SHOCK

The midday sky was crystal clear, almost cloudless. Its rich blue stretched endlessly above the city of Havlen, embracing the spring air that shimmered like golden silk. Everything in the world seemed to be in perfect harmony—trees awakening with buds, birds looping through warm gusts, and the streets alive with a peculiar, joyful rhythm.

But amidst the harmony, one place pulsed with even greater intensity: **Skola Nadziei High School**.

Known as the "School of Hope" in the Belarusian tongue, Skola Nadziei was a place that wore its reputation like a crown. Nestled in the eastern part of Havlen, the school stood as a pillar of promise—an institution where the city’s best and brightest were groomed, molded, and launched into the future.

Today, the school was alive with something more than just academic fervor. It was the **day of promotion results**.

Students packed the courtyard, streaming from hallways like colorful rivers of celebration. Cheers broke the air like waves crashing on a shore. Balloons tied to fence posts bobbed in the breeze, and paper streamers had somehow made their way onto classroom windows.

Amidst the chaos stood a boy who did not cheer, did not laugh, did not even smile fully—yet still stood out.

**Brian Nicole.**

Fifteen years old. First-year student. And just named the **top achiever** in the entire grade.

There was a silence to Brian. A steady, deliberate stillness. He moved like a shadow in daylight—seen, noticed, but never quite grasped. His jet-black hair fell over a sharp brow, his eyes unreadable pools of grey. He was lean, tall for his age, and had a presence that felt older than it should.

Many of his classmates admired him. Some envied him. Others whispered theories about him—how he never seemed to study yet aced every test, how teachers called on him like a secret weapon, how even older students stepped aside in his path.

Yet no one truly **knew** him.

While others rushed to take selfies with their certificates and huddled in groups for celebratory photos, Brian quietly made his way down an empty hallway toward his locker. Spring break was approaching, and he'd rather spend a moment in solitude than be swept up in all the noise.

The corridor, lined with deep blue lockers and flooded with sunlight from skylights above, felt like a sanctuary. Brian reached his locker—number **1013**—and opened it with a smooth flick of his wrist. The inside was neat, orderly, a reflection of his mind.

He began removing books methodically, stacking them into his satchel, humming a melody so faint it barely touched the air.

Then—**SMACK**.

A hand landed hard on his shoulder. Brian flinched, caught off-guard.

“Brian! You’re coming with us, right?” said a voice brimming with energy.

He turned to see **Chester Redford**, wide grin plastered across his freckled face, his uniform tie half undone like always. Chester was the class clown, the social magnet—the boy who could charm the strictest teacher into giving no homework and still get an A.

Brian blinked once and gave a small, crooked smile. “Of course. I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

The camping trip. He had almost forgotten. A getaway to **Lake Dalina**, the most picturesque lake in Havlen Valley. Rumors said it was formed by a meteor thousands of years ago. The water, fed by subterranean springs, was impossibly clear. Pine forests encircled it like guardians.

“How many people are coming?” Brian asked, returning to his locker.

“Eighteen. And two teachers. Even Penelope's coming—she’s bringing a whole guitar set. Can you believe that?”

“Not bad,” Brian replied, feeling a flicker of excitement.

It was rare for him to attend social gatherings. But this one felt different—earned, maybe. And something about the lake called to him.

Chester leaned closer. “Hey, how are you getting home?”

“Bus,” Brian answered without looking.

Chester made a face. “The city bus? Ugh. That’ll take forever. Ride with me. I’ve got Bradley.”

Brian turned his head slowly. “Your motorbike?”

Chester grinned proudly. “The one and only.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. Chester *never* offered rides to other boys—especially not ones who flew under the radar like him.

But before he could ask why, Chester was already dragging him toward the parking lot.

---

The motorbike roared like thunder through the smooth city roads. Brian clutched the sides tightly as the wind howled past them, his blazer flapping wildly. Pedestrians turned, heads swiveling to follow the gleaming red streak of Bradley as it zipped by.

The ride was exhilarating—fast, reckless, alive. In under ten minutes, they reached his neighborhood.

Chester pulled up to the curb with dramatic flair.

“See you tomorrow, genius!” he said with a mock salute.

Brian stepped off the bike and gave a nod. “Thanks, Chester.”

He watched the bike vanish into the distance, then turned toward home.

The side gate creaked as he entered. His mother always kept the front locked—said it was more secure. Their two-story townhouse was simple, cozy, tucked between two rose gardens. His mom loved roses.

Inside, the house was eerily silent. The usual scent of cinnamon tea lingered in the air. He moved through the kitchen like a shadow—retrieved two slices of bread, a glass of juice, and sat at the island counter.

Halfway through his meal, he heard it.

Laughter. A woman’s voice. Soft and familiar.

**His mother.**

She wasn’t supposed to be home until five.

He paused, holding the glass mid-air. More laughter followed—this time mixed with a man’s voice.

A voice he knew.

Victor Alekseevich.

Brian’s gut turned. He set the glass down gently and rose to his feet. Each step toward the stairs was like walking into an invisible fire. The air around him felt thicker. Charged.

He crept up the staircase, breath shallow.

Outside the master bedroom, the sounds became unmistakable. Not laughter anymore. Something else.

**Groaning. Moaning. Whispered names. Pleas.**

And then:

“Come on, Vic… yes… yes…”

Brian’s body froze. His hands curled into trembling fists. That voice—his mother’s—was unmistakable. The other, Victor’s—louder now, closer—matched.

The rage erupted like a volcano inside him.

**BANG!**

The door flew open.

Time stopped.

There, tangled in sheets, were **Linda Grey** and **Victor Alekseevich**—naked, exposed, gasping in shock.

Brian stood in the doorway, panting, fury burning in his eyes.

**“MOM!!”**

The word tore through the room like a siren. Linda screamed, grabbing the sheet and wrapping it around herself in panic. Victor cursed and tumbled off the bed, scrambling for his clothes.

But the damage was done.

Brian didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. The look on his face said everything: betrayal, disgust, heartbreak.

He turned and ran—past the hallway, down the stairs, out the back door, into the fading light of day.

The sound of his mother’s voice chasing after him was hollow, distant, already too late.

Brian didn’t stop running until he reached the only place in the world that still made sense:

**Grandpa’s cabin.**