Ciro counted the steps from his front door to the bus stop. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. If he hit thirty-one, it meant his dad was still awake—and that was never a good sign.
Ciro didn't flinch when the door slammed behind him. He didn't look back either. His earbuds weren't playing music, but they gave him an excuse to ignore everything. Especially the yelling. Especially the world.
The cold air was a relief. Clean. Predictable. Unlike the storm that cracked at his heart. His fingers curled into fists inside his sleeves. He was already late, and the thought of seeing him again made his stomach twist.
Csepel would be there.
Grinning like an idiot. Saying something clever. Getting in his way. Beating him at anything and everything, that is what he hated the most.
Ciro walked faster.
The classroom buzzed before first period—chatter, slamming lockers, paper balls flying. Ciro slid into his usual seat at the back, eyes low, shoulders tight. He liked the back. No one looked back here unless they had a reason. And he made sure they never had one.
Mr. Hale walked in five minutes late, coffee in one hand, a mess of papers in the other. "Pop quiz," he announced.
Groans
Erupted across the room. Ciro didn't react. Pop quizzes were a game. A test of control. Of silence. Of being ready when others weren't.
Then came the sound that made his teeth clench: Csepel's laugh. Low, smug, and almost musical.
"Guess you're finally gonna beat me at something, Ciro," Csepel said as he passed by to his seat, winking.
Ciro stared at his paper. His pencil dug into the page. You'll see.
He didn't just want to beat Csepel. He needed to. For once, he needed to win and keep something—anything—stable.