An almost normal slice of life

The alarm rang, piercing the suffocating silence of the darkened room. It was 3:00 AM, and Alaric Hawthorne, a 17-year-old high school student, stirred from a deep sleep. With heavy eyelids, he reached out, trying to silence the incessant beeping. He pressed the button, granting himself a temporary amnesty until 6:00 AM, just like every other day.

Alaric was not your typical protagonist. He didn't possess a hero's spirit; instead, he was indifferent. Lazy and unmotivated, he often found it easier to daydream about ambitions than to pursue them. At 177 cm tall, he was neither handsome nor ugly, his curly, bushy black hair framing a serious, indifferent face. He was slim but not fit.

Dragging himself from the warmth of his bed, he contemplated the pull of sleep but shook it off, stepping into the shower. The cold water hit him, pulling him back to reality. After a hurried breakfast, he exchanged a quick farewell with his older sister, Emily, who had just risen, her face still shadowed with sleep. The two of them, orphans in a small city that had been built in the aftermath of the war between Russia and Iran in 2045, relied on each other, but they didn't speak much. As he stepped outside, the chill of early morning air bit at his skin, making him shiver slightly , reminding him to put on his black trenchcoat. 

The city of thirty thousand inhabitants lay along the Black Sea. A mosaic of collapsed buildings. 

Alaric ran towards school, realizing that he was late. The clock ticked mercilessly towards 7:15 AM, the bell for the start of classes looming in the distance. As he sprinted down the street, he collided with a priest, a man clad in dark robes.

"I'm so sorry!" Alaric gasped, fear surging through him. Even though he didn't believe in gods or their agents, he understood the potential consequences of offending one of their priests.

The priest regarded him with a measured expression, eyes glinting like shards of glass. "Careful, young one," he said, voice low and resonant. "The gods watch us, even in the darkness."

Alaric nodded, shaken, and hurried past him, weaving through the narrow alleyways of the city. Inside the classroom, he struggled to focus, the lesson about the sun god legends drifting into the background. History captured his interest more fiercely, particularly tales of explorers like Roald Amundsen, whose journeys into the icy unknown seemed interesting but yet so far.

His mind drifted again to mysticism and magic, concepts he found alluring yet elusive. There was a part of him that craved the extraordinary, the inexplicable, but his logical side often prevailed, forcing him to dismiss such fantasies as mere delusions.

After classes, he met his friends, John Locke and Asher Smith, as they ambled through the winding streets. 

"Professor Erwin doesn't know how to explain properly," John joked, shaking his head. "I bet he doesn't even understand it himself!"

Asher rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not like you would understand it either; you never study."

"Shut up! I got a higher mark than you on the last test!" John shot back, indignation flaring.

Alaric listened, feigning interest while his gaze wandered. He noticed a strange man at the end of the street, clad in a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat, disappearing into an alley. Instead of curiosity sparking within him, he shrugged it off.

After saying goodbye to his friends, Alaric made his way to the local bookstore to meet Mr. Clooney, the owner who had offered him work in exchange for credits. The scent of old paper, ink and tea filled the air as he entered,.

"Hello there, young Alaric," Mr. Clooney greeted him, eyes still glued to the pages of a thick volume.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Clooney. I'll be working on the catalog of the upper room books," Alaric replied.

"Good job. If you keep doing like that, I'll pay you well," Mr. Clooney muttered distractedly, turning his attention back to his reading.

As Alaric worked, he stumbled upon a dusty tome on mysticism, with an interesting and alluring title, "The Alchemist's Compendium", An old book, on the cover of which was a lion eating the sun, and eluded an aura of mysticism. He decided to take it home with him.

With 20 credits in hand, he said goodbye to Mr. Clooney and stepped outside, but something felt off. The shadows seemed thicker, the air heavier as he made his way home. Mr. Clooney watched him leave, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Just then, a figure appeared at the entrance of the bookstore, cloaked in the same black coat as before. Mr. Clooney straightened, anxiety rippling through him.

"We're closing," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I just need some information," the man replied, his tone deceptively calm.

"I have to keep the privacy of my clients," Mr. Clooney insisted, a chill creeping down his spine.

The man smiled, a sinister glint in his eyes. "I need information on a client, he works here, too. He took a book I was interested in."

"I can't give you that information, and the book has already been sold," Mr. Clooney replied, fear tightening his chest.

The man's smile widened as he took a step closer, the air thickening with menace. "I need it."

Mr. Clooney's resolve faltered, and he took a cautious step back. "Leave now, or I'll call the Sentinels."

The man's smile morphed into a sneer. "How foolish." He lunged forward, too fast for Mr. Clooney to react, his hand tightening around the older man's throat.

The bookstore owner gasped, the world narrowing as he fell to the ground, consciousness slipping away. The man, still smiling, rifled through the shelves, quickly locating the list of clients. His fingers paused, glancing at a page before tearing it out, the name 'Alaric Hawthorne' inked there.

With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the bookstore in silence, the weight of something sinister hanging heavy in the air.