt heavy and complicated—but in here, with Spoke’s chatter and the steady hum of strings and keys, things felt lighter. Simpler.

The last note faded into the room, hanging there for half a second before Spoke slammed his hands down on the keyboard dramatically.

“And scene,” he announced. “We absolutely destroyed that.”

Wemmbu lowered his bass with a tired huff. “Destroyed is one word for it.”

Spoke whipped around in his seat, scandalized. “Excuse you? That was art. Raw. Emotional. Slightly illegal.”

“You missed three notes,” Wemmbu pointed out.

“On purpose,” Spoke said immediately. “It’s called art. Look it up.”

Wemmbu snorted despite himself and leaned back against the wall. “That wasn’t art.”

“Everything is art if you’re confident enough,” Spoke replied, spinning the keyboard stool just a little too fast. He nearly toppled off, windmilled his arms, and barely caught himself. “—WHOA. See? Danger. Thrill. Performance.”

“You’re going to break your neck one day,” Wemmbu said flatly.

“Worth it if I go out iconic,” Spoke shot back.

He slid off the stool and flopped dramatically onto a beanbag, arms splayed. “Wow. I’m exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I need snacks and validation.”

“You’re not getting either from me,” Wemmbu said.

Spoke gasped, hand to chest. “Cruel. Heartless. Is this how you treat your duet partner?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.” Spoke rolled onto his side, peering up at him. “Okay but admit it. That last part? Where you did the thing with the strings?”

Wemmbu hesitated. “…What thing?”

Spoke waved his hand vaguely. “The thing. The very intense, very cool thing. I felt it in my soul.”

“I was literally just playing.” Wemmbu muttered.

“DON’T diminish your greatness,” Spoke said loudly. “I will not allow it in this room.”

Wemmbu laughed again, softer this time, and nudged the beanbag with his foot. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Spoke grinned, “you keep playing with me.”

“Because if I don’t, you'll vandalize my instruments or something.”

Spoke’s eyes lit up. “OH. I could try.”

“No.”
“What if we—”

“No.”

“—played the most cursed chord progression imaginable?”

“Absolutely not.”

Spoke sat up abruptly. “Coward.”

Wemmbu rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “You’re banned from touching the keyboard for five minutes.”

Spoke flopped back down instantly. “This is oppression.”

“Deserved oppression.”

There was a brief pause—just breathing, the hum of the building, the afterglow of music still buzzing in the air.

Then Spoke squinted at Wemmbu. “You good?”

Wemmbu blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” Spoke said lightly. “You just look… less like you’re about to explode than usual.”

Wemmbu stared at him for a second, then looked away. “…Huh.”

Spoke smiled to himself. “See? Music helps.”

Wemmbu exhaled, adjusting the positioning of his bass. “You’re still ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Spoke said happily. “High praise.”

Chapter Text

Spoke left soon after that, saying something about “finally having the right inspiration for his art,” so Wemmbu was left sitting alone in the unbelievably colorful room. The silence felt louder without Spoke’s constant energy filling it. His gaze drifted to the wall he and Flame had competed for earlier, layers of red and purple clashing and blending together. His heart sped up at the sight of it.

He turned his chair around.

He didn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead, he decided to play some more.

He adjusted his positioning again, shifting the weight of the double bass until it rested comfortably against him. The instrument was solid and grounding. He lifted the bow and started playing.

The song was an incredibly sad and somber one—it felt like the bass was sobbing. Not loudly, not dramatically, but in a quiet, restrained way, like someone crying behind a closed door. Wemmbu closed his eyes, completely lost in the music, and concentrated on playing.

The first notes were low and warm, blooming slowly through the room. They carried a kind of fragile beauty, each one carefully shaped, as if he was afraid to break them by touching too hard. The melody unfolded gently, lingering on certain notes, letting them resonate until they faded naturally into the next. It was beautiful, soft, steady, and full of feeling.

The bass sang beneath his hands, its voice rich and deep, wrapping the sadness in something almost comforting. The bow moved smoothly across the strings, drawing out long, aching phrases that seemed to breathe on their own. There was pain in the music, yes, but also tenderness. A quiet acceptance.

His fingertips began to ache again, a dull reminder of the wounds beneath the bandages. Each shift sent a small sting through his hand, but he welcomed it, letting the slight tremor bleed into the sound. It made the notes waver just enough to feel real. Honest.

The melody rose and fell like a slow tide, swelling with emotion before retreating again. The colorful walls around him faded from his awareness, the room shrinking until there was nothing left but the instrument and the sound it produced. Every note felt deliberate, heavy with meaning, as if he was placing pieces of himself into the music one by one.

When the final note came, he let it linger, bow barely moving as the sound stretched thin and finally dissolved into silence.

Wemmbu stayed still, eyes closed, forehead resting lightly against the curve of the bass. His chest felt tight, but calmer somehow.

When he opened his eyes, Parrot was standing in front of him, leaning slightly against the wall like he’d been there for a while.

Wemmbu jumped, the bow slipping slightly in his grip.

“Oh my god—what—when did you get here? I didn’t hear you,” he said, heart slamming painfully against his ribs.

“Oh, you know,” Parrot replied calmly. “A little bit ago.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his arms. “How are you, Wemmbu?”

“I’m… okay?” Wemmbu answered slowly, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. Something about Parrot’s tone made his skin prickle. “What’s going on? You’re being weird.”

Parrot tilted his head, studying him.
“Why don’t you tell me that, Wemmbu Nightrider.”

Wemmbu let out a short, nervous laugh.
“I never told you my last name.”

Parrot leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
“You didn’t need to. I found it.” He paused, then continued, voice steady. “I also found one Jack Nightrider. Who, coincidentally, owns Prestige Estates.”

Wemmbu flinched before he could stop himself. The name hit like a slap.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked after a moment, forcing the words out.

Parrot chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it.
“You’re really gonna play stupid?”

Wemmbu frowned, genuinely lost now. “What are you talking about?”

Parrot sighed, rubbing his temples like he was trying not to explode.
“Fine. We can do it this way.” He leaned forward again. “Let me tell you a story.”

Wemmbu stayed silent.

“There was a man,” Parrot began, voice controlled but tight around the edges. “He wanted to open a bookstore. Nothing fancy. Just a small place. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. So he bought a little space and signed a mortgage. Everything looked fine.”

Parrot’s jaw clenched.

“And then one day, he realized the interest rate had doubled since he’d taken out the loan. Then it doubled again. And again. Turns out there were hidden clauses—tiny little lines buried in the contract. If the mortgage wasn’t paid off within a year, the interest would skyrocket.”

He laughed bitterly.
“One year. Who pays off a mortgage in one year?”

Wemmbu felt sick.

“That man lost everything,” Parrot continued. “His savings. His store. His marriage. He had a wife. A kid. And suddenly nothing.” His eyes burned. “That man was my father.”

Silence pressed in around them.

“And the company that sold him that mortgage?” Parrot finished quietly. “Prestige Estates. Your father’s company.”

The words settled heavy and suffocating.

“So,” Parrot said, his voice hardening again, “Wemmbu. What are you doing here? At some random college across the country. At my college.” He gestured sharply around the room. “Why did you join this club? The one I founded. The one with my name attached to it.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you come here to gloat?”

Wemmbu felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

“What? Parrot—no, I didn’t even know this happened,” he said quickly, panic creeping into his voice. “I’m not here because of you, I just—”

He trailed off. There were no words that felt right.

“You just what?” Parrot snapped. “What, exactly?”

“I didn’t come here for you,” Wemmbu repeated helplessly.

Parrot scoffed.
“Yeah. Sure. You just randomly moved across the country. Just happened to attend this college. And then just happened to join this club.”

“That’s not—Parrot, please,” Wemmbu said, standing halfway out of his chair. “I didn’t even know about your father, about any of this—”

“Get out,” Parrot said sharply.

Wemmbu froze.
“Parrot—”

“Out.”

The word cut through him.

Slowly, mechanically, Wemmbu stood. His hands shook as he packed his bass away, the zipper sounding far too loud in the tense silence. He lifted the case with effort, his shoulders heavy as if it weighed far more than it should.

At the door, he hesitated and glanced back.

Parrot was still staring at him, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

“And don’t come back,” Parrot said.

Wemmbu nodded faintly and stepped out into the hallway.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

The walk down the corridor felt unreal. The colorful sounds of earlier—laughter, music, chaos—felt like they belonged to a different lifetime. His chest hurt, tight and hollow all at once, his thoughts spiraling too fast to catch.

His father.
Prestige Estates.
A life ruined by something he’d never even known about.

By the time he reached the exit, his hands were numb.

He pushed the door open and stepped outside, the cool air hitting his face like a shock—but it did nothing to quiet the storm raging in his head.

He distantly noted that he was shaking.

He pressed his fingers into his sleeves, trying to ground himself.

He’d always known, in some abstract way, that his father’s company didn’t play fair. Whispers at dinner tables, carefully worded headlines, his mother changing the subject whenever a name came up. Dubious means, people called it. Legal, technically. Moral, never discussed. It had always felt far away, insulated by wealth and distance and willful ignorance.

But this—
This was a face. A voice. A ruined life with a name and a story and a child who sat across from him in a peeling club room and looked at him like he was the villain.

Wemmbu swallowed hard.

He hadn’t lied. Not once. He hadn’t come here for Parrot. He hadn’t even known Parrot existed until the first meeting. He hadn’t known about the bookstore, the contract, the trap hidden in fine print. None of it.

And yet.

That didn’t change the outcome. Didn’t undo what had been done.

The weight of it settled heavy in his chest, pressing down until breathing felt like work. Guilt—unearned, maybe, but real all the same—curled around his ribs. Because even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger, the gun still had his family’s name engraved on it.

Could he fix this?

The question echoed, hollow.

What would fixing it even mean? Apologizing for something he hadn’t done but still benefited from? Offering help that might only feel like another insult? Money would be wrong. Words would be empty. Anything he did risked looking like pity—or worse, like arrogance.

And should he even try?

Parrot’s face flashed in his mind again, twisted with anger and hurt. Don’t come back. The finality in his voice hadn’t left room for negotiation. Maybe trying to fix it would only reopen wounds Parrot had spent years trying to stitch shut.

Wemmbu exhaled shakily.

He adjusted his grip on the bass case, knuckles white.

He didn’t know if redemption was possible.
He didn’t know if forgiveness was deserved.

All he knew was that walking away felt cowardly—
and staying might hurt everyone involved.

Chapter Text

Wemmbu was staring at the ceiling, lying flat on the floor, arms spread as if gravity itself had pinned him there. The room felt too big and too small at the same time—walls closing in, air pressing down on his ribs. A thin crack ran through the paint above him, jagged and ugly. He followed it with his eyes until it blurred.

He felt crushed.

Like everything had caved in all at once and there was no space left to breathe. Everything he had built here had collapsed in a single afternoon. The club. The music. The fragile sense of belonging he’d allowed himself to believe in.

He swallowed, throat tight.

He had worked so hard to cut his father out of his life. Every mile he’d put between them had been deliberate. Every choice—this college, these people, this version of himself—had been an act of defiance. He’d learned how to exist without his last name weighing him down, how to pretend it didn’t follow him everywhere like a curse.

And yet.

Even hundreds of miles away, his father was still here.

Still ruining things. Still touching everything Wemmbu tried to make his own. Still reaching into his life through contracts and signatures and other people’s pain.

The realization burned.

He turned his head sharply, jaw clenched, like he could physically shake the thought loose. But it stayed, heavy and immovable. There was no running from it. There never had been.

And as if fate wanted to drive the knife deeper, another truth surfaced—he would have to go home soon.

The thought made his stomach twist violently.

His parents were throwing a party. One of those parties. Polished smiles, expensive suits, people who spoke in thinly veiled threats and favors owed. And they hadn’t invited him—they had demanded he be there. No excuses. No opting out. As if he were still a prop they could place wherever they liked.

And the day after that, the competition. Close enough to home that skipping it would raise questions. Questions he didn’t have the energy—or safety—to answer.

He pulled his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers, intending to text Egg. Something simple. Something normal. Hey, I’ll be gone for a bit.

The screen lit up.

He had been removed from the music club group chat.

The words didn’t register at first. He stared at them blankly, then reread them, then reread them again. His chest tightened painfully. The last visible message was Spoke, sending some stupid meme—bright colors, nonsense text, the kind of thing that usually made Wemmbu huff out a quiet laugh despite himself.

It felt like looking through glass at a room he’d just been locked out of.

His lungs burned. The air wouldn’t go in right. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum like that might help, like he could physically force his body to cooperate.

He shut his phone off.

The click echoed far too loudly.

Slowly, mechanically, he stood up. His movements felt distant, like he was watching himself from somewhere far away. He dragged his suitcase out from the back of the closet and dropped it onto the bed. The sound was dull, final.

He packed without thinking. Neutral clothes. Muted colors. Things that wouldn’t draw comments or sideways looks. Nothing that felt like him. Each item folded into the case felt like surrender—another piece of himself tucked away for later, if later ever came.

Packing didn’t take long. It never did. He didn’t own much that mattered anymore. Just his instruments, some clothes, and the essentials. Things that were portable. Things that could leave.

He checked the time.

Tomorrow.

The word settled like lead in his chest.

He couldn’t stay here tonight. If he did, the silence would swallow him whole. Parrot’s voice would replay on a loop. His father’s name. The way everything had unraveled so quickly, so easily. He had overheard people talking earlier—something about a party. Loud music. Too many people. Enough noise to drown out his thoughts.

Maybe.

He hauled his bags down to his car and shoved them into the trunk, muscles burning with the effort. The lid slammed shut with a sound that felt far too much like an ending. He rested his forehead against the cool metal, eyes squeezed shut, breathing uneven.

For a moment, he let himself feel it.

The anger.
The grief.
The exhaustion of fighting a shadow that refused to let go.

Then he straightened, wiped at his face like there was something there to erase, and locked the car.

Just one night, he told himself, voice hollow even in his own head.
Just don’t think.

The tank top felt too thin against his skin, but he didn’t bother changing again. Comfort wasn’t the goal tonight. He braided his hair into one thick braid down his back, fingers moving on autopilot, tight enough that it pulled slightly at his scalp. He didn’t look in the mirror when he was done. He already knew what he’d see: tired eyes, shoulders held too stiff, someone trying very hard not to unravel.

He headed out before he could second-guess himself.

The walk to the address felt longer than it should have. The night air was cool, brushing against his arms, carrying distant bass from somewhere ahead. He kept his hands shoved into his pockets, pace steady. He wouldn’t be able to drive home after this—he knew that—but that almost felt like the point. No easy escape. No quick retreat back into his room to lie on the floor and spiral.

As he rounded the corner, the house came into view, glowing like a beacon of chaos.

The party was already in full swing.

Music blasted so loud it rattled his chest, heavy bass vibrating through the pavement. Lights flashed from inside—neon, strobe-like bursts spilling out through the windows. The front yard was packed with people: some dancing in loose, uncoordinated groups, some clustered together in animated conversations, others sitting on the grass laughing far too loudly at jokes that probably weren’t that funny.

Wemmbu hesitated for half a second.

Then he pushed forward.

He slipped past a couple arguing loudly about nothing, sidestepped someone spilling a drink, and squeezed through the doorway into the house. Inside, it was worse—in every possible way. Hot. Crowded. Deafening. Bodies pressed close together, sweat and perfume and alcohol thick in the air. The walls seemed to pulse with the music, lights flickering in dizzying colors.

Good, he thought distantly. This is good.

He spotted the drink table almost immediately and made a beeline for it, weaving through people without apologizing. Bottles of every kind were scattered across it, half-empty, labels peeling. He grabbed the strongest-looking alcohol he could find without really checking what it was and poured himself a cup that was definitely more alcohol than mixer.

He took a sip.

It burned. Bitter and sharp, making his eyes water.

He grimaced, then took another gulp anyway.

It tasted absolutely awful—but it did its job. Warmth spread through his chest, loosening something tight and knotted inside him. The edges of the room softened just a little. The noise stopped feeling like an assault and more like… static. Background. Manageable.

He leaned against the counter, finished the drink faster than he probably should have, and poured another—this one slightly less aggressive. As he turned, he spotted a few people he vaguely recognized from one of his classes. Their faces lit up when they saw him, easy smiles, casual waves.

“Hey! Wemmbu, right?” someone shouted over the music.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice louder than usual to be heard. “Hey.”

They pulled him into their circle without hesitation, handed him another drink he didn’t ask for. He accepted it anyway. The conversation was light, shallow—complaints about assignments, jokes about professors, someone recounting a disastrous quiz attempt. Wemmbu nodded, laughed when it seemed appropriate, added a comment here and there.

It was easy.

Too easy.

At some point, the conversation dissolved into movement. Someone grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward the center of the room where people were dancing in a messy, enthusiastic crowd. The music shifted to something with a heavy beat, and suddenly he was moving with them—swaying, laughing, spinning once when someone tugged him around.

He didn’t feel fully present.

The world felt a step removed, like he was watching himself through fogged glass. His body moved, smiled, danced—but his thoughts stayed distant, dulled and muffled. And for once, that distance felt like a mercy.

For a few stolen moments, there was no Parrot.
No father.
No expectations or last names or accusations.

Just noise. Motion. Heat.

And then he spotted Flame.

The room didn’t quiet. The music didn’t fade. People didn’t stop moving.
But something in Wemmbu did.

Flame was standing across the room, back against the wall, one foot braced behind him like he’d been there a while. The flashing lights caught on his face in uneven bursts—sharp jaw, tired eyes, the familiar curve of his mouth set in something not quite a smile. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking. Just watching.

Watching him.

Wemmbu’s breath hitched before he could stop it.

For a split second he considered looking away, pretending he hadn’t seen him, melting back into the crowd. But it was too late. Their eyes locked, and the space between them felt suddenly charged, stretched thin like a wire pulled too tight.

Flame’s expression shifted. Concern, maybe. Or recognition. He pushed himself off the wall without breaking eye contact and started walking over.

Each step felt louder than the music.

Wemmbu stayed where he was, fingers tightening around the plastic cup in his hand. He became painfully aware of everything all at once: the alcohol buzzing warmly in his veins, the sweat on his skin, the fact that he’d never invited Flame to a party like this, the fact that he really, really didn’t want Flame to see him like this. Half-here. Hollowed out.

Flame stopped in front of him, close enough that Wemmbu had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his eyes. The bass thudded between them, vibrating through the floor, but the space felt strangely quiet anyway.

“…Hey,” Flame said. His voice was low, careful, like he wasn’t sure what he’d find if he pushed too hard.

“Hey,” Wemmbu replied. His own voice came out lighter than he felt, loose around the edges. He took a sip of his drink to give his hands something to do.

Flame’s gaze flicked briefly to the cup, then back to Wemmbu’s face. His brows knit together just a little.

“Didn’t think you were a party guy,” he said, attempting casual, but the concern didn’t fully leave his eyes.

Wemmbu huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “Neither did I.”

There was a beat of silence—thick, awkward, filled with things neither of them were saying. Flame shifted his weight, glancing around at the crowd before focusing on Wemmbu again.

“You good?” he asked. Not loud. Not over the music. Just for him.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, I’m good,” Wemmbu said, forcing a lightness into his voice. “Just trying to enjoy myself. You know. The whole college experience.”
He gave a small chuckle, like that explained everything.

Flame studied him for a second longer than necessary, eyes searching his face like he might find the truth written there if he looked hard enough. Whatever he saw didn’t fully convince him, but he let it go—for now—and huffed out a quiet laugh.

“If you say so,” Flame said. Then, after a brief pause, he nodded toward the center of the room. “Wanna dance together?”

Wemmbu’s heart skipped so hard it almost hurt.

“Sure!” he answered too quickly, then cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Flame grinned and gently caught Wemmbu’s wrist, tugging him toward the crowd before he could overthink it. The floor was packed—bodies moving in every direction, lights flashing in chaotic bursts of color. The music was loud, bass-heavy, vibrating through Wemmbu’s chest until it felt like his heartbeat was syncing to it.

At first, they stood a little awkwardly, just moving to the rhythm. Wemmbu swayed, shoulders loose, letting the alcohol and noise carry him. Flame laughed when Wemmbu’s timing was slightly off, bumping into him on purpose.

“Wow,” Flame said over the music, “you’re really selling this ‘whole college experience’ thing.”

“Oh shut up,” Wemmbu shot back, smiling despite himself. “You’re just mad I have style.”

Flame snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

They loosened up after that. Flame danced closer, confident and unbothered, moving like his body knew exactly what to do. Wemmbu followed his lead, laughing when Flame spun him clumsily or exaggerated his movements just to get a reaction out of him. At one point, Flame leaned in to say something, his mouth close to Wemmbu’s ear.

“See?” he said. “You look like you’re actually having fun.”

Wemmbu’s breath caught for half a second. Flame was warm, solid, close enough that Wemmbu could feel him even over the pounding music.

“Maybe I am,” Wemmbu admitted softly.

They continued dancing together for the next few songs, the space between them shrinking with every beat. What started as joking shoves and loose movements slowly turned into something more deliberate. Their shoulders brushed, then stayed touching. At some point Flame’s hand settled at Wemmbu’s hip, casual enough to be deniable, close enough to make Wemmbu’s breath hitch every time he noticed it.

Finally, it became too much.

“Dude,” Wemmbu said, leaning in so Flame could hear him over the music, “this music is giving me a headache. Can we find somewhere quieter?”

Flame searched his face immediately, concern flickering through his expression. “Yeah—yeah, of course. You good?”

“I’m fine,” Wemmbu said quickly, a little too quickly. “I just need some quiet.”

Flame nodded and gently guided him out of the crowd, a hand firm and reassuring at his back. The noise dulled as they moved up the stairs, each step pulling them further away from the chaos below. Wemmbu hadn’t even known the house had roof access, but Flame seemed to, pushing open a door and letting cool night air wash over them.

The roof was quiet. Peaceful. The city stretched out around them, lights glowing softly in the distance. Above them, the stars were scattered across the sky, sharp and endless.

They sat down side by side, closer than strictly necessary. Too close to be casual. Wemmbu could feel the warmth of Flame’s arm, the barely-there brush of his hand against his own. Less than an inch apart.

Neither of them moved it.

“So,” Wemmbu said finally, staring up at the sky instead of at Flame, “why did you come here tonight?”

Flame exhaled slowly. “I just… needed a distraction. Got a lot going on.”

Wemmbu nodded, even though Flame couldn’t see it. That made sense. Too much sense.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he spoke next. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing through his veins, loosening his caution. Maybe it was the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything waiting for him tomorrow. Or maybe he was just tired of running from things for once.

“I could distract you,” he said quietly.

He turned his head as he spoke, meeting Flame’s eyes. Leaning just a little closer.

Flame froze.

For half a second, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, tight enough to snap. Flame’s gaze flicked down to Wemmbu’s lips and back up again, like he was asking a question without saying it.

Then the tension broke.

Wemmbu closed the distance first, arms sliding up around Flame’s neck. Flame’s hands came to his waist instantly, like they’d been waiting for permission. Their lips met in a kiss that was anything but careful—desperate, hungry, like they were both trying to forget something at the same time.

Flame bit Wemmbu’s lip, catching one of his piercings slightly, just enough to draw a sharp gasp from him, and used the moment to deepen the kiss. Wemmbu melted into it, fingers tightening instinctively, every thought dissolving under the heat of it.

Nothing mattered right now.

There was only Flame’s hands on his waist, grounding and real, and Flame’s lips on his, stealing his breath away under the open sky.

Flame didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed Wemmbu harder, like the decision had finally been made and there was no point pretending otherwise. His hands slid more securely around Wemmbu’s waist, thumbs pressing in just enough to make Wemmbu shiver.

Wemmbu made a soft, breathless sound against Flame’s mouth before kissing him back just as fiercely. The world felt distant, muffled, like everything below the roof had faded into background noise. He shifted closer without really thinking about it, knees brushing, bodies aligning until there was no space left to ignore.

Flame tilted his head, changing the angle, slow for a moment this time—teasing, almost—before kissing him again. His lips traced along Wemmbu’s jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth, like he was savoring it. Wemmbu sucked in a shaky breath, fingers tightening in Flame’s hair at the nape of his neck.

“Flame…” he murmured, not even sure what he meant by it.

Flame hummed in response, low and warm, and kissed him again instead of answering. One of his hands slipped up Wemmbu’s side, resting just beneath his ribs, steady and careful despite the intensity of the kiss. It grounded Wemmbu in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

The night air was cool against Wemmbu’s skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building between them. Somewhere below, music thumped faintly, distorted and far away, like it belonged to another world entirely.

Eventually they had to break apart, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Flame’s thumb brushed over Wemmbu’s hip absentmindedly, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“You okay?” Flame asked quietly, voice rough.

Wemmbu nodded, laughing softly under his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… more than okay.”

Flame smiled at that—soft, a little crooked—and leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time, unhurried. Not desperate anymore. Just real.

Wemmbu let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—this moment could exist without falling apart immediately after.

Wemmbu and Flame stayed on that roof for far too long. Laughing, kissing, talking as if tomorrow didn’t exist. In that moment, at least for Wemmbu, it truly didn’t. Every nerve in his body was alive, every thought of consequence drowned out by the warmth of Flame’s hands around his, by the alcohol humming gently through his veins, by the way Flame’s lips fit perfectly against his own.

A small, nagging voice whispered in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t have done this, that he’d just broken his own carefully constructed rules—no closeness, no attachments. But that voice was faint, almost laughable, overwhelmed by the rush of adrenaline, heat, and desire. Wemmbu didn’t care. He leaned in again, letting his forehead rest against Flame’s, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle beat of his heart against his own.

Eventually, reality crept back in, insistent yet still pliable. They left the roof together, hand in hand, slipping through the quiet streets toward campus. Flame’s hands were warm and steady, grounding, yet somehow also igniting something dangerous and thrilling inside Wemmbu. He pressed closer when no one was looking, letting the closeness linger just a moment longer.

Standing in front of the dorm building, they paused. Flame turned to him, expression soft but intense, eyes that seemed to see right into Wemmbu’s chest.

“I had fun tonight,” he said, voice low, a little husky, a little teasing.

“I did too,” Wemmbu whispered back, and it was true. The words tasted like something sacred, fragile. “Goodnight, Flame.”

Flame’s smile was slow, crooked, and entirely his own. “Goodnight, Wemmbu.”

They kissed one last time. It was soft, deliberate, unhurried—a promise that lingered even as they parted. Then they let go of each other, walking to their separate dorms with the quiet hum of the night around them.

Wemmbu’s hand still tingled where Flame’s had been, and even though he tried to shake it off, he carried the warmth with him as he quietly opened his dorm door. He tried not to wake Egg, though by now, he suspected it would have been nearly impossible. Egg lay sprawled across the bed, limbs flung in all directions, one leg half off the mattress, the blanket tangled in a chaotic mess. It was almost impressive in its chaos.

Wemmbu quietly closed the door behind him with a soft click, feeling the weight of the night settle on his shoulders. He headed straight to the bathroom, grabbing his pajamas on the way. In the mirror, he caught sight of his reflection: hair completely disheveled, messy from where Flame’s hands had been threading through it. He carefully undid the braid and brushed it out, running his fingers through the tangled strands, still catching fragments of the night in every strand.

He changed quickly, slipping into his pajamas with a sense of quiet urgency, as if if he lingered too long the warmth of the evening would evaporate. Crawling into bed, he pulled the blankets up and curled in, trying to find a place of rest. But sleep didn’t come easy. His mind was filled with the taste of Flame’s lips, the heat of his hands, the electricity of his presence.

Tonight, his dreams were haunted by Flame. And Wemmbu didn’t want to wake up from them.

Chapter Text

When Wemmbu woke up, reality crashed into him like a train.

That, and a fat headache.

For a moment he stayed completely still, staring up at the ceiling while the events of last night replayed against the inside of his skull—laughing on the roof, warm hands at his waist, the taste of Flame’s lips, the way everything had felt easy for just a few stolen hours. His chest tightened painfully as awareness settled in.

He was leaving.

Going home.

Temporarily—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

He rolled onto his side with a quiet groan, the movement sending a sharp pulse through his temples. The room was dim and silent, washed in that dull blue-gray light that existed only before sunrise. Egg was still asleep, cocooned in blankets on the other side of the room, breathing slow and even. Wemmbu watched him for a second, oddly jealous of how uncomplicated sleep seemed.

He moved slowly, carefully, like if he took his time he could delay the inevitable. Sitting up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Pressing his palms briefly into his eyes as if that could push everything back where it belonged.

He wanted to stay in the memory of last night a little longer.

But being late would only make everything worse.

So he got dressed quietly, pulling on clothes that felt more like armor than anything else. He braided his hair by muscle memory alone, fingers moving automatically while his thoughts drifted somewhere far away. The bandages on his fingers tugged slightly as he worked, a dull reminder that his body carried history too.

Once dressed, he packed the last of his things into his backpack—phone charger, wallet, a book he hadn’t finished. His movements were efficient, almost detached. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t check messages. If there was anything from Flame, he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing it right now.

When everything was ready, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, paused by the door, and took one last look at the room. It already felt distant. Like something he’d dreamed up rather than lived in.

He slipped out quietly, letting the door close with a soft click behind him.

Outside, the campus was eerily still. Streetlights hummed faintly, casting long shadows across empty walkways. The air was cool, biting just enough to make him shiver. It felt like the world was holding its breath. No students. No noise. Just him and the weight in his chest.

He reached his car, tossed his bag into the backseat, and slid into the driver’s seat. For a moment, he just sat there, forehead resting against the steering wheel. His head throbbed. His stomach twisted.

Then he started the engine.

The familiar sound grounded him, even as it felt final. He pulled out of the lot and onto the road, the campus shrinking behind him in the rearview mirror. Buildings passed by in quiet succession—the dorms, the lecture halls, streets he’d already begun to think of as his.

He didn’t look back.

The road stretched out ahead of him, dark and mostly empty. He drove faster than usual, not recklessly, just enough to feel like he was outrunning something. The hum of the tires against the asphalt filled the car, steady and relentless. Streetlights blurred past in rhythmic flashes.

His mind refused to stay quiet.

Flame’s smile.
Parrot’s voice, sharp and accusing.
His father’s name spoken like a curse.
The group chat disappearing.
The party. The kiss. The promise he’d broken.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

No matter how far he went, it followed him.

The city slowly gave way to open road, buildings replaced by stretches of darkness and distant trees. The sky ahead began to lighten, the faintest hint of dawn bleeding into the horizon. Wemmbu stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, letting the road pull him forward whether he was ready or not.

Home waited for him.

And with it, everything he’d been trying so hard to escape.

So he kept driving.

And driving.
And driving.

The road blurred into a single, endless stretch of asphalt and white lines. Gas stations came and went. Town names flashed by on signs he barely registered. The sun rose fully at some point, climbing higher into the sky, bathing the world in light that felt almost mocking in its normalcy. Wemmbu drove with the radio off, letting the hum of the engine and the tires on pavement fill the car. Silence was easier than risking a song that might remind him of something—or someone.

By the time the skyline of Farlands City appeared on the horizon, his body felt heavy, stiff from hours in the same position. His head still ached, a dull throb that pulsed behind his eyes. Familiar buildings began to pass him as he entered the city proper: shops he remembered from childhood, intersections he could navigate without thinking, streets that felt burned into his muscle memory.

He hated how easy it was.

Eventually, he turned off the main road and into a quieter area, where the houses grew larger and the streets cleaner, manicured hedges lining the sidewalks. The air itself seemed different here—too controlled, too polished. He drove slower now, his chest tightening with every turn, until finally the familiar iron gates came into view.

Home.

He drove up the long driveway lined with perfectly trimmed trees, their branches arching overhead like a tunnel. Gravel crunched softly beneath the tires as he parked in his usual spot. The house loomed in front of him, unchanged. Untouched by time. Untouched by guilt.

He turned the engine off.

For a moment, he just sat there, hands resting limply on his thighs, staring through the windshield. The silence was thick, pressing in on him. Somewhere inside that house, his parents were waiting. Expectations neatly arranged. Smiles prepared. Conversations planned that would never quite reach him.

He exhaled slowly, shakily.

Then he grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind him with a dull thud that echoed far too loudly in his ears. He walked up the stone path toward the entrance, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The house was lavish—light stone walls that gleamed in the sun, a brick roof perfectly aligned, intricately carved statues flanking the entrance, decorative corner pieces that spoke of old money and careful taste. It looked like something out of a magazine. Something people admired. Something they envied.

Any kid would think this was a dream.

To Wemmbu, it felt like a prison.

One he had never truly escaped.

He reached the large door and knocked.

The sound echoed, hollow and heavy, reverberating through the stone like it was announcing him rather than welcoming him. He barely had time to steady his breathing before the door swung open.

In front of him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a perfectly pressed black suit. His head was shaved smooth, his mustache groomed to surgical precision. Everything about him was polished, controlled—right down to the smile that never quite reached his eyes. The kind of smile that existed to be worn, not felt.

His father.

“Hello, son. I’m so glad you made it,” he said, voice smooth and oily, each word sliding into the next. It made Wemmbu’s stomach churn.

“Hello, Father,” Wemmbu replied. His face was blank, carefully neutral. He lowered his head just enough to be respectful, not enough to be submissive—though even that calculation made his chest tighten.

“Come in. Your mother and I have been expecting you. Dinner is ready,” his father said, stepping aside with a practiced gesture.

“Yes, Father,” Wemmbu answered automatically and crossed the threshold.

The door shut behind him with a soft but final click.

Inside, the house felt even more suffocating than it had from the outside. Marble floors gleamed beneath his feet, cold and flawless. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like captured constellations, casting warm light that somehow made everything feel harsher. Rugs so expensive they probably had names covered parts of the floor, their patterns intricate and untouched, as if no one truly lived here—only occupied space.

Glass cases lined the walls, filled with priceless artifacts displayed like trophies. Ancient vases. Sculptures. Things that belonged in museums, reduced to décor. Power made visible.

He could feel his father’s presence behind him, heavy and looming, every step synchronized just enough to remind Wemmbu that he was being watched. His spine prickled, a familiar, instinctive tension settling between his shoulders.

They reached the dining room.

A long table dominated the space, stretching farther than necessary, laden with food—too much food. Multiple dishes, meticulously arranged, steam still rising from some of them. Plates of meat, vegetables prepared three different ways, bread untouched and pristine. The abundance made Wemmbu’s stomach twist. He knew how this would end. Half of it scraped into the trash without a second thought.

Waste, disguised as generosity.

And there, already seated at the table, was his mother.

The moment she saw him, her face lit up. She stood abruptly and crossed the room in quick, elegant steps.

“Wemmbu! How wonderful to see you,” she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug before he could react. “I hope the drive wasn’t too unpleasant.”

Her arms wrapped around him too tightly. Her nails—long, manicured, sharp—pressed into his back. He forced himself not to flinch, not to pull away. He knew better. He could already feel the sting, knew there would be marks later.

“Hello, Mother,” he said carefully, voice even. “The drive was fine, thank you.”

She smiled, satisfied, and released him as if she hadn’t just held him like a possession.

They took their seats.

Wemmbu sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed somewhere between his plate and the tablecloth. Every movement felt rehearsed. Every breath measured. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, like the walls were slowly inching closer.

Then it hit him.

He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving.

His heart stuttered.

“Sorry—give me just one second,” he said quickly, reaching into his pocket. His fingers closed around his phone, grounding for half a second as he turned it on.

The screen lit up immediately.

Messages flooded in.

Egg.
Spoke.
Flame.
Mappic
Mane

So many notifications stacked on top of each other that he couldn’t even read the previews. Relief and panic crashed into each other inside his chest. He hadn’t disappeared yet. He could still—

A sudden, violent motion.

His phone was ripped from his hands.

“HOW DARE YOU TAKE YOUR PHONE OUT?” his father roared, voice cracking through the room like a gunshot. “THIS IS A FAMILY DINNER!”

Wemmbu froze.

His father held the phone up as if it were something filthy, something offensive. His face was red now, the polished mask slipping just enough to reveal the fury underneath.

“MAYBE THIS WILL HELP YOU REMEMBER WHERE YOU ARE,” he screamed—and hurled the phone to the floor.

The sound was deafening.

Glass shattered. Plastic cracked. The screen splintered into a spiderweb of dead light.

Wemmbu stared.

For a moment, the world went quiet.

His phone lay in pieces at his feet, broken beyond repair. No screen. No signal. No way out. No way to tell anyone where he was. The last thin thread connecting him to everything he’d built—severed in an instant.

His lungs locked up.

He couldn’t breathe.

Nobody knew where he was.

Slowly, mechanically, he lowered his gaze to the floor, eyes burning but dry. He forced his shoulders to relax, forced his hands to unclench. Every instinct in him screamed to run, to grab the fragments and bolt for the door, but he stayed perfectly still.

“My apologies, Father,” he whispered.

The words tasted like blood.

He didn’t look up.
He didn’t trust himself too.

The dinner continued mostly in silence, the kind that pressed down on his ears until every small sound felt amplified. Cutlery scraping softly against porcelain. The faint clink of glass. And beneath it all, his father’s heavy, deliberate breathing—slow and dominant, like a reminder that he was there, that he was watching.

Wemmbu barely ate. He pushed food around his plate more than he actually consumed it, lifting his fork only when he felt his parents’ eyes linger too long. Each bite felt like gravel in his throat. Being back here again made his stomach churn, nausea coiling tight beneath his ribs. The smell of rich food, once something he’d associated with luxury, now made him feel faint.

Dinner dragged on.

His father always ate slowly, methodically, as if savoring not the taste but the act itself. Control in every chew. Even with the sheer excess laid out before him, even he couldn’t make a meaningful dent in it. Plates remained full. Platters untouched. The waste sat there quietly, obscene and unapologetic.

Eventually, his father leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. He looked satisfied—not full, but pleased. As if the evening had gone exactly as intended.

“Dismissed,” he said sharply. “You may go to your room.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Wemmbu stood immediately, chair legs scraping faintly against the marble floor. He bowed slightly—muscle memory more than intention—then turned and left without another word. His heart was pounding now, each step carrying him farther away from the table, farther from their gazes. He didn’t slow until he reached the staircase, taking it two steps at a time, desperate to put distance between himself and that room.

The house was eerily quiet as he climbed. No laughter. No warmth. Just long corridors and dimly lit halls that felt more like a museum after hours than a home.

He walked for a while, past rooms he wasn’t allowed into, past doors that stayed firmly shut. His destination was tucked away at the far end of the upper floor—isolated, removed, forgotten. Exactly where they always put him.

After a few more turns, he reached it.

His childhood bedroom.

He pushed the door open softly.

The room greeted him with emptiness.

White walls. Bare shelves. A neatly made bed that looked as though it had never been slept in. No posters. No photos. No signs of a kid who had once lived here. It was pristine in the most unsettling way—sanitized of personality, scrubbed of history.

It didn’t feel like a bedroom.

It felt like a guest room. Or worse—a holding cell.

Wemmbu stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the click echoing far too loudly. His suitcase sat near the wall, already unpacked. His clothes had been placed neatly into the dresser, folded with impersonal precision. His instruments leaned against the far corner, untouched, carefully positioned like objects rather than something precious.

Of course the maids had taken care of it.

He swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

Wemmbu sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

When the floor became too boring, he moved on to the ceiling.
And when even counting the cracks and molding patterns failed to distract him, he gave up on pretending rest was possible at all.

He needed to do something with his hands before his thoughts ate him alive.

So he practiced.

The competition piece.

He hadn’t chosen it. He hadn’t wanted to. But his parents had—because it was impressive, because it was cruelly difficult, because medals photographed better when the piece was infamous. Paganini’s “God Save the King.” A showpiece. A trap. A demand disguised as music.

Wemmbu crossed the room and knelt by his violin case. His movements were careful, reverent in a way nothing else in this house deserved. He opened the case and lifted the instrument free, the wood catching the light softly. It felt familiar in his hands in a way nothing else ever did—balanced, honest. Something that wouldn’t lie to him.

He tuned slowly, methodically. Each peg turned with precision, each string tested and adjusted until the pitch settled just right. The room filled with soft, isolated notes—pure, controlled, restrained. He breathed with them, shoulders easing just a fraction.

Then he raised the bow.

The first notes cut through the silence.

The theme itself was deceptively simple at first—clean, almost polite—but Paganini never let anything stay that way for long. Almost immediately, the piece twisted into something vicious. Rapid runs cascaded down the fingerboard, notes blurring into each other at a speed that made lesser players stumble. Wemmbu didn’t. His fingers flew, striking with terrifying accuracy, shifting positions so fast they were nearly invisible.

Double stops rang out—two strings at once, perfectly in tune, sharp and biting. His left hand burned as it stretched and contorted, leaping across impossible intervals. The bow bounced and snapped through ricochet strokes, spiccato biting cleanly off the strings, each note crisp and merciless. Harmonics screamed out suddenly—thin, glassy, almost unreal—then vanished as quickly as they appeared.

The piece demanded arrogance. Precision. Absolute control.

And Wemmbu gave it everything.

His jaw clenched as the variations grew more brutal. Left-hand pizzicato snapped beneath bowed notes. Scales spiraled upward at breakneck speed, each one daring him to miss even a fraction of a second. The melody fractured and reassembled again and again, each variation more unforgiving than the last, as if the music itself was testing how much he could endure before breaking.

His fingers ached. His wrist protested. Sweat gathered at his temples.

He didn’t stop.

The sound filled the sterile room, too big for it, too alive. The music was sharp and glittering and furious—technically flawless on the surface, but underneath it carried something rawer. Every aggressive run sounded like defiance. Every shrill harmonic like a scream forced into beauty. The triumph baked into the piece felt hollow in his hands, twisted into something desperate.

This wasn’t joy.

This was survival.

By the final variation, his arms were shaking. The bow bit into the strings with controlled violence, sound ringing out bright and merciless. The last notes soared—brilliant, punishing, undeniable—before crashing to a razor-clean finish.

Silence followed.

Wemmbu lowered the violin slowly, chest heaving, fingers trembling despite himself. The room felt too quiet afterward, like it was holding its breath. His hands burned. His shoulder throbbed.

Perfect.

Exactly what they wanted.

He stared down at the violin, breathing hard, and felt the bitter twist in his chest settle deeper.

They didn’t care how much it hurt him.

Only that it sounded impressive when he did.

The competition was the day after tomorrow.
And tomorrow was the party his father was organizing.

What a horrible few days to come.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, sour and unmoving. There was no space between them—no time to recover, no room to breathe. Just performance stacked on performance. Smile, bow, play. Be seen. Be impressive. Be useful.

Tomorrow, the house would fill with people who spoke his father’s name with reverence and his mother’s with envy. Men in expensive suits and women dripping in jewels would wander these halls, glasses of champagne in hand, praising the architecture, the art, the success. They would ask Wemmbu how school was going, how the competitions were shaping up, how proud his parents must be. They would comment on his talent like it was another acquisition, another asset.

And he would stand there beside his parents, quiet and obedient, a living trophy.

He could already imagine it—the tight hand on his shoulder, the subtle pressure that told him where to stand, when to speak, when to shut up. The way his father would introduce him, not as a son, but as proof. My child. International competitor. Very disciplined. As if discipline hadn’t been carved into him with fear.

Then, the day after that, the competition. A bright stage. A silent audience. Judges with sharp eyes and sharper expectations. One mistake and everything would come crashing down—not just disappointment, but punishment. Not failure, but consequences.

His fingers twitched at the thought.

Wemmbu lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling again. The chandelier light from the hallway cast faint, shifting shadows through the gap under the door, reminding him he wasn’t alone even when no one was in the room. He felt like he was being counted down to something inevitable.

Two days.

Two days of pretending he was fine.

Two days of being exactly what they wanted him to be.

He turned onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest, curling inward like he could make himself smaller, quieter, easier to ignore. His chest ached with things he didn’t dare name—Flame’s laugh, the warmth of campus sunlight, the feeling of being wanted without conditions.

It all felt impossibly far away now.

The house creaked softly around him, settling like it always did, ancient and watchful. Somewhere below, his parents were likely already planning—menus, guest lists, speeches. His future spoken about in rooms he wasn’t allowed to enter.

Wemmbu squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t know how he was going to survive the next few days.

But he knew he didn’t have a choice.

Chapter Text

When Flame woke up, he felt unbelievably happy. His lips tingled at the memory—last night had been… incredible. He had kissed Wemmbu. And Wemmbu had kissed him back. Even just thinking about it made his heart hammer like it wanted to escape his chest, reminding him that the world could still feel light, even if only for a few stolen hours.

“What's got you grinning like an idiot this morning?” came a tired, teasing voice from across the room.

Flame blinked. Mane was sprawled across his bed, hair sticking up in messy spikes, one arm draped lazily over his knee, half-awake and already judging.

“Me? Nothing at all, bro!” Flame said a beat too quickly, voice cracking slightly.

Mane raised an eyebrow. “Dude… you’re smiling like you just discovered gold or solved world hunger. Something huge, clearly.”

Flame froze mid-turn, realizing Mane had caught him. He tried to hide it. “No! I’m not smiling!” he said, voice far less convincing than he wanted.

Mane’s eyes narrowed, suspicious but amused. “Ain’t no way. Come on, bro—just spill it. What’s got you buzzing like a caffeinated squirrel?”

Flame hesitated, heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t sure he could say it aloud. Part of him wanted to keep it to himself, replay last night in secret, but excitement leaked through anyway.

“So… remember the party I was invited to yesterday?” he said cautiously.

“Yes?” Mane leaned forward, instantly alert.

“Well… Wemmbu was there.”

Mane’s eyebrows shot up. “Soooo… did something happen? Or did you chicken out again like last time?” He wiggled his eyebrows, grinning.

Flame felt himself blush. He caught the look Mane was giving him, teasing and expectant, and a tiny rush of panic stirred in his chest. But Mane didn’t seem jealous, and that was… oddly comforting.

“He… he was there,” Flame mumbled. Memories of his hands on Wemmbu's waist, stolen glances across the crowded room, the rooftop under the stars, all pressed together inside his chest.

Mane’s eyes widened impossibly. “No way! What happened? Tell me immediately!”

Flame rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips. “Nothing crazy! We just danced, talked a bit… and maybe kissed!”

Mane practically exploded, leaping onto Flame like a human cannonball. “Oh my god, I never thought you’d actually do it! I’m so proud of you, baby bro!”

Flame laughed and struggled beneath him. “Bro! Get off me!”

“Nope. Absolutely not. This is history in the making!” Mane shouted, tightening his grip. “You kissed Wemmbu, and I am not letting this moment pass unnoticed!”

Flame groaned, pushing him back just enough to sit up. His heart was pounding, part excitement, part lingering disbelief that this was actually happening. “I said maybe kissed, okay? It’s not… it’s complicated.”

Mane flopped back onto the bed, propping himself on his elbows, smirk still in place. “Maybe, huh? Translation: you’re head over heels, my dude. Admit it.”

Flame groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Mane interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. “And you’re glowing. Like a lighthouse. A lovesick lighthouse.”

Flame peeked through his fingers, cheeks burning. “Shut up, you’re ridiculous.”

Mane leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Too late, buddy. Weird has already left the building. That ship sailed, kissed someone on a roof, and is probably orbiting Earth right now. Your move.”

“I’ll see him this afternoon at the music club anyway,” Flame said, trying to sound casual, though his stomach fluttered nervously at the thought. “I’ll talk to him then. Now get out of my bed—I need space, and you’re taking up way too much of it.”

Mane gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “How dare you! I am your elder! I practically raised you! Ungrateful!”

Flame rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help smiling despite himself. Mane only winked and waved a dismissive hand as he theatrically slid off the bed and returned to his side of the dorm.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Classes felt slower than usual, but Flame barely noticed the lectures. His thoughts kept drifting to Wemmbu—their kiss, the warmth of his hands, the way he’d smiled at him under the stars. Lunch was no different. Even while he shoved food into his mouth, his mind raced through every memory from the night before, his fingers tapping nervously against the table as if trying to summon Wemmbu there.

Finally, the afternoon rolled around. Flame practically bounced down the hall, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder. The music club meeting couldn’t come fast enough.

He swung the door open and froze for a fraction of a second. Most of the members were already there, chatting and arranging their instruments. The only ones missing were Parrot—and, most importantly—Wemmbu.

Wifie, sitting in the corner with his usual distracted expression, shot Flame a glance that made him pause, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Yo, bro, have you seen Wemmbu today?” Egg’s voice cut through the room, nervous and slightly frantic.

Flame furrowed his brows. “No… last time I saw him was last night. Why? What’s up?”

Egg hesitated, glancing around as if the walls themselves might answer. “He… wasn’t in our dorm this morning. I haven’t seen him all day, and he’s not responding to my texts or calls.”

Flame’s stomach dropped, a sudden, heavy weight pressing against his ribs. A low, cold panic crept up his spine. “That’s… weird. Does anyone know where he might be?”

“No. I’ve been asking around, and I’m waiting for Parrot to ask him too,” Egg said, his voice tight with worry.

Flame swallowed hard, his throat dry. The image of Wemmbu’s smile, the warmth of his hands… and now this absence made something twist painfully in his chest. “Yeah… that’s a good idea,” he said softly, though his voice lacked its usual brightness.

He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling slightly, and opened their chat. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he typed a quick message:

Hey, you good?

He stared at it for a moment, then pressed send. His chest tightened as he watched the little delivery check mark appear. And then nothing. No reply. Not even a typing bubble.

Flame exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but the buzzing of nerves refused to fade. He felt suddenly exposed, alone in the middle of the bustling club room, surrounded by instruments and voices that no longer seemed comforting. His heart hammered in his chest with every passing second.

He glanced around again, hoping for a hint of Wemmbu’s presence—the familiar lean of his shoulders, the curve of his hair catching the light, anything. But the space where Wemmbu should have been remained empty.

Flame sank into a chair, trying to appear calm as the rest of the members started setting up, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Every laugh, every shuffle of papers, every footstep sounded like it might be Wemmbu returning—but none of them were.

He tapped his fingers against the desk, a nervous rhythm that matched the pulse in his head. Should he ask Parrot now? Or wait a few more minutes? Maybe he’d run into him outside. Maybe… maybe he was just late.

But a small, nagging voice whispered at the back of his mind: What if something happened?
Flame shook it off, trying to focus on the instruments in front of him, pretending that the air wasn’t thick with absence. And yet, every passing second felt longer than the last, the club room somehow shrinking around him without Wemmbu there.

He sent another quick text, just to be safe:

Seriously, you okay? We’re waiting for you at the club.

Then he sat back, hands clasped tightly together, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds, hoping, willing, imagining that it might swing open and that familiar figure would step through, all oblivious to the storm building in Flame’s chest.

And the door did open. And a familiar figure did step through. But it wasn’t Wemmbu.

It was Parrot.

He moved into the room with the calm, precise steps that always made him seem just a little intimidating. His face was unreadable, though his eyes were sharper than usual. Flame felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

“Parrot! Have you seen Wemmbu?” Egg asked immediately, worry creeping into his voice.

Parrot’s gaze flicked toward Wemmbu’s name, a small twitch of his lips betraying the tension he felt. He rubbed the back of his neck briefly before speaking.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you all about,” he said, voice controlled, neutral but firm.

Everyone leaned in instinctively.

“Wemmbu has been removed from the music club,” Parrot said plainly.

The words hit Flame like a punch. He felt like he’d been hollowed out from the inside. Removed? Why?

The room erupted into questions.

“What? Why? Where is he?”
“Did he do something wrong?”
“Why would you kick him out?”

“Calm down! I’ll explain—just give me a second,” Parrot said sharply.

The overlapping voices died down, though the tension didn’t. Everyone’s attention locked onto him. Flame’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his pulse loud in his ears.

Parrot took a slow breath, like he was forcing himself to stay composed.

“Wemmbu’s father owns Prestige Estates,” he said. “That company exploited my family for years. They buried my dad in predatory contracts and drained him until there was nothing left. I’m not saying Wemmbu did any of that—but his last name isn’t meaningless to me.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“And then,” Parrot continued, “Wemmbu shows up here. At a college on the opposite side of the country from where he grew up. He joins this music club—the one I founded, the one that has my name attached to it.” His jaw tightened. “That’s a lot of coincidences stacked on top of each other. Too many for me to just ignore.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

Loppez was the first to speak up. “Parrot, that still doesn’t really track. People move far away from home all the time. And joining a music club at a college isn’t exactly suspicious behavior.” She shrugged. “For all we know, he picked this place because it was far away. And joined the club because—shockingly—he likes music.”

Parrot’s expression flickered, irritation warring with uncertainty.

Egg leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah. Did you actually talk to him about any of this?”

“I did,” Parrot said immediately.

Flame felt his chest tighten. “And?” he asked, his voice betraying him despite his effort to keep it steady. “What did he say?”

Parrot hesitated for half a second too long.

“He said he wasn’t here for me,” Parrot replied. “That he didn’t even know about what happened to my family. He wouldn’t explain much beyond that.”

Flame’s stomach twisted. That sounded like Wemmbu. Guarded. Careful. Terrible at defending himself when cornered.

“Did you… give him a chance to explain?” Mane asked quietly. “I get that what happened to your dad was awful. No one’s denying that. But accusing him based on who his father is?” He shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

Parrot looked away, his shoulders stiff. He didn't look angry—just conflicted.

“We could talk to him and ask him to explain?” Wifies suggested.

“That would be a great idea, except we don’t know where he is! Nobody’s seen him today and he isn’t picking up texts or calls!” Egg said frantically.

That landed hard.

The room seemed to shrink in on itself, the air suddenly too thick, too warm. Flame felt his pulse spike, his thoughts tripping over each other. Not answering texts was… unusual. Wemmbu wasn’t great at social stuff, sure, but he wasn’t the type to just disappear. Not like this.

“He might just be busy,” Loppez offered, though her voice lacked conviction. “Or sleeping. Or—”

“He wouldn’t miss music club without saying something,” Flame cut in before he could stop himself. All eyes turned to him. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe evenly. “He takes it seriously. Even when he’s stressed.”

Parrot’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the floor for a moment, fingers curling slightly at his sides.

“I didn’t tell him to leave campus,” Parrot said, almost defensively. “I was clear about that. I only told him he couldn’t stay in the club. I figured he’d… cool off. Come back later. Or at least show up to class.”

Egg ran a hand through his hair. “But he didn’t. And that’s the problem.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. The earlier confusion had curdled into something sharper—unease, maybe even fear.

Flame pulled his phone back out, staring at the unanswered message like if he looked hard enough it might change. Hey, you good? It felt stupid now. Too casual. Too small for the tight, sinking feeling in his chest.

“I’m calling him again,” he muttered, already hitting the call button.

Straight to voicemail.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

“He always keeps his phone on him,” Flame said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “Even during rehearsals. He hates missing calls.”

Parrot exhaled slowly, rubbing his face with both hands now, the anger from earlier drained and replaced with something closer to regret. “I didn’t mean for this to spiral,” he said. “I just… when I found out who his father was, it hit too close. I reacted.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Mane muttered, though there was no real bite behind it.

Parrot shot him a look, then sighed. “I know. And maybe I should’ve handled it better. But what’s done is done. Right now the bigger issue is figuring out where he is.”

“So what, we just wait?” Wifies asked. “Hope he turns up?”

Egg shook his head immediately. “No. We look. I’ll check the dorms again. Flame, you check the roof, the practice rooms—anywhere he might go to be alone.”

Flame nodded quickly, already standing. The buzzing excitement he’d felt all day had twisted into something cold and sickening. He grabbed his jacket, his thoughts racing.

Please be okay, he thought, over and over again like a prayer. Please just be somewhere quiet. Please don’t be hurt. Please don’t think we don’t care.

As he reached the door, Parrot spoke again, his voice lower, steadier—but strained.

“If you find him,” he said, “tell him… tell him I’m willing to talk. Properly. No accusations. No assumptions. Just—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Just tell him I want to clear things up.”

Flame paused, hand on the doorframe, then nodded once without looking back.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I will.”

And with that, he stepped out into the hallway, heart pounding, dread curling tighter with every step.

Because deep down, a horrible thought had started to take root.

What if Wemmbu hadn’t just gone quiet?

What if he’d taken Parrot’s words—and the weight of everything else—and decided he didn’t belong here at all?

They couldn’t find him anywhere on campus.

They checked every place Wemmbu might have gone when things got overwhelming—the practice rooms, the music building, the roof, the library corners where the lights stayed low and people rarely lingered. They searched the dorms twice, even knocked on doors they knew he didn’t belong to, just in case someone had seen him pass through. Nothing.

And worse—his car was gone.

That realization had hit them hard. Egg had stood in the parking lot staring at the empty space where Wemmbu usually parked, like if he stared long enough the car might reappear. The relief that followed was thin and shaky: his bike was still chained up nearby. That had to mean something, right? Wemmbu loved that bike. He wouldn’t just abandon it.

Back in the dorm, most of his things were still there too. Clothes folded neatly in drawers. Books stacked by his bed. Notes scattered across his desk like he’d planned to come back. That should’ve been comforting.

But his instruments were gone.

The violin case. The extra strings. The carefully maintained bow he never let anyone else touch. All missing.

That detail settled in their chests like lead.

Now they were all back in the music club room, gathered in silence like survivors after a storm. The lights were dimmer than usual, evening sunlight slanting through the windows in tired gold streaks. The room smelled faintly of rosin and old wood, familiar and wrong all at once.

They’d been searching for hours. Campus. Off-campus. Nearby streets. Cafés. Even the bus stop.

Nothing.

Mapicc and Spoke sat on the floor against the wall, shoulders pressed together, Mapicc’s fingers curled tightly in Spoke’s sleeve like he was afraid letting go would make things worse. Loppez leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor with a hollow expression. Egg hadn’t stopped pacing for the last ten minutes, running a hand through his hair over and over like he could physically scrub the worry out of his head.

Parrot sat stiffly near Wifies, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He hadn’t said much since they came back—just quiet, heavy guilt etched into every line of his posture. Every now and then, his gaze drifted to the empty space where Wemmbu usually sat during meetings, then dropped again.

Flame sat beside Mane, hunched over his phone. He hadn’t looked up in a while.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when—the messages stopped delivering.

No “read.” No “delivered.” Just sent.

His chest felt tight, like something was slowly closing around his lungs. He refreshed the screen again. And again. Still nothing. He clenched his jaw, blinking hard.

Spoke finally broke the silence, his voice small and frayed.
“What do we do now?”

No one answered immediately.

Mane exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning back against the chair. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being tired.

“The only thing we can,” he said quietly. “Wait.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and unwanted.

Wait and hope.

Wait and wonder.

Wait and pray that wherever Wemmbu was, he was safe—and that he still planned on coming back.

Chapter Text

When Wemmbu woke up, the house was silent.

He lay still in his childhood bedroom, staring up at the blank ceiling, listening to his own breathing like it was the only proof he existed.

The bed beneath him was too neat, the sheets tucked tight enough to restrict movement. He hadn’t tossed or turned in his sleep; he never did here. His body had learned long ago how to stay small.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Hanging neatly from the wardrobe doors were two outfits that hadn’t been there the night before.

His stomach sank.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, eyes tracing over them with a detached sort of dread. Someone had been in his room while he slept. Of course they had. That was normal here. Nothing in this house was ever truly private.

The first outfit was unmistakable: a tailored suit in dark, expensive fabric. Crisp lines. Sharp shoulders. A vest overtop, cut elegantly, with two long tails extending down the back like a modernized coat— designed to be noticed. To be admired. Party attire. Something meant to photograph well, to make his father look good standing beside him.

A prop.

The second outfit made his chest tighten.

It was entirely white.

A high-collared top with wide, flowing sleeves that narrowed tightly at the wrists, the fabric soft and luminous under the light. A waspie corset sat at the waist, structured and unforgiving, cinched tight and decorated with delicate ruffles along the bottom edge. The pants were simple, straight-legged, pristine white, pressed to perfection. Draped beside it was a long overcoat, equally pale, its fabric embroidered with intricate embellishments that caught the light in subtle, expensive patterns.

It was striking. Elegant, Almost ethereal.

It looked like something meant for a stage.

Something meant to be controlled.

He knew immediately which one it was for.

The competition.

His fingers curled into the sheets. He could already imagine the way the corset would bite into his ribs, the way the high collar would brush against his throat, the way every movement would feel calculated and deliberate. The outfit wasn’t chosen for comfort or expression—it was chosen for image. For spectacle. For the kind of performance his parents valued.

It was beautiful. He couldn’t deny that.

But it wasn’t him.

None of it was.

There was no room in those clothes for his choices, his preferences, the quiet ways he liked to exist. They didn’t reflect the person he was trying to become—only the version of him his parents wanted to display.

A familiar, hollow resignation settled in his chest.

He didn’t really get a say.

He never had.

Wemmbu swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, staring at the outfits like they might change if he looked away. His jaw tightened.

Eventually, he stood.

The day had already been decided for him.

He stayed in his room.

There wasn’t really anywhere else to go, and even if there had been, he doubted he would’ve been allowed to wander freely. So he sat on the edge of the bed and read the book he’d brought with him, turning pages more out of habit than interest. The words blurred together after a while. He kept rereading the same paragraph, his mind drifting no matter how hard he tried to anchor it. Every few minutes, his eyes would flick back to the door, half-expecting it to open without warning.

He couldn’t practice. His instruments sat untouched in the corner, too loud a defiance to risk right now. He couldn’t check his phone. That option had been violently removed. All he could do was wait.

Time stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

Eventually, there was a knock—brief, sharp, more of a formality than a question. Before he could respond, the door opened.

A woman stepped inside, carrying a rolling case full of tools. She looked professional and tired in the way people who worked for his parents often did. Efficient. Polite. Distant.

“I’m the hairstylist,” she said calmly. “You’ll need to change. I’ll be right outside.”

Then she stepped back out, closing the door behind her.

Wemmbu exhaled slowly and stood. He changed quickly, fingers moving with the quiet urgency of someone who didn’t want to be caught taking too long. The clothes resisted him just a little—buttons stiff, fabric unfamiliar—but nothing went truly wrong. Of course it didn’t. Everything had been measured, tailored, adjusted in advance.

The vest fit him perfectly. Snug at the waist, structured through the shoulders. It molded to him like it had always been meant to. The dark fabric contrasted sharply with the crisp white dress shirt beneath it, the brightness almost jarring against the somber tones of the suit. When he looked down at himself, he barely recognized the person staring back.

He looked… presentable. Impressive, even.

That made his stomach twist.

Once he was dressed, he called out softly, and the hairstylist returned. Up close, she seemed kinder than most. Her name was Hannah, she said, and she spoke to him like he was a person rather than an accessory.

She worked quickly but gently, fingers practiced as they moved through his hair. She braided it neatly at the back of his head, clean and simple, leaving a few strands loose at the front in a way that looked intentional without being severe. Every movement was precise, calculated to survive hours of attention and scrutiny.

“You have good hair,” she said absently, as if commenting on the weather.

“Thank you,” he replied, just as quietly.

She finished soon after, packing up her tools with the same efficiency she’d arrived with. She wished him luck—not pointedly, not with expectations attached—just a small, genuine kindness. Then she was gone, leaving the room as pristine and controlled as before.

Wemmbu sat back down on the bed.

The suit felt heavy now, like it weighed more than it should. The fabric restricted his movement just enough to remind him of its presence. He stared at his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers slowly, testing whether they still belonged to him.

It felt like he wasn’t in control of his own body.

Like he was being moved through the day on invisible strings, pulled into place by someone else’s hands. Every choice already made. Every step predetermined. He was dressed, styled, prepared—yet none of it felt like it belonged to him.

The realization settled deep in his chest, cold and suffocating.

It was a horrible feeling.

They sent someone to get him shortly after.

A maid knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response, informing him it was time in the same flat tone one might use to announce the weather. Wemmbu stood, smoothed the vest out of habit, and followed her out. His steps were stiff, measured. Every movement felt observed, even here in the quieter halls.

Downstairs, the house had transformed.

The once-sterile rooms were now crowded with people—too many people. Guests filled every corner, clustered in tight circles with glasses of champagne in hand. Laughter rang out, sharp and rehearsed. The air smelled like expensive perfume and polished wood and something cloyingly sweet beneath it all. People talked loudly, confidently, the way people did when they knew they belonged.

They were eating, drinking, networking—sliming up to his parents with wide smiles and too-familiar touches. Compliments were tossed around like currency. Praise layered on praise. Wemmbu felt sick watching it, like he was witnessing some elaborate ritual he was never meant to understand.

His mother spotted him almost immediately.

Her eyes lit up—not with warmth, but with calculation—and she waved him over sharply, fingers already reaching for him before he’d even closed the distance. She was speaking with another couple, both impeccably dressed, their expressions pleasant in that empty, predatory way.

“Here he is!” she announced brightly, tightening her grip around his wrist as if afraid he might bolt. “Mister and Miss Smith, meet my son, Wemmbu!”

Her nails pressed into his skin, a silent warning.

“Hello, Mister and Miss Smith,” Wemmbu said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The couple smiled—wide, polished smiles that didn’t touch their eyes.

“Oh, Wemmbu!” the woman exclaimed, tilting her head as she looked him up and down far too openly. “We were wondering when we’d finally get to meet you.” She laughed lightly, then turned to his mother. “Are you sure he’s your son? With that hair, he looks more like your daughter!”

She laughed again, louder this time, as if she’d said something delightfully clever.

Wemmbu felt his stomach drop.

His mother’s smile sharpened instantly, lips stretching just a fraction too tight. Her grip on his wrist tightened to the point of pain.

“Oh, you know how it is!” she replied breezily, waving a dismissive hand while keeping him firmly in place. “We keep trying to get him to cut it off, but he has a mind of his own.” She laughed—that fake, brittle sound that scraped against Wemmbu’s nerves. “Such a phase.”

The man chuckled obligingly. “Kids, right?”

Wemmbu said nothing.

He stared at a point just over their shoulders, his face carefully neutral. Inside, something small and furious curled in on itself. He felt reduced—paraded out, commented on, corrected in public like an embarrassing accessory rather than a person.

His mother’s thumb dug into the inside of his wrist, grounding him in the worst possible way.

“Isn’t he lovely?” she continued, tone syrupy. “So talented, too. Violinist. Competing tomorrow, actually.”

“Oh?” Miss Smith’s eyes gleamed with interest. “How impressive.”

“Yes,” his mother said proudly. “He’s worked very hard. Haven’t you, Wemmbu?”

Her nails pressed in again.

“Yes, Mother,” he replied automatically.

She beamed, satisfied.

They talked over him after that—about investments, about influence, about future opportunities—his name dropped here and there like a bargaining chip. Wemmbu stood silently at her side, wrist still trapped in her grip, feeling more like property than a son.

He wondered, distantly, how long he would be expected to smile and endure before he was allowed to disappear again.

Turns out it would be hours.

Hours of comments about him disguised as compliments—so unique, so interesting, such an unconventional look—each one landing like a thinly veiled critique. Hours of jokes that weren’t really jokes, laughter that lingered a second too long, eyes that slid over him as if assessing his worth. Hours of standing still while his father’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to remind him to behave, to perform, to exist correctly. Sometimes it was his mother’s grip instead, nails pressing into his arm under the guise of affection.

Hours of smiling on command.

Hours of nodding at conversations he wasn’t part of, chiming in only when prompted, offering polite, rehearsed responses that meant nothing. He felt like a prop—brought out when convenient, adjusted when necessary, put back when not needed. Every laugh scraped at him. Every glass clinked together sounded too loud. The air felt thick, oppressive, like he was slowly suffocating beneath silk and chandeliers.

His head began to ache again, a dull pressure building behind his eyes. His jaw hurt from holding it clenched. His shoulders burned from being held in place for so long. More than once, he caught himself drifting, imagining the quiet of his dorm room, the warmth of campus lights at night, the sound of laughter that didn’t feel sharp around the edges. He thought of Flame—unbidden, traitorously—and felt something twist painfully in his chest.

Eventually, mercifully, the party began to wind down.

Guests filtered out in waves, coats collected, final compliments exchanged. Promises to “keep in touch” floated through the halls, hollow and insincere. The laughter faded. The music stopped. One by one, the rooms emptied until the house felt cavernous again, echoing with absence.

At last, it was just the staff, his parents, and him.

The silence was worse somehow.

His father studied him for a long moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Wemmbu stood straight, hands folded neatly in front of him, heart pounding as if he were awaiting a verdict.

“You did alright today, Wemmbu,” his father said finally. “You weren’t a total embarrassment.” He paused, then added coolly, “Next time, try to socialize more.”

The words hit harder than any insult. Not a total embarrassment. High praise.

“Yes, Father,” Wemmbu replied quietly. “May I go to my room?”

Another pause. Then a curt nod.

Wemmbu didn’t wait for anything else.

He turned on his heel and left, composure cracking the moment he hit the staircase. He climbed the steps quickly, then faster, his footsteps almost silent against the carpet. Once he reached his room, he shut the door behind him with more force than he intended, the sound sharp in the otherwise pristine space.

Only then did he breathe.

His hands were shaking as he tore off the suit, shrugging out of the vest, yanking the dress shirt over his head like it was burning him. Buttons clattered to the floor. The clothes pooled at his feet, expensive and immaculate and wrong. He kicked them aside without looking.

He pulled on something soft and familiar—loose fabric, worn in all the right places—and sank down onto the bed, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands.

His body felt hollow. Used. Like he’d been emptied out and left behind.

For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing shallowly, trying to convince himself he was still real. That he was more than what they’d paraded around downstairs. That this wasn’t all he was allowed to be.

But the house was quiet again.

And the quiet felt heavy.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

But his dreams weren’t much better.

At first, it almost felt kind.

He was running through familiar streets in Farlands City, the older parts with cracked sidewalks and corner stores that smelled like dust and sugar. The sun was warm on his back, the air thick with summer. He knew, somehow, that he had run away from home. The knowledge felt light in the dream—freeing, even. No rules. No eyes watching. Just the city and his own feet carrying him wherever he wanted to go.

He laughed as he ran, breathless and reckless.

Then he wasn’t looking where he was going.

He crashed into someone hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Wemmbu scraped his hands against the pavement as he tried to catch himself, the sting sharp but distant, like it was happening to someone else.

He groaned and pushed himself up, heart pounding, then looked down.

A boy lay beneath him.

Wild blond hair fanned out against the concrete, sunlight catching in it like it was made of gold. He was holding a bundle of sunflowers, their bright yellow petals vivid against the gray street. A few of the stems were bent now, petals scattered around them like dropped coins.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”Wemmbus voice rang out, small and childlike.

The boy laughed cheerful, painfully familiar laugh.

“It’s okay, I’m okay!” he said cheerfully, brushing himself off like nothing had happened. “Are you?”

Wemmbu stared at him for a second too long.

Slowly, he shifted off the boy and sat beside him on the pavement, the dream-world sun warm against his skin. He looked down at his hands again. The scrapes were shallow, a little blood welling up between his fingers.

“I’m okay,” he said softly. “I just scraped my hands a little.”

“That’s good!” the boy said immediately, beaming. He held out the sunflowers like they were an offering. “I’m Rejoice! What’s your name?”

Something in Wemmbu’s chest tightened.

“I’m Wemmbu,” he replied.

The name felt heavy the moment it left his mouth.

The dream flickered.

Time fractured into moments, snapping from one memory to the next without warning. They were children together—laughing, breathless, invincible. Playing hide and seek in narrow alleys and behind rusted fences. Climbing playground structures that were probably too tall, too dangerous, but never felt that way back then. Dirt under their nails. Knees perpetually bruised. Rejoice’s laughter echoing everywhere they went.

Then they were playing tag.

The air felt different. Sharper.

Wemmbu was it.

He chased Rejoice down the sidewalk, laughing, shouting, heart racing with the thrill of it. Rejoice was faster, always just out of reach, looking back over his shoulder as he ran, grin wide and careless.

“Can’t catch me!” he called.

“Hey—watch where you’re going!” Wemmbu shouted, panic spiking suddenly in his chest.

Rejoice didn’t hear him.

He ran straight into the street.

Time slowed.

Wemmbu saw the car before Rejoice did—a blur of metal and glass, moving far too fast. He opened his mouth to scream, lungs burning, the sound tearing out of his throat—

And then the impact.

The world exploded into noise.

The sickening crack of bone. Tires screeching as the driver slammed the brakes too late. The dull, horrible thump of a body hitting the asphalt.

Wemmbu’s scream ripped through the air, raw and animal.

He ran.

His legs felt like they were moving through water, every step too slow, every heartbeat too loud in his ears. He barely registered the car hesitating, then turning sharply, speeding away down the street.

He reached Rejoice and collapsed to his knees beside him.

“No—no, no, no,” he gasped, hands hovering uselessly, afraid to touch.

Rejoice’s arm was bent at an impossible angle. Blood soaked into his clothes, pooling beneath him, too dark, too much. His chest wasn’t moving. And his neck—

His neck was wrong.

Bent in a way no neck should ever be.

Wemmbu choked on a sob, hands shaking as he reached for him anyway, pressing his palms uselessly against wounds he couldn’t fix.

“I’m here,” he cried. “I’m here, I’m here, please—”

Rejoice’s eyes were half-open, glassy, unfocused. His lips parted like he was trying to say something, but no sound came out.

Wemmbu screamed again.

And the sound didn’t stop.

He shot up with a gasp, Rejoice’s name torn from his throat like a wound.

For a second, he didn’t know where he was. His heart was hammering so hard it hurt, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls as if he’d been running for miles. His hands clawed at the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric, half-expecting to feel warm asphalt, blood, broken petals.

But there was only silence.

Morning light crept in through the narrow window, pale and unforgiving. It painted the walls in soft gold and made the room look almost gentle—an illusion that didn’t fool him for a second. The fact that it was morning felt like a small mercy. At least the nightmare had released him.

Wemmbu swallowed hard and pressed a trembling hand to his face. His skin felt clammy. His eyes burned, but no tears came. They rarely did anymore.

He forced himself out of bed.

His legs were unsteady beneath him, knees threatening to buckle as soon as his feet hit the floor. He stood there for a moment, hunched slightly, breathing through the lingering panic. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened mirror across the room—pale, hollow-eyed, hair disheveled from restless sleep.

He needed a shower.

Anything to get the feeling of blood and guilt off his skin.

He stumbled toward the second door in his room and stepped into the bathroom. It was just as sterile as the bedroom—white tile, spotless counters, everything cold and impersonal. No clutter. No warmth. No evidence that a human being lived here.

He turned the water on hot and stepped under the spray fully clothed for a second before remembering himself, then slowly undressed with stiff, mechanical movements. The water beat down on him, steaming the air almost instantly. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting it soak his hair, his shoulders, his spine.

He stayed there for a long time.

Long enough for the water to start cooling. Long enough for his skin to redden. Long enough that the sounds of the house—distant footsteps, muted voices—faded into nothing.

But the memories didn’t wash away.

Rejoice’s laugh echoed in his head. The scream. The sickening snap of bone. Wemmbu scrubbed at his arms and chest until his skin stung, nails dragging red lines across himself like punishment. He pressed his forehead against the tile and breathed shakily, trying to ground himself in the present. He was here. He was alive. That was all he could manage.

Eventually, his strength gave out.

He turned the water off and stood there dripping, wrapped in the quiet, shoulders slumped. When he finally stepped out, he toweled off slowly and dressed without looking at himself again.

Today was competition day.

The thought settled into his gut like a stone.

His stomach twisted, nausea rising sharply as the reality of it pressed down on him. The stage. The audience. His parents watching from the front row, eyes sharp, measuring. Waiting for perfection. Waiting for something to brag about.

He leaned his hands against the counter and closed his eyes.

There was no running from this.

Chapter Text

He brushed his hair with the brush he had brought, slow and methodical, starting at the ends and carefully working his way up through the knots. Each stroke was deliberate, almost meditative. He couldn’t afford to be rough with it—not today. His hands knew the routine by heart, even if his mind felt far away, hovering somewhere between dread and numb resignation.

The competition loomed in his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to focus on the mundane task.

It was the biggest classical music competition in America. The kind of contest people built careers on. The kind parents boasted about for the rest of their lives. He was entered in the violin bracket, one of the most crowded and competitive categories, with four total rounds scheduled for a single, grueling day. At least that meant it would be over quickly. He wouldn’t have to stay here, under this roof, under their eyes, any longer than necessary.

After the first round, half the contestants would be eliminated.
After the second, half again.
After the third, only ten would remain.

Those ten would face the final round—the one where placements were decided. Only the top ten would place at all. Only the top three would receive a prize. Trophies. Scholarships. Endorsements. Futures neatly wrapped up in polished metal and applause.

For Wemmbu, none of that mattered.

He wasn’t competing for a prize.

He was expected to win.

First place wasn’t a goal; it was an obligation. An unspoken rule that hovered over every note he played. And if he didn’t?

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Wemmbu set the brush aside and picked up the blow dryer, turning it on. The low hum filled the bathroom, a steady, mind-numbing sound that drowned out his spiraling thoughts. Warm air rushed over his scalp as he dried his hair slowly, guiding it with his fingers until it fell the way it was supposed to. Controlled. Presentable. Perfect.

When he was finished, he turned the dryer off and stood there in the sudden quiet, hair falling freely around his shoulders. He decided to leave it open today. Braided or tied back would’ve been safer, more practical—but something in him resisted that small concession. If he was going to be paraded around like a doll, he at least wanted this much.

He stepped out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, his gaze immediately drawn to the outfit laid out on the bed.

Show clothes.

His stomach tightened again.

He would have to leave soon. He could feel it—an approaching inevitability like footsteps in the hall. There was no clock in his room. No watch on his wrist. Time here was something controlled for him, not by him.

He changed slowly.

First, the shirt. The fabric was soft and expensive, cool against his skin. He slid it on and carefully buttoned the high collar around his neck, the material sitting snugly against his throat. Then the wrists—tight cuffs that contrasted with the wide, flowing sleeves. Restrictive, but intentional.

Then the pants. Simple, tailored, falling cleanly down his legs. He fastened them and took a moment to adjust the decorative buttons near the ankles, making sure everything sat exactly as it should.

Next came the corset.

He hesitated for just a second before putting it on. It wrapped around his waist, white and structured, small buttons lining the front. He closed those first, then reached behind himself to find the laces. His fingers worked slowly, pulling them tighter bit by bit, drawing the fabric in. He expected discomfort, pressure, that familiar feeling of being squeezed into place—but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

Tailored. Of course it was.

Finally, he slipped on the overcoat. It settled over his shoulders like a heavy mantle, arms sliding through the side openings. The fabric was breathtakingly detailed, patterns woven into it so finely they almost shimmered in the light. Two stripes ran down the front, silver stitching catching his eye, elegant and precise.

A masterpiece.

He felt like an accessory.

Before leaving, he sat down and carefully removed the bandages from his fingers. The skin underneath was faintly pink, the wounds healed cleanly. He flexed his fingers slowly, testing them. They felt fine.

And even if they hadn’t?

It wouldn’t have mattered.

Showing up injured would look bad. Imperfect. Weak.

He smoothed the last crease from his sleeves and stood there, fully dressed, staring at the door.

Ready or not, this was happening.

He grabbed his violin before opening the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway. The instrument felt familiar and grounding in his hands, the worn case a small comfort against his palm. His steps were nearly silent as he moved down the corridor, past closed doors and framed art he’d learned to ignore years ago, then down the sweeping staircase until he reached the bottom floor.

The house felt hollow.

His mother stood near the large mirror by the entrance, fastening a pair of elegant earrings. She didn’t turn when he entered the room—she didn’t need to. She saw him in the reflection almost immediately.

“There you are, Wemmbu! We were starting to worry you’d overslept,” she said lightly, her tone practiced, pleasant.

“I don’t really have an alarm anymore,” Wemmbu muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

Janet’s reflection stilled. Her pleasant expression sharpened into something colder.

“Now, now,” she said, voice still smooth but edged. “You know exactly why we had to break it. That was entirely your fault.”

Wemmbu swallowed and nodded. Arguing would only stretch the moment out. It was easier to accept it, to let it pass over him like everything else.

“Put your shoes on. We’re leaving in five minutes,” she added, clicking her heels as she stepped away from the mirror.

Wemmbu crossed the foyer to the shoe cabinet. The pair chosen for him sat neatly at the front—simple white loafers, spotless. He slipped them on, adjusting them until they fit just right. Everything about today demanded precision.

His mother reappeared almost immediately, her pace brisk.

“Come on, let’s go!”

He followed her out of the house and into the driveway, where a sleek black car waited. The door to the back seat opened easily, and he climbed in, setting his violin carefully beside him. To his surprise, his father was already in the driver’s seat.

His mother settled into the passenger seat and shut the door.

Jack didn’t look back. He simply started the engine.

The car pulled away smoothly, gliding down the long driveway and onto the road. Buildings passed by in a blur—familiar streets, familiar landmarks, all blending together as if they meant nothing. Wemmbu stared out the window, watching the city slide past, feeling strangely detached from it all.

After a while, the car slowed.

They had arrived.

The building loomed ahead of them, massive and imposing. It was constructed from huge stone bricks, weathered yet pristine, with towering pillars supporting wide overhangs. The roof was tiled in green, catching the light in a way that made it look almost regal. It didn’t feel like a place for music—it felt like a monument.

Jack parked close to the entrance.

Before Wemmbu could open the door, his father spoke.

“Wemmbu,” he said sharply.

Wemmbu froze.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Wemmbu nodded stiffly, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of his violin case.

Inside, the building buzzed with quiet tension. Contestants and their families filled the halls, voices hushed, footsteps echoing against polished floors. Signs directed people toward different registration tables for each category.

This was where they separated.

His parents turned toward the seating area, already scanning for the best view, while Wemmbu headed toward the violin sign-in. He wrote his name and the songs he would be playing neatly on the sheet, accepted his starting number, and clipped it carefully into place.

Then he moved into the waiting area.

The room was filled with other violinists—some pacing, some stretching their fingers, some sitting stiffly with instruments clutched to their chests like lifelines. The air was thick with nervous energy, the faint sound of tuning bleeding in from every corner.

Wemmbu found a seat and sat down, resting his violin case against his leg.
This was it.

He waited.

His starting number was 23, which meant he had a long time until his name was called. He watched other contestants go on stage—some poised and confident, others visibly trembling as they stepped into the bright lights and silence of anticipation. One by one they entered, played, and exited, their footsteps echoing in the hall like clockwork.

Finally, the moment arrived.

“Number 23, Wemmbu—playing Ysaÿe Sonata No. 6!” a clear voice rang out through the overhead speakers.

Wemmbu stood, heart ticking unevenly against his ribs, and walked toward the stage.

The lights hit him the moment he passed through the doorway—too bright, too white, like a spotlight meant to expose every imperfection. He blinked against them and saw his parents seated in the first row, directly behind the panel of judges. His father sat motionless, expression unreadable. His mother had already straightened her posture, eyes fixed on him like he was both a prize and a promise.

He paused for a brief second at the edge of the stage, took a breath, and then lifted his bow.

The first movement of Eugène Ysaÿe’s Sonata No. 6 is a storm—literally. It opens with restless, cascading figures that climb and tumble against each other. Harmonies scrape and resolve, often sliding into unexpected dissonance before settling into tense beauty. For a performer, the piece demands everything: precision, fire, control, abandon, and a pulse that never quite stays comfortable in one place for long.

His bow touched the string.

The opening notes flickered into the space—rapid, exacting, a flurry of energy that pulled the audience in like a sudden gust of wind. The sound was fierce yet refined, its momentum unrelenting. It wasn’t gentle or lyrical at first—it was fierce, almost defiant, demanding attention and respect. Each phrase leapt into the next with ruthless intent, captures attention like heat lightning across a dark sky.

The piece is known for its contrasting character: passages of fiery intensity give way to lyrical lines that feel unbearably honest, almost vulnerable. In the second section, rhythmic, accented jabs drive the music forward—a heartbeat quickening under duress—before melting into silky, singing melodies that demand expressive depth. The violin sings with a voice that is at once raw and breathlessly poised, as if struggling to speak through chaos toward clarity.

As Wemmbu played, he became the conduit for that struggle.

His left hand danced over the fingerboard with merciless precision; his bow strokes were decisive, every attack and release shaped with acute awareness. There were moments of fierce spurts—rapid arpeggios like silver sparks against black velvet—and moments where his tone softened into aching warmth, winded whispers that held their own fragile light in the midst of the piece’s tempestuous structure.

The middle section demanded a different kind of mastery: harmonics that hovered like ghosts, quick string crossings that required both technical fearlessness and tender control. Wemmbu delivered them with an uncanny balance—sharp enough to cut through the hall, gentle enough to trace the emotional seams in the music.

Toward the final passage, the tempo climbed again, inevitability folding into accelerating waves of sound. The bright tone of the violin shimmered with urgency and desire, every trailing phrase thick with meaning. In those final moments, the notes seemed to leap forward like desperate breaths, pushing past doubt, past fatigue, toward something pure and unfiltered.

He ended on a high, open note that hung in the air long after his bow stopped moving.

The final note lingered—thin, bright, impossibly fragile—before dissolving into the vastness of the hall.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then applause broke out.

It started cautiously, scattered claps rippling through the audience as if people weren’t quite sure whether they were allowed to breathe yet. Then it swelled—hands coming together louder, faster, filling the space he had just carved open with sound. The applause rolled over him in waves, echoing off the stone walls and high ceiling, warm and overwhelming all at once.

Some people stood. Others leaned forward, whispering to one another. A few of the judges exchanged brief looks, scribbling notes, their expressions carefully neutral but attentive. Wemmbu could hear the clapping clearly now—sharp, insistent, undeniably real.

He bowed, once, then again, movements automatic, drilled into muscle memory from years of performances. His grip on the violin tightened slightly, knuckles pale, as if letting go might make everything disappear.

Then he straightened, turned, and walked off the stage as the applause slowly faded behind him—leaving only the steady thud of his heartbeat and the weight of what was still to come.

He was led back into the waiting area, where time seemed to stretch and warp in strange, uncomfortable ways. Chairs creaked softly as people shifted. Someone sniffled quietly a few rows away. Another contestant stared at the floor so hard it looked like they were trying to disappear into it. Wemmbu sat very still, violin case resting between his feet, hands folded tightly in his lap to keep them from shaking.

Eventually, an official stepped up to the microphone.

They began reading out the eliminated numbers.

Each number felt like a small execution. With every one that was called, someone flinched, shoulders sagged, breath caught. A few people stood immediately and left, faces stiff and hollow. Others hesitated, blinking rapidly, before gathering their things with trembling hands. One girl broke down sobbing as she stood, clutching her violin to her chest like a lifeline. No one looked at her. No one knew what to say.

Wemmbu barely breathed.

He counted silently as the list went on. One. Two. Three. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the room. His number hovered at the edge of his thoughts like a blade.

But it never came.

The official finished reading. There was a pause, then a calm announcement of who would advance.

Wemmbu was still seated.

Still there.

Still in.

A strange sensation washed over him—not relief, exactly, but a numb acceptance. Of course he made it. He was supposed to. Anything less would have been unacceptable. His parents’ faces flashed through his mind unbidden, already measuring him against perfection rather than the people who had just been cut.

There wasn’t much time to linger on it.

The next round moved quickly, efficiently, like the contest itself was trying to shed excess weight. Fewer contestants meant shorter waits, tighter schedules, sharper expectations. Names were called in quicker succession now, the air buzzing with nervous energy.

When Wemmbu’s turn came again, he rose smoothly and walked back onto the stage.

This time, he played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—an arrangement for solo violin that demanded clarity, power, and absolute control. The opening motif rang out sharp and unmistakable, each note struck with deliberate precision. There was no room for softness here, no place to hide. The music was relentless, driving forward with an iron will, and Wemmbu matched it step for step.

His bow arm burned. His fingers moved without hesitation, biting into the strings, pulling out the familiar fury and defiance embedded in the piece. It felt less like expression and more like endurance—like proving something through sheer force of discipline.

When the final note ended, he didn’t linger.

A brief bow. A turn. Then he was gone, exiting the stage before the echo fully died.

They announced the eliminations again not long after.

More numbers. More people standing. More crushed expressions and quiet devastation.

Wemmbu listened, detached, eyes fixed straight ahead.

His number wasn’t called.

Again.

He was still in the competition.

The field was narrowing now. The pressure tightening. Each round stripping away anyone who couldn’t endure.

Wemmbu barely registered the voices calling contestants forward, the words blurring together into meaningless noise. Everything felt distant, like he was underwater. His hands were cold despite the warmth of the hall, his shoulders tight from hours of barely letting himself breathe.

Then his number was called again.

The sound cut through the haze like a knife.

He stood on instinct more than intention, fingers tightening around his violin as he walked back onto the stage. The lights were just as blinding as before, hot and unforgiving, washing the audience into a single dark mass. His parents were still there. Always there. He didn’t look at them this time.

This time, he was playing Paganini’s Caprice No. 5.

He lifted his violin, tucked it beneath his chin, and raised his bow.

The first notes exploded out of him.

The piece was vicious—relentless, breathless, almost violent in its speed. A storm of sound poured from the strings as his fingers flew across the fingerboard in rapid-fire runs, barely seeming to touch before leaping to the next position. The notes cascaded downward in razor-sharp scales, each one precise, unforgiving. There was no room to hide in this piece. No long lyrical lines. No mercy.

His bow bounced and skated across the strings in controlled chaos, ricochet strokes firing off in blisteringly fast succession. It sounded like laughter and fury tangled together, like the violin itself was being pushed to the edge of what it could survive. The music surged forward endlessly, a kind of perpetual motion that refused to slow down, refused to let either the player or the listener breathe.

Wemmbu didn’t blink.

His jaw ached from how tightly he was holding the violin. His wrist burned. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck. But he played on, pouring everything into it—every sleepless night, every sharp word, every hand on his shoulder that had felt more like a chain than comfort. The notes were clean. Brutally clean. Each run landed exactly where it should, each shift sharp and fearless.

To anyone watching, it was dazzling.

To Wemmbu, it felt like running flat out with something snapping at his heels.

The final notes came in a blistering rush, the bow tearing through the strings one last time before he cut the sound off cleanly. Silence slammed into the room.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the applause hit.

It rolled over him in a wave—loud, sudden, overwhelming. Some people were on their feet. Others leaned forward, whispering urgently to one another. The judges scribbled notes, their expressions tight with focus.

Wemmbu lowered his violin slowly, hands trembling now that it was over. He gave a short, stiff bow, eyes fixed on the stage floor, and turned to leave before the noise could sink in too deeply.

He didn’t let himself feel proud.

He just walked offstage, heart hammering, knowing that surviving this round didn’t mean he was safe.

It only meant they expected more.Elimination time came.

This time, they read off the people who weren’t eliminated.

The room felt tighter somehow, the air heavier, every breath caught in the silence between numbers.

“Number 36.”

A pause.

“Number 28.”

Another pause. Chairs creaked. Someone swallowed loudly.

“Number 5. Number 44. Number 47. Number 51.”

With each name, Wemmbu’s pulse climbed higher, pounding in his ears until he was sure it had to be audible. His fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his coat, nails pressing into his palms.

“Number 16. Number 83. Number 75.”

There was only one spot left.

His chest felt too tight. His lungs burned.

“And lastly… Number 23.”

For half a second, the words didn’t register.

Then they hit him all at once.

His number.

He was still in.

Top ten.

The room stirred—quiet murmurs, sharp inhales, the scrape of chairs. Some contestants slumped as if the strength had drained out of them. Others stared at the floor, blinking hard, jaws clenched. The eliminated filed out slowly, shoulders hunched, footsteps echoing too loudly against the floor. The door closed behind them with a sound that felt permanent.

Wemmbu didn’t look.

He couldn’t.

He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed ahead, his thoughts narrowing until there was room for only one thing. The noise faded. The people blurred. His heartbeat steadied into something cold and sharp.

He was third to be called.

When his number echoed through the hall again, his body moved before his mind caught up. He stood, violin case light in his grip despite the weight pressing down on his chest, and walked back onto the stage.

The lights were unforgiving, bleaching the world into white and shadow. He could feel his parents’ eyes on him immediately—his father rigid and assessing, his mother’s gaze sharp with expectation. No encouragement. No reassurance. Just judgment waiting at the end of the line.

Wemmbu took his place.

This was it.

His final piece.

Paganini’s “God Save the King.”

A piece designed to break violinists.

He lifted his violin.

For a fraction of a second, there was nothing but silence.

Then he began.

The opening cut through the hall—bright, biting, almost taunting. The familiar theme twisted under Paganini’s hands into something merciless, and Wemmbu followed it flawlessly. His fingers flew across the fingerboard, snapping into harmonics that rang clear and glassy. The bow dug into the strings, drawing out a sharp, commanding tone that filled the space without wavering.

The variations escalated quickly.

Blistering runs poured out in precise cascades, each note articulated cleanly despite the speed. Left-hand pizzicato snapped mid-phrase, sharp and percussive, before his hand returned seamlessly to the neck. Double stops rang out in perfect alignment, stacked notes screaming together without a hint of strain. String crossings came fast and violent, the bow dancing dangerously close to chaos but never tipping into it.

It was terrifyingly controlled.

Then—halfway through, in one of the most unforgiving passages—

His finger slipped.

Just barely.

One note came out a hair flat, the smallest fracture in the sound, so brief most of the audience wouldn’t even register it as a mistake. But Wemmbu felt it like a knife between his ribs.

His heart stuttered.

For a split second, panic flared—white-hot and dizzying. His father’s voice echoed in his head. Perfect or nothing. His grip threatened to tighten, to spiral.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t hesitate.

He adjusted instantly, correcting the intonation on the very next note, burying the mistake beneath a surge of speed and precision so aggressive it was almost defiant. The music surged forward, relentless, as if daring anyone to notice the flaw hidden deep in the torrent of sound.

The final variation exploded.

Arpeggios tore upward in a violent rush, his bow arm burning as he drove the sound higher and higher. The violin screamed, brilliant and unyielding, until the last run shot out like lightning—

And then—

Silence.

Wemmbu lowered his bow.

For a heartbeat, the room was completely still.

Then the applause crashed down.

It started uncertain, stunned—then grew rapidly into a wave of sound. Hands clapped hard, some people rising to their feet without realizing it. A few gasps and murmurs cut through the noise. Even the judges leaned forward slightly, exchanging brief glances before schooling their expressions back into neutrality.

Wemmbu didn’t bow deeply.

He didn’t smile.

His hands were shaking—just slightly—but he kept them still as he acknowledged the applause and turned away from the stage.

As he walked off, the echo of that single wrong note still rang in his ears.

Now there was nothing left to do.

Only wait—and wonder if almost perfect would be enough.

But he already knew it wouldn't be.

Chapter Text

Sitting there and waiting for the results was unbearable.

It probably hadn’t taken very long in reality—maybe only half an hour—but time had lost all meaning for Wemmbu. Every second stretched thin, pulled taut until it felt like it might snap. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, uneven, his hands cold despite the warmth of the stage lights. He stood perfectly still, afraid that if he moved even a little, something inside him would come apart.

Eventually, all ten of them were called back onto the stage.

They lined up by number, a neat row of white, black, and muted colors beneath the glaring lights. Wemmbu stood in his place, posture rigid, eyes forward. He could feel the weight of the hall pressing in on him—the audience’s expectant hush, the judges’ unreadable expressions.

His gaze flickered, just once, across the crowd.

His parents were easy to find.

They were staring straight at him, unblinking. His father’s jaw was tight, his posture stiff with anticipation. His mother’s expression was carefully composed, lips pressed into a thin line. Their eyes bored into him, sharp and assessing, as if they were already measuring the outcome against him.

The announcer stepped forward, shuffling a few papers in his hands.

“Okay,” he said brightly, voice echoing through the hall, “first of all, I’d like to thank everybody for participating. This has been a wonderful display of everyone’s musical talents!”

Polite applause followed.

“I’ll be reading out the placements from last to first.”

The words landed heavily in Wemmbu’s chest.

The announcer began reading them off slowly. Each name was met with clapping, some louder than others. A few contestants smiled, some looked relieved just to have placed at all. Others accepted their position with tight expressions and stiff bows.

Wemmbu barely registered any of it.

The list narrowed.

The air felt thinner.

Finally, the announcer reached the top three.

“In third place,” he announced, drawing it out just long enough to make Wemmbu’s stomach twist, “we have—Sara Don!”

The audience erupted into cheers. Applause thundered through the hall, louder and warmer this time. Wemmbu’s eyes drifted toward the crowd and landed on a couple near the front, jumping up and down, hands thrown into the air. They were laughing, crying—clearly overjoyed.

Probably her parents.

How lucky, Wemmbu thought distantly.

They were happy about third place.

Sara stepped forward, her face lit up with disbelief and joy. The announcer placed the medal around her neck, and she bowed slightly, grinning, before returning to the line.

There were only two of them left now.

Wemmbu’s pulse hammered violently in his throat.

“And in second place we have…” the announcer paused, smiling at the tension he’d created, “…Wemmbu!”

For a moment, everything stopped.

Second?

The word echoed hollowly in his head.

The applause reached him, but it sounded wrong—distant, muffled, like he was underwater. He felt disconnected from his own body, from the sound, from the stage beneath his feet. His eyes drifted back to his parents without meaning to.

His father’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white.

His mother’s gaze had hardened, disappointment cutting sharp through her carefully controlled expression.

Something inside Wemmbu sank, heavy and final.

He walked forward when he was supposed to, movements automatic, legs carrying him on their own. The announcer smiled as he slipped the medal over Wemmbu’s head, the cool weight of it settling against his chest.

Silver.

Not gold.

Wemmbu bowed slightly, eyes dropping to the floor, refusing to look at anyone. He stepped back into line, the medal resting against his collarbone like a verdict.

There was still one name left to be called.

But for Wemmbu, it already felt over.

He couldn’t remember who got first.
Couldn’t recall walking off the stage, the medal being taken from him, the car ride home, or even the front door opening.

What he did remember was the sudden snap of his head to the side as the sharp sting of a slap bloomed across his cheek.

For a second, everything rang.

Slowly, dazed, he turned his head back to face his father.

Jack looked completely furious. His face was flushed a deep, angry red, veins standing out at his temples. His breathing came hard and fast, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a race. His mouth was moving—fast, aggressive, words spilling out in a torrent.

Wemmbu couldn’t hear any of it.

The world felt muffled, like cotton stuffed in his ears. He recognized the shapes of the words instead of their sounds. Failure. Embarrassment. Waste. Letting them down.

He’d heard it all before.

His father’s face twisted when he realized Wemmbu wasn’t reacting.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?!” Jack roared.

The sound slammed into him all at once, sudden and overwhelming.

Before Wemmbu could even flinch, Jack’s leg came up. The kick connected with his stomach hard enough to knock the breath straight out of him. The air left his lungs in a silent gasp as he was sent sprawling backward.

He hit the marble floor with a dull, hollow thud.

Pain exploded through his head as it struck the cold stone. Bright spots danced across his vision, the ceiling blurring and doubling above him. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, curled instinctively inward, hands clutching at his stomach as his body tried desperately to remember how to breathe.

His chest burned.

Each inhale came shallow and panicked, like his lungs refused to cooperate.

Jack loomed over him, still shouting. The words finally started bleeding back in—how second place meant nothing, how he’d humiliated the family, how all that training, all that money, had been wasted.

“Do you have any idea how you made us look?” his father snapped. “Second. Second is just another word for losing.”

Wemmbu squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t cry. He’d learned long ago that crying only made it worse. Instead, he stared blankly at the polished floor when he opened his eyes again, watching his distorted reflection tremble in the marble.

“I—I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice barely audible, throat raw.

Jack scoffed.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he said coldly. “You don’t get to be sorry. You get to be better.”

There was a pause.

He didn’t notice his father turn back at first. Didn’t register the shadow falling over him until a hand fisted itself into the front of his shirt and yanked him up off the floor like he weighed nothing.

The motion sent a sharp spike of pain through his head.

“Look at me,” Jack snarled.

Wemmbu’s feet barely touched the ground. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against his father’s wrist, nails digging in without effect. His vision swam as he was forced upright, his spine slamming against the wall behind him.

“I said look at me!”

Jack shook him once—hard—his teeth clicking together as his head snapped back. Wemmbu forced his eyes up, meeting his father’s furious glare. He immediately regretted it.

“You had one job,” Jack continued, his voice low and venomous now. “One. And you couldn’t even do that.”

Another shove. This one sent Wemmbu sliding sideways, his shoulder hitting the wall painfully before he lost balance and stumbled back to the floor. He barely had time to brace himself before a hand came down again—this time striking his face, not as sharp as the first slap but heavier, full of disgust.

His ears rang.

“Do you know how much we sacrificed for you?” Jack went on, pacing like a caged animal. “How much money, how much time? And this is what we get?”

Wemmbu tried to speak. Tried to apologize again. The words caught in his throat.

That seemed to make it worse.

Jack’s foot nudged his side—not a kick this time, but a warning. Then another, harder. Wemmbu curled instinctively, arms coming up to protect his head, breath hitching painfully.

“Pathetic,” his father spat. “Lying there like this. This is why you lost. Weakness.”

The word landed heavier than any blow.

For a moment, Wemmbu thought he might throw up. His body felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him anymore. Each sound—the sharp click of his father’s shoes, the echo of his voice—felt delayed, unreal.

Finally, Jack stepped back.

“Get up,” he ordered. “And don’t you dare show your face like this. We have a reputation.”

Wemmbu didn’t move fast enough.

Jack grabbed him again, hauling him to his feet only to shove him forward toward the hallway. Wemmbu stumbled, barely catching himself on the doorframe, his hands shaking violently.

“Go to your room,” Jack said coldly. “And think about how you’re going to fix this. Because next time? There won’t be excuses.”

The door slammed shut behind him moments later.

Wemmbu stood there for a long time, pressed against the wall, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Slowly, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

His whole body hurt.

But worse than the pain was the certainty settling deep in his bones:

No matter how hard he tried,
it would never be enough.

He felt something liquid and warm run down his face. He barely registered it at first, too numb to react. Only when it reached his lips did he flinch. He gently lifted his hand and touched his nose.

Blood.

Bright red against his fingers. It dripped slowly, staining the white fabric of his clothes in ugly, blooming patches. Another thing ruined. Another mark he would have to hide.

He wasn’t staying here.

He was leaving. Now.

Wemmbu didn’t care that it was already late at night. Didn’t care that the roads would be dark, that exhaustion tugged at his bones, that he’d probably only arrive sometime in the morning. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting out—putting distance between himself and this house, these walls, this life.

He pushed himself up from the floor, his body protesting with every movement, and walked slowly toward his room.

His room.

The thought almost made him laugh. As if it could even be called that. It had never been his—just another space he was allowed to occupy as long as he performed well enough.

He closed the door behind him more harshly than necessary. The sound echoed, sharp and final. Without hesitation, he tore off his performance clothes, fingers clumsy with urgency and pain. He didn’t want them touching his skin for a second longer. The fabric fell to the floor in a heap, elegant and expensive and meaningless.

He pulled on whatever was closest—soft sweatpants, a worn tank top. Clothes that felt like him. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he paused.

There was a red and swollen mark blooming across his shoulder where he’d hit the wall. It would probably turn into a nasty bruise soon. His face looked pale, eyes rimmed red, a line of blood still clinging beneath his nose.

He looked… small.

Wemmbu turned away before he could think about it too much.

He packed quickly, hands moving on instinct. There wasn’t much to take—there never was. He also hadn't brought much with him. Everything he truly cared about had always fit into a suitcase and a backpack. Books, clothes, a few personal things. Proof, he thought bitterly, of how little space he’d ever been allowed to take up.

Within minutes, it was done.

He hauled his bags down the stairs, every step sending dull aches through his body. His shoulder throbbed. His head felt heavy. Breathing hurt more than it should have. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The house felt like it was closing in on him, like if he stayed any longer it might swallow him whole.

In the entrance hall, something familiar caught his eye.

His violin.

It was lying there carelessly, abandoned, probably dropped by someone who hadn’t even noticed—or cared. His heart twisted painfully. He crossed the room and picked it up with careful hands, holding it close to his chest for just a second longer than necessary.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to it, though he wasn’t sure why.

It took two trips to load everything into the car—his suitcase, his backpack, his violin, his other instrument. By the time he was done, his arms were shaking and his breath came in shallow bursts. Still, when he slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, something inside him finally loosened.

He started the engine.

The gate opened. The car rolled forward. The house disappeared in the rearview mirror.

With every mile he drove, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. His grip on the steering wheel loosened. The air felt easier to breathe. The farther he got, the quieter the echo of his father’s voice became.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden.

Were his friends okay? Were they worried? He hadn’t contacted them in three days. Guilt twisted in his chest at the thought. He hoped they weren’t blaming themselves. Hoped they weren’t searching for him, panicking.

He hoped Flame was okay.

The thought of him hurt the most. He hoped—desperately—that Flame could forgive him for leaving so suddenly. For disappearing right after that night. For not explaining, not saying goodbye. Wemmbu swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes.

He also hoped Parrot might talk to him again someday. That was… complicated. A mess he didn’t know how to untangle yet.

But later. He could think about all of that later.

For now, he kept driving, the dark road stretching endlessly ahead of him. The future was uncertain, frightening, wide open.

Everything would be okay.

At least—
he hoped so.

Chapter Text

Flame was scared.

He hadn’t seen Wemmbu in four days. Four days of unanswered texts. Four days of calls that went straight to voicemail. Four days of waking up with a knot in his chest that never really went away.

Right now, the entire music club was crammed into the club room, but it felt emptier than ever. Parrot had insisted they should still meet up—boost morale, he’d said, like this was something that could be fixed by sitting in the same room together.

It wasn’t working.

Nobody was talking. Nobody was practicing. Instruments lay untouched, cases shut tight like they were holding their breath. The air was heavy, stale, weighed down by guilt and worry and things no one wanted to say out loud.

Flame sat on a beanbag in the corner, knees pulled up slightly, hands clenched and unclenched over and over again. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until his fingers started to ache. His thoughts kept spiraling, replaying every interaction with Wemmbu, every moment where he could’ve said something different. Something more.

I should’ve stopped him.
I should’ve followed him.
I should’ve known.

The pressure built until it had nowhere else to go.

“Fuck this.”

The word cut through the silence like a snapped string.

Everyone startled as Flame stood up abruptly, the beanbag shifting under him. His hands were shaking now, his chest tight, anger finally burning hotter than fear.

“All of this wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you, Parrot,” he snapped, voice sharp and raw. “If you hadn’t decided to make baseless assumptions, Wemmbu would still be here.”

The room went dead quiet.

Parrot looked up at him, eyes wide, clearly not expecting that. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked… small.

“I—” Parrot started, voice unsteady.

“No.” Flame cut him off immediately. He shook his head, teeth clenched, eyes burning. “No. Don’t. I don’t want to hear excuses. You didn’t even give him a chance.”

Parrot swallowed hard, guilt flashing across his face. “I didn’t know he’d—”

“No. Fuck this. Fuck you,” Flame said, his voice breaking despite himself. “I’m out.”

He turned before anyone could stop him.

The door slammed behind him with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the empty hallway beyond. Flame marched out of the building, his footsteps quick and uneven, breath coming too fast. The cool air outside hit him like a shock, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made everything feel sharper.

Inside the club room, no one spoke.

The echo of the slammed door lingered.

Egg stared at the floor, eyes glassy. Loppez rubbed her face with both hands. Wifies hugged his arms to his chest. Even Mane, usually the calmest among them, looked tense and unsure.

Parrot hadn’t moved.

He stood there, staring at the door Flame had just gone through, his jaw tight, shoulders stiff. Flame’s words replayed in his head over and over again, each one hitting harder than the last.

You kicked him out.
You didn’t give him a chance.

His hands curled slowly into fists.

Parrot didn’t try to justify it. Didn’t reach for anger or bitterness or pride.

He just felt sick.

What if this really was my fault?

Flame needed to cool off. The campus was still quiet this early in the morning, the air crisp and a little too calm for the storm raging in his chest. Only a handful of students were around—those cursed with early classes, moving sluggishly across paths with coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Flame kept his head down as he walked, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t trust himself to talk to anyone right now. He was too angry, too scared, too full of things he didn’t know how to put into words.

Parrot deserved his anger. Deserved every harsh word Flame had thrown at him and more. But that didn’t mean the rest of the world did.

His feet carried him on autopilot toward the parking lot. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he stepped off the paved path, the familiar sight of the bike racks coming into view. His bike was still there, exactly where he’d left it.

So was Wemmbu’s.

The purple bike sat untouched, dust gathered lightly on the frame. Four days. It had been four days and no one had moved it. Flame’s chest tightened painfully at the sight. It felt wrong, like a reminder frozen in time, proof that something was missing.

He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his keys, grounding himself in the familiar shape. Just a ride, he told himself. Just to burn off the anger. Just to clear his head.

He stepped closer to his bike and lifted the keys—

And then he heard it.

The low, unmistakable hum of an engine pulling into the lot.

Flame froze.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he turned his head.

A car rolled into view between the rows of parked vehicles, sunlight catching on glossy paint that was painfully familiar. Purple. Not just any purple—that purple. The exact shade Flame had memorized without meaning to.

His breath caught in his throat.

No.
There was no way.

His heart slammed against his ribs as the car slowed, then turned, then pulled into a spot right next to the bike racks. Right next to him. Flame stood there, completely rooted to the ground, mind screaming while his body refused to move. He barely registered the engine cutting off, the car settling into silence.

It took him far too long to realize it wasn’t leaving.

It was real.

By the time his legs finally remembered how to work, the car was already parked. Flame dropped his bike keys without noticing, the metallic clatter echoing loudly in the quiet lot as he rushed forward. His hand grabbed the driver’s door handle and yanked it open without hesitation.

And there he was.

Wemmbu sat in the driver’s seat, hands still on the steering wheel like he hadn’t quite let go yet. His hair was a complete mess, strands falling loose around his face, dark circles shadowing his eyes. He looked thinner somehow. Smaller. Like the past few days had carved something out of him.

But he was there.

Flame didn’t care about anything else.

Wemmbu was back.