I stopped short, swaying on my feet.
Standing in the hallway, clutching a stack of textbooks to her chest, was Elara.
She looked impeccable. Her uniform was crisp, her black hair fell in a perfect sheet down her back, and she radiated an aura of competence that made me feel like a crumpled receipt.
She stopped, her eyes widening slightly as she took in my appearance.
"Ren?"
I tried to stand up straighter, but my knees were jelly. "Hey, Elara. Just... freshening up."
"Freshening up?" Her gaze traveled from my messy hair to my untucked shirt, and finally landed on the blood under my nose. "You look like you just went twelve rounds with a vending machine."
"The vending machine cheated," I croaked. "It had a mean left hook."
She didn't smile. Her eyes narrowed, scanning me. I held my breath. Could she see the residue of the magic? The faint golden glow fading from my fingertips?
"You're shaking," she stated flatly.
"Low blood sugar," I lied. "Forgot to eat lunch. You know how it is. Growing boy. Metabolism of a hummingbird."
Elara stared at me for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable—that classic icy mask she wore to keep the world at arm's length.
Then, she shifted her books to one arm. She reached into her blazer pocket.
"Hand," she commanded.
"What?"
"Give me your hand, Ren."
Confused, I held out my trembling right hand.
She placed something small and cold into my palm. A juice box. Apple juice.
"I was going to drink that during study hall," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "But if you pass out in the hallway, the janitor will complain, and I’m on the Student Council committee for cleanliness. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare."
I stared at the juice box. It felt like the Holy Grail.
"Thanks," I whispered. I poked the straw in with shaky fingers and took a sip. The sugar hit my bloodstream like rocket fuel. The trembling subsided slightly.
"And," she added, pulling something else from her pocket.
It was a small packet of wet wipes.
"You have... soot? Or ink? On your chin." She gestured vaguely. "Clean it up. You represent the school when you're in uniform, unfortunately."
I took the wipes. "You carry wet wipes?"
"I like to be prepared for messes," she said, looking me dead in the eye. "And you seem to be developing a talent for becoming one."
I wiped my chin. The tissue came away black. The residue of the backlash. She didn't flinch, didn't ask why my vomit looked like printer ink. She just accepted it as dirt.
"I'll pay you back for the juice," I said, feeling a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the sugar.
"Don't bother. Just don't die before midterms," she said, turning on her heel. "It brings down the class average."
She walked away, her footsteps clicking rhythmically on the linoleum.
I watched her go. The late afternoon sun streamed through the hallway windows, casting long shadows. And there, floating above her head, the red numbers marched on.
179 Days, 23 Hours, 45 Minutes.
The timer had dropped.
I blinked. In the outline—my mental outline of the future—Elara wasn't supposed to talk to me until senior year. I was a background character. An NPC.
But she had stopped. She had given me juice.
I changed the variable, I realized. By fighting the spirit, I altered the stress in the school. The timeline shifted.
The timer wasn't just a countdown to her death. It was a dynamic score.
I took another sip of apple juice. It tasted like victory. And slightly like cardboard.
"Alright, universe," I muttered, pushing off the wall. "You want to play rough? I can play rough. But first, I need to memorize the quadratic formula."
I headed for the school exit, leaving the smell of sulfur and disinfectant behind me. The war had started, and I had just won the opening skirmish.
But as I walked past the trophy case, I caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of the glass.
Behind me, deep in the shadows of the hallway I had just left, a pair of glasses reflected the light. Just for a second. Cold, unblinking lenses watching me.
The Vice Principal.
I turned around quickly, but the hallway was empty.
Just a trick of the light. Had to be.
I gripped the empty juice box tighter, my knuckles popping, and walked out into the blinding sun of 2008.
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Closing Note：I’m stuck on a plot point! Help me decide the Heroine's next move on our Discord: unplot_joshua.
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and then Add to home screen.