Chapter 7: Breathing

A low groan escaped Ethan's lips as he stirred.

His body twitched, and something crunched beneath him.

Soggy cardboard? Cracked plastic? He didn't know.

All he could feel was the cold metal underneath his back and the rank smell of rotting trash in his nose.

His eyes blinked open, slow, heavy.

Then he sat up with a wince and slowly opened the lid of the dumpster using his right arm.

Night had fallen, and the rain had slowed to a gentle mist.

Then he realized something.

His arm.

The one that had been mangled—twisted like a broken branch—was what he had used to open the dumpster lid.

He was fine. No pain. No swelling. No bend where it shouldn't bend.

"What the hell…?" he muttered.

He turned it, flexed the fingers, and everything moved naturally.

No way.

He remembered the sound of the guard's boot slamming down.

The sickening crack.

The way the pain had lit his nerves on fire.

That wasn't something you just "walk off."

"Maybe… maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought," Ethan whispered, though even he didn't believe himself.

He didn't want to think about it.

Not about the beating.

Not about Mr. Davis.

Not about Iris or James or any of it.

It just made his anger boil.

Instead, he looked down at the phone resting on his trash and picked it up.

The screen had gone black, so he tapped it, and the screen flickered faintly, before the display steadied.

He didn't remember everything before he passed out… but he remembered seeing the word "GTR" on his screen, so he checked his notification at the top of his screen, but saw nothing with that word.

Then he swiped, checking through apps, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary as well.

So he decided to forget about it.

Maybe his pain was making him see things after he had hit his head multiple times.

With a grunt, he pocketed the phone and shifted his legs to stand.

The dumpster groaned beneath him as he rose to his feet.

Bags of trash slid off his shoulders and dropped to the floor with wet splats.

He gagged at the smell but forced himself to move.

One leg out. Then the other.

His limbs protested every motion, but eventually, he managed to swing over the edge and drop down to the alleyway.

He landed awkwardly, stumbling as one foot hit the wet pavement too hard. Pain flared through his hip, and he bit back a curse.

He was still injured. Still sore. But alive.

He limped forward, soaked in sticky garbage juice.

Bits of moldy bread clung to his torn shirt.

His hair was matted to his forehead, and something that smelled like old mayonnaise oozed down his sleeve.

The streetlights flickered overhead.

People passed him on the sidewalk—students from the academy, holding umbrellas and chatting.

And then they noticed him.

One girl with bright pink braids wrinkled her nose and stepped back.

Another guy in a varsity jacket lifted his phone.

"Yo… that's him. The waiter dude from the live stream."

Ethan kept walking, eyes down, trying to avoid attention.

But it was too late.

The guy had already snapped a photo, thumbs tapping furiously on his screen. Seconds later, the image hit the general group chat:

📸 Meet Garbage Man.

– Is he walking around the street looking like that?

– Definitely scripted.

– Wait... isn't it the dude that called Iris his girlfriend?

– Yes, it's him, the deluded one who said he dated James' girl.

– Bro lives in his imagination.

– Loser should act like a loser. Why provoke those beyond you?

– Probably did it for attention.

– Me too. I dated Taylor Swift. We married. Had kids. Now she's calling me, saying she wants me back. What do I do?

– Hehe... that's even more unrealistic.

– Just accept her back. Think about the kids.

– Bro, you know he's joking, right?

Ethan, oblivious to the fact that he was currently trending, limped down the street, one painful step at a time.

His home wasn't far.

It was a run-down apartment complex just outside the school's boundary.

Most students didn't even know people lived there.

The paint peeled from the building's exterior like sunburnt skin.

The hall light buzzed overhead as he entered the lobby, casting shadows across cracked tiles and rusted mailboxes.

Ethan, walking in, didn't want to be seen.

He pressed himself against the wall, sneaking past the front desk—if you could call it that. It was more like a counter with a dying plant on it.

He was almost to the stairs when a voice stopped him.

"Oi! Ethan!"

Crap!

Ethan cursed inwardly.

He raised his head, and at the top of the stairs stood his landlord, Desmond.

Desmond had his arms crossed and a cigarette dangling from his lips,

He was tall, skinny, with greasy black hair tied into a weak ponytail.

A knockoff gold chain glinted around his neck, and his stained tank top looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks.

Desmond wasn't the real landlord.

He was the cousin of the actual landlord, Mr. Finch, who'd moved out of the country and left Desmond "in charge" of the building.

But everyone knew the rumors.

Finch still sent money every month to maintain the place.

The problem was, Desmond had a gambling habit, and most of that money disappeared before it ever reached what needed fixing.

Desmond flicked ash onto the stair rail.

"Trying to sneak past me again?"

Ethan said nothing.

He didn't have the energy, and he was guilty.

"You're one month behind, kid," Desmond said, coming down the stairs slowly, like a predator stalking prey. "Told you last week—I ain't running a charity."

"I know," Ethan muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. "I'll get it."

Desmond raised a brow.

"With what money? Didn't you get fired for throwing hands with the school's golden boy, for his girl?"

Ethan flinched.

How did he know that?

"Thought so." Desmond stepped closer, flicking his cigarette to the side. "You've got until tomorrow. After that, I'm locking the door. You sleep in the alley if you want. Might be more comfortable than that room of yours anyway."

Ethan nodded once and walked past him, but Ethan had barely taken two steps past Desmond when the man's hand snapped out, covering his nose in exaggerated disgust.