Chapter Text
Tyler Galpin had never been particularly fond of autumn. With the wilting of the first leaf, came the promise of months filled with gloom and overcast days. Already droll weeks felt decades longer when plagued with early sunsets and cold, dark mornings spent at the Weathervane. By the time the pumpkin themed treats hit the stock room of the café, he was already mourning the heat, and quiet shifts of the summer months.
The sharp autumn breeze was the first thing to hit his face as he left his house, another reminder that summer had been long forgotten, leaving a chill in its wake. The morning fog and dark haze from the cloudy skies did nothing but further dampen his mood.
Tyler begrudgingly trudged over to his beat up, brown, pick-up truck that had seen better days, mentally preparing himself for what the day held.
As he shrugged on the over worn brown coat that had practically become his uniform, and threw his crumpled up red apron to the backseat, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. His under eyes were dark and sunken in, stuck in that perpetual state of unrest for seemingly the past year.
He let out a quiet groan in the silence of his car, wanting nothing more than to drive off into the forests of Vermont and never look back. Gripping the steering wheel, he fantasized about leaving the town, maybe taking Elvis with him, and driving until his tires burned. He had nowhere to go, no money, but that didn't stop him from dreaming.
This, of course, was a part of his routine—always yearning for escape, but never having enough balls to do it.
The new season brought returning students, and his hatred for the Podunk town he was jailed to, grew tenfold with the introduction of chattering teens. Normie and Outcast alike. Watching them as they crowded and huddled around tables at the Weathervane and gossiped about whatever drama was circling the town that week, reminded him of what he should've been spending his high school years doing.
He should've been fucking around and caring enough to be concerned about the smallest, non-problems, everyone else was troubled about. But instead, all he had to look forward to was afterschool shifts and court-ordered therapy sessions.
This proved to be another reason why he loathed autumn. The Weathervane had been virtually barren during the summer break, no groups to envy and to serve at beck and call. The demographic who chose to stay in Jericho consisted of lone stragglers that had nowhere else to be, and families who either couldn't afford to leave, or didn't like each other enough to.
As he reversed out of his driveway, he was reminded of the fact that he fell into all of those categories. He sighed as he looked back at the fleeting vision of his house, knowing that when he got back, the ringing silence that was burned into his being, would be the first thing he was greeted with.
During the break, the students of Nevermore were gone to vacation on their yachts in Belize, or to fuck off in whatever mysterious gothic mansions they lived in.
The pretentious Outcasts that resided at the Academy had summers filled with seances, the occult, and all things macabre. Tyler often pictured over-exaggerated imaginations of their parties, with a human sacrifice of their choosing presented to them on a silver platter, and a gaggle of Outcasts looking out with hungry smiles and knowing stares.
Imagining their disgustingly exuberant lives allowed him to dissociate from his own, pitiable, reality. With a dead mom, and a deadbeat dad, the only time he would get close to the uber rich is if he was the one on the platter, filling hungry Outcast bellies with the sorrow that he knew seeped into his bone marrow.
Though he hadn't always been a fan of the Weathervane, he had always welcomed the white noise of the movement of customers and the distraction it had gifted him with.
The severe lack of customers who were left lingering in the small shop over the summer allotted him free time that was spent engaging in random hobbies. An incessant boredom and a therapist recommended "adoption of new, healthy, activities to enforce adaptive coping strategies" had him doing anything from latte art to baking loaves of bread.
He always appreciated the mindless tasks he was given, allowing his focus to stray away from the gnawing, deep-rooted feeling of frustration and anger that had always seemed to simmer beneath his soul.
Of course, this was not a reflection of Tyler's preferred summer shenanigans, but it was his present and future.
After an admittedly angst filled lash out at the local stuck-up, self proclaimed "tortured artist" the previous year, he'd been on thin ice with his sheriff of a father. Donovan Galpin liked to pretend from time to time that he was a good father, or even a father at all.
Spending another two months at the military boot camp designed for "troubled teens" was something he did not want to participate in ever again. He still winced every time he had to eat oatmeal when there was nothing left in the sad, mostly empty, cupboard he called a pantry, reminiscent of the slop he was forced to consume on a daily basis last summer.
He often questioned the nutritional value of the small portion of mystery sludge, and wondered how it had been legal to be feeding groups of growing teens whatever the fuck they were feeding them.
But, it had been Jericho after all, and the town had not had the best track record in either ethical or moral practices. He scoffed at the thought. In the town that created Pilgrim World—openly celebrating the feats of colonialism, he had serious doubts that they would care about the maltreatment of teenage delinquents, at a camp they were sent to in lieu of juvie no less.
So, he tolerated his father's performance to no one but himself, and delusions that he was a caring parent, if it meant spending summers honing his skills in pouring tulip-shaped milk blobs into espresso instead of scooping beige mush onto cafeteria plates.
Though, Tyler had been starting to become a bit antsy. Sitting around doing practically nothing for two months would've been tolerable, a welcome reprieve, but watching his former (albeit ass hole) friends muck about, had not been the best for his mental health (at least, according to his therapist).
He had had a falling out with the group after the incident. Even though they had all done their fair share of damage to both the Thorpe kid and his mural, with Lucas' father being mayor, it was easy for him to avoid much consequence. These niceties were extended to the rest of the Brady Bunch—and in the end, when someone had to take the fall, Jericho's finest sheriff had not been shy to volunteer him as the scapegoat.
One thing his father never hesitated to do, was discipline him. Tyler assumed it made him feel more like a proper parent, trying to "teach him a lesson." But those words only meant something if his father actually cared enough to deal with the root of his son's issues in the first place.
Predictably, his friends chose then, to shut their mouths for once in their miserable lives and let Tyler take the fall. Not one of them spoke to him after, only bothering to treat him to a point of their chins in acknowledgement when they saw him in the halls of Jericho High.
No apologies were exchanged. Not that he actually cared for one, but it would've been nice to have talked about the situation at the very least.
Tyler wasn't necessarily sure why he ruined the kid's mural in the first place. Xavier had never done anything to him personally, let alone speak to him above their minor exchanges of "What can I get for you?" and "Thank you," at the Weathervane.
He chose not to talk about it much, even in therapy—much to his therapists dismay. Although it would probably help the bubbly woman diagnose him with something, other than a classic case of teenage angst. No, instead they talked about the shitty hand he'd been dealt, parental issues and all, while he watched Dr. Kinbott pet whatever strange taxidermy rodent she fixated on that week.
With the Weathervane now in sight, all Tyler could do was let out a quiet sigh as he parked his car and grabbed his apron. He continued to sit in the front seat of his car for a few minutes, with his fists clutching the apron in his lap harder as each second ticked by. He closed his eyes and took four deep breaths, preparing himself for what was going to be a predictably shitty day.
Looking at the clock on his dashboard that read 6:30am, Tyler gathered all his will and pushed back his thoughts of slamming the gas and getting the hell out of there. As much as he would have liked to run for the hills before he saw the first purple and black stripes of the Nevermore branded shuttles enter the town, he had a café to open.
The dramatically gaunt school had their move-in day today. Alongside the flood of emo teens, marked the official kick start of another year dealing with the ongoing Outcast-Normie tensions.
While he had no plans on getting involved with anything wearing a striped uniform this year, other than handing them their morning dark roasts, he knew someone was bound to start a fight. He already had a certain Outcast to look out for (although he doubted that Xavier Thorpe would actually have the guts to do anything), the last thing he needed was to get on someone else's radar.
Although he wasn't one to shy away from a fight, especially with pretty boys who had never gotten their hands dirty, even he had limits. And the endless lectures about his "future" were starting to annoy him to his wits end.
Looking into his rear view mirror once more, Tyler fluffed up the mess of blond curls on his head—that were never really tamed—and started to practice his best customer service smile. If he was forced to stand behind a counter and deal with the migraine that the café-goers were inevitably going to give him, the least he could do was charm a couple of customers with his winning smile and earn some tips. God knows he needed them.
After one more deep breath, he stepped out of his truck, and pushed himself to walk towards the shop to prepare for the mob of customers.
As the doors of the Weathervane grew closer with every step, he silently prayed to whoever was listening, that he would finally have a quiet, uneventful year.
Hopefully this year, there would be no spilled blood.
The morning went about as well as Tyler presumed. That is, absolutely shit—because of course it did. He started to suspect that he had been cursed. Maybe one of Thorpe's specialties involved voodoo, or some sort of hexing.
If he didn't desperately need the cash, he would've quit on the spot. So far, Tyler had spent his morning cleaning up dirty mop water that a new hire had spilled, almost burned himself when a customer dropped their coffee on him, and had been interrupted by the various breakdowns of the espresso machine.
By the time his lunch break rolled around, he was ready to clock out. With all his time spent at the shop, he had accomplished a great feat—being the most competent employee that worked at the place. As a result of this accomplishment, Tyler was rewarded with more work. What was supposed to be a thirty minute break, lasted around fifteen, before he was forced back to the front. All he could do was take a breath and pop an ibuprofen, while being all-but thrown out of the break room by his manager.
At noon, the shop had been at their peak hours. Filled with an endless rotation of Nevermore students and parents stopping by for a quick pick-me-up, and townies stopping by for a coffee during their work breaks.
Even though Tyler was currently cursing his lack of social life and overbearing manager inwardly for landing him in this situation, he let none of that slip past his friendly, boy-next-door mask.
If throwing in flirtatious jokes to the middle-aged moms every once in a while, and complimenting the giggling groups of teens earned him a few extra bucks, then he would turn up his charms every time.
But, the universe had been starting to test him. It's as though they heard his prayer earlier and still decided to spit on, and run him over for fun. Because as the line to the store had finally died down after 2 hours of chaos, the espresso machine had decided to get temperamental again.
He was on his third time fixing the espresso machine that day (if you would even call it "fixing") when the thing decided to truly give out. In truth, he was probably breaking the thing more with each of his DIY-ed solutions.
For something that was probably more expensive than his truck, it should have come with a self-fix feature, a personal technician, illustrated instructions or at the very least, a multilingual instruction manual. The entire thing had been in Italian, which was something he learned when the machine first started to act up an hour into his shift.
He'd originally tried to apply whatever Spanish knowledge he had learned from school, trying to squint and pick up similar words within the 30-page booklet. When that failed miserably, he fished out his phone from his pocket and worked at translating it for fifteen minutes with no avail.
He had been out of luck with online tutorials as well, with those also being in Italian. So, he turned to what he knew best—which was poking at random parts with a screw driver until something happened. Somehow, his bootleg trial and error efforts were able to tide over the machine the first two times. Much to his surprise, it lasted him through the lunch rush without having to redirect customers going through caffeine withdrawal to the pot of drip coffee he had prepared.
But of course, the universe had not been so forgiving, and during his current attempt at getting the machine to not implode, he had finally killed it.
Somehow, he had messed with some valve in his haste and frustration, and the machine had burst into a cloud of hot steam. With him being elbows deep in the machine, and his head directly in the trajectory of the defective valve, hot mist had immediately assaulted him, causing him to jump back and yelp.
He was quietly speaking a slew of curses to himself as he caught the sighs and head shakes of the customers that had been witnessing his struggle for the better part of thirty minutes, probably wondering how someone could be this useless.
This fucking machine was going to be the death of him, and get him fired in the meantime. There was absolutely no amount of shifts that he could have covered to be able to pay off the extremely expensive looking coffee machine.
He furrowed his brow and rubbed his hand on his forehead, sure, he didn't have many outlooks in life, but Tyler was sure as hell that he didn't want to be stuck working in Jericho of all places until he was wrinkly with fragile joints.
A chill ran down his spine just thinking about it.
Distracted by these thoughts, the billowing hot steam that was still wafting out of the machine and grazing his face, and his growing anger, he missed the ringing of the café door bell.
Which made him all the more susceptible to a heart attack when a terrifying appearance of what looked to be a haunted porcelain doll, dressed clad in monotone blacks and whites, popped out from the steam of the malfunctioning machine.
"Holy shit!" He jumped back, his heart racing at the sight of the teen girl's sudden emergence.
Tyler liked to think he didn't scare easily.
But as he made eye contact with the girl's sharp, all-knowing, dead pan stare, his heart dropped to his toes.
Pain coursed through him as he realized he bit his tongue during his haste in moving away from the girl, and rapid heartbeat. His hands flew up to clutch his jaw, wincing, and letting out a grunt as he tasted blood.
"Fuck." He softly rubbed his cheek in an effort to calm the throbbing in his mouth.
If it hadn't already been labelled as such, he confirmed in his head now, that this had been the worst day of his life.
In reaction to his theatrics, all the girl did was quirk one eye brow and continue to give him a stare that could slice his throat if he wasn't careful.
Tyler could only stare back into her dark, doe eyes, wondering where she came from and what she needed from him. Her skin was pale, with a haunting elegance, which contrasted her deep black hair that was neatly tied into two braids. He would've thought he was seeing ghosts, if it weren't for her eye roll and continued look of annoyance that he had a feeling never left her face.
The broken valve from the espresso machine that he had forgotten about, suddenly let out another burst of steam, startling him and reminding him where he was.
He started racking his brain, looking for anything, any sentence to say to the girl that didn't sound positively idiotic, but his mouth started moving before he could get anywhere.
"Do you make a habit out of scaring people?"
His tone was laced with frustration, something he didn't usually let affect his customer service—but today seemed to be the exception for all things unordinary.
The girl stared at him like he was the biggest inconvenience in her day.
"It's more of a hobby," she deadpanned.
Her voice was so monotone it caught him off guard. He was so used to the grating voice of customers listing off every thing that he did wrong, that her lack of care was almost refreshing.
"I need a quad over ice. It's an emergency."
Whatever he was expecting her to say, it definitely was not that. He gave the whirring machine in front of him a once over, clearly unable to make a single drop of espresso, let alone four shots.
He had been so caught off guard by the entire interaction with the girl, that all he could do was silently look at her with a dumbfounded expression and furrow his brow further—if that was even possible.
Clearly, the girl was not as amused, and took his silence as incompetence. With a low sigh, another eye roll, and her blunt disposition, she stated,
"It's four shots of espresso."
Tyler wasn't sure if it was his still, slightly swollen tongue, pent up anger, or her own attitude rubbing off on him, but he found himself dropping his boyish charm.
"Yeah. I know what a quad is. But in case you haven't noticed, the espresso machine is having a seizure, and I'm on my third try fixing it to no success," he started.
He saw the girl's annoyance, wondering what any of this had to do with her, and her regret for walking into the shop in the first place written on her face.
"All we have is drip."
At this, she scowled. Her sharp, doll-like features scrunched in distaste.
"But drip is for people who hate themselves and know their lives have no real meaning or purpose"
Her statement was loud, amplified in the serenity of the small café. The customers who found themselves sipping on the drip coffee he offered them when the machine had first started its tantrum thirty minutes earlier, had put down their cups and pushed them away with a sudden haste.
He sighed, like he found himself doing a lot since he had left his house this morning. He was sure that his status as a star employee could not save him from being fired by the end of the day.
"Look. All you're gonna get from this place is drip unless this shitbox of a machine miraculously comes back to life in the next 5 minutes. There's another coffee shop 20 minutes east of here, try going there."
Tyler winced at his tone, he knew he probably should have been more gentle with his delivery, but he couldn't find himself to care about civility in that moment. He didn't want to deal with any customers, let alone the stubborn ones, but flashes of his manager's angered face led him to at least try to not scare away any more.
As he opened his mouth to voice his apology, he noticed the stripes of the blazer the girl adorned. Somehow, he had completely missed the presence of the uniform during their interaction. Looking at the unmistaken crest of the Academy, sewed onto the chest of the uniform now, he cursed at himself.
It seemed like she had a unique variation of it, instead of the obnoxious purple that the usual students wore, her uniform was tones of black, and much easier on the eyes.
Why had she been the exception to the school's rules? He didn't know. What he did know is that it made her special. And angering a prized Outcast was something he absolutely did not want to do.
He was fucked.
"You go to Nevermore," was all he could muster out.
It was clear to him that she grew tired of witnessing his internal conflict, and his mouth opening and closing in shock of his own stupidity. Before he could say something else that would dig him deeper into the hole he created for himself, she moved behind the counter to where he stood.
For a split second, he thought she was going to punch him. He decided he would take it—he'd rather be knocked out and go home than to deal with more customers or the consequences from his father if he were to get into another fight with a Nevermore kid.
Instead, she turned to him and dully stated, "What's wrong with your machine." Like she had so many more important things to do than to be here, dealing with him.
He handed her the instruction manual he'd been fighting with all day.
"Beats me. I've been messing with the thing since 8am, and have definitely been ruining the mechanics each time I try to fix it," he groaned. He couldn't wait until he was back in the comfort of his bed, longing for the sleep he was going to get that night.
"To make things worse, the instructions are in Italian so it's not like that was any help."
He looked at her, flipping through the book with a determination, noticing the way her bangs shadowed her eyes. He took in how small she was. She couldn't have been more than five foot, but somehow, she carried a menacing aura.
It made his thoughts of her assault on him somewhat amusing, the thought of this petite girl knocking him out was something he needed to see. The corners of his mouth upturned slightly at the image.
"I need a tri-wing screwdriver and a four-millimeter allen wrench."
The shock and borderline admiration was evident on his face.
"You read Italian?"
"It's the native tongue of Machiavelli."
Of course she knew Italian. Knowing Outcasts, it wouldn't have surprised him if her family had been related to the philosopher in some obscure way.
Handing her the tools she requested, he couldn't help but smother a chuckle as he watched her go on her tippy toes to reach the innards of the machine, working to fix the valve he broke.
"You have a valve issue. I've seen it before on a steam-powered guillotine I built when I was 10."
Steam-powered guillotine he thought. The colour drained in his face, if there were any doubts of her status as an Outcast, there weren't anymore. Tyler's thoughts filtered back to the Normie feasts he'd imagined they'd have. With a fear that he was about to become a snack for the girl and her family, he let out a nervous laugh.
"I wanted to decapitate my dolls more efficiently" she stated blankly as the steam coming from the machine finally cleared.
"Grim reaper barbie. That adds up."
His eyes shifted nervously from the girl and the wrench she had in her hand, making a quick move to retrieve it from her as soon as she was done with it.
He found himself cringing at his earlier amusement from the thoughts of her violence, he was sure now that she could hurt him if she really wanted to. Without the high-pitched screech of the broken machine, an awkward silence fell over the two.
"Thanks for that, you just saved me from countless job interviews. I've never met a Nevermore kid who got their hands dirty."
It was her turn to scoff, "I just moved in. And being jailed to a school I never wanted to attend in the first place would hardly count as me 'being a Nevermore kid'"
"I'm Tyler by the way." he smirked at her. Now that one of his headaches was solved for the day, he could go back to charming his way through his shift.
She turned to him, craning her neck up to look at him.
Her stare unsettled him. Not in the way it should, not in that creepy, occult way that he knew she was going for. No, there was something about her eyes, like she could see right through him, down to the parts he ceaselessly tried to hide.
Maybe it was the darkness that drew him in, or the way her eyelashes fanned out like spider legs, creeping, as they were trying to reach into his soul to uncover his secrets.
Either way, as her gaze dragged over him, analyzing his being and determining if he was worth her time, a chill followed in its path.
When those haunting eyes made their way back up to his, he had to fight to not look away.
"Wednesday." she quipped.
His smirk only widened.
"Great. To show my appreciation for saving my ass, I'll make you a quad on the house. Find a seat and I'll be right there."
She didn't say anything to this, and her unsmiling expression gave nothing away, but the gleam in her stare showed her approval. He watched as she pivoted from behind the counter, to a booth not too far away.
Tyler took that moment of solitude to take a deep breath. He had narrowly avoided another incident with an Outcast, thanking whoever was watching over him for the one good thing to happen to him today.
He couldn't deny that she had peaked his interest. Although, he never really spoke to many Outcasts, more so, never gave them a chance to talk to him. He assumed that they were actually as freakish as the Academy painted them to be, and Wednesday had confirmed that.
Making her quad on the freshly resurrected machine, he was grateful that Wednesday, despite her oddities, didn't cause too much of a scene. His opinion still stood, he was not getting mixed up in trouble this year.
He found himself wondering what kind of Outcast she was. Maybe she was a siren, the possibility didn't slip his mind as he was looking into her ever so alluring eyes.
Lost in his imagination of being lured into sea by a girl with long black tendrils and metallic scales, he failed to hear the familiar cadence of Lucas' voice. As he finished up the quad, and saw that the boy had been making his way over to Wednesday, he knew that the idiot was bound to do something stupid.
He watched as their mouths spoke in a flurry, throwing insults to each other as he expected. Lucas was trying to start a fight, and Tyler knew it would not end well for him. Quickly popping a lid over the coffee, he started walking over to where Wednesday was seated, only catching the tail end her response,
"…if the buckled shoe fits"
He had no idea what they had been speaking about, but Lucas' face immediately crinkled in disgust, clenching his fists at his side. Every time he thought the day had reached its peak, he was proven wrong. Glancing over at Wednesday's indifference, he knew he had to do something before either of them killed the other.
He came up behind Carter, one of the sheep that flocked around Lucas at all times, and pulled him away from the fight waiting to happen.
"Guys, back off."
"Stay out of this Galpin." Lucas barked at him, the first full sentence he had spoken to the boy in a year.
"Yeah. Stay out of this." Wednesday added.
This was bad. He watched as a thrill bleed into Wednesday's dark eyes, the corner of her lips twitching ever so slightly. Lucas only clenched his fists more, in preparation to swing at the girl's smug face.
Just as Tyler started to bring an arm up to stop Lucas from causing a scene, one of Lucas' goons reached out to grab Wednesday.
Tyler was once again reminded that Wednesday was an Outcast, as she twisted her arm and pivoted to face the perpetrator. With one hand gripping the shoulder of the boy whose name slipped Tyler's mind, she used the other to push his torso down and directly into her knee, going straight for the family jewels.
The rest of the boys who circled her, all winced as their friend dropped to the ground, clutching his groin in agony. They moved in quick succession, fists flying aimlessly, trying to hit the girl whose reflexes were too fast for them. As Wednesday was gearing up to tornado kick whoever had the gull to come up to her next, their fight was cut short by a loud gasp.
The group directed their attention to the source, necks snapping to Carter. Just moments ago, he had been cackling at his friends' failures. Now, he was clutching at his throat, gurgling noises filled the room as he struggled to intake air.
There had been foam at his mouth, his eyes rolling back as his skin turned blue. His body had been shaking, causing his knees to buckle as he collapsed to the ground. Lucas rushed over to him, finally processing the situation, and screamed his name.
"What did you do to him freak??" he shouted at Wednesday as he held Carter's limp body, feeling for a pulse.
Wednesday's expression was blank as usual, but there was a certain air about her. Her eyes gleamed with minor excitement as she watched the boy convulsing on the floor. If she ever did smile, Tyler assumed she would be in that moment.
Laying on the ground, Carter continued to clutch at his throat, letting out small, muffled, murmurs, in an attempt to breathe. His actions grew slower and slower as the seconds went by, eventually ceasing as he lost muscle function.
"I can't find a pulse," Lucas exclaimed, his voice cracked as he frantically started to perform CPR. The rest of the boys who were standing around their debilitated friend, started to shake nervously, fearing for their lives.
"Someone call 911. Now!" He shouted, looking around at the frightened customers who scattered like ants.
There was no need to apparently, as the sheriff chose that moment to slam through the front doors of the shop with a loud bang. With him, a very tall, blonde woman, with horror painted on her face as she let out a scream. One look at his dad was all he needed, to know that he was furious.
The sheriff rushed over and fell to his knees, right beside Lucas as he tried to feel for a pulse, or any indication that the boy was alive. When he found none, his tone laced with an anger that was only ever reserved for his son, he stated,
"What did you do??"
And as Tyler started to respond, looking up to his father, starting to come up with a million reasons as to why he had nothing to do with whatever the hell was happening, he found that he wasn't looking at him. He was looking at Wednesday.
Wednesday, unaffected by the possible death of a boy and murder accusation, raised an eyebrow,
"Contrary to popular belief, I did not have anything to do with this battle of testosterone."
"Yeah right, like I believe that. You're an Addams. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Wednesday said nothing, but the woman that had entered with his father spoke for her.
"I believe it is time for Miss Addams to go back to the Academy. We will speak about this matter at a later date, Sheriff." The woman's voice was laced with honey, speaking with a regality that only the most privileged were accustomed to.
As she dragged Wednesday out by the arm, all Tyler could do was stare at her disappearing form. The girl had been in the Weathervane, and Jericho as a whole, for no less than 12 hours, and had already caused a hurricane in her stead.
His dad shook his head and carried Carter out of the shop, with Lucas and the rest of his former friends racing behind him. As he passed him, his dad spoke,
"I will deal with you at home."
With the last ring of the café bell, Tyler slumped where he stood. His shoulders dropped, the weight of everything that had happened to him that day finally catching up.
He had absolutely no idea what had just transpired, but he knew that today was now, more than ever, the worst day of his life.