Chapter Text
The hallway lights flickered again.
Their parents refused to replace anything that still technically functioned. That philosophy also applied to children, apparently.
Close your eyes, my little light…
Thorn’s voice was quiet enough to disappear into the dark walls. Soft. Careful. The kind of softness learned through years of speaking around landmines.
In the kitchen, glass shattered.
Solar flinched.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But Thorn did. Thorn always did.
You’ve been burning far too bright…
Their father’s voice cut through the apartment next.
“Again? AGAIN? Do you know how much they paid for this project?”
Another crash.
This time it was metal.
Solar sat motionless at the dining table, pencil still pressed against paper hard enough to nearly tear through it. Equations covered every inch of the workbook. Entire pages of calculations. Half university level. Half completely incomprehensible because his handwriting had degraded into frantic scratches somewhere around midnight.
He was twelve.
Their father snatched the workbook off the table.
“You call this acceptable?”
Solar stared at the empty space where the book used to be.
Wrong answer.
The workbook hit the wall.
Pages exploded everywhere.
“I asked you a question.”
Solar opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The lightbulb above them flickered violently.
Thorn saw it immediately.
Bad sign.
Very bad sign.
They won’t dare to reach for you…
Their mother sighed from the kitchen. Like this was just an inconvenience happening specifically to her.
“Honestly,” she muttered, “can you not trigger an episode tonight? We have guests tomorrow.”
Guests.
Clients.
Solar’s breathing became uneven.
The lights dimmed.
Then brightened.
Then dimmed again.
Their father grabbed Solar by the chin.
“Look at me when I’m speaking.”
Solar obeyed immediately.
Too immediately.
That was the frightening part.
His eyes looked wrong.
Empty.
Like someone had unplugged him halfway through existing.
Thorn stood from the corner of the room so quickly his chair nearly tipped over.
“I can fix it,” he said quietly.
Their father barely glanced at him. “Then do your job properly.”
Job.
Thorn bent down beside Solar carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
The room smelled faintly of ozone.
A warning.
Rest your mind, don’t chase the sky…
Solar’s hands trembled under the table.
The light around the ceiling buzzed harder.
Thorn reached for him slowly.
Solar recoiled on instinct.
Their father scoffed. “Pathetic.”
The bulb above the dining table exploded.
Darkness swallowed the room for half a second.
Then light burst violently from Solar’s body.
White-hot.
Sharp enough to hurt.
Their mother cursed and stepped backward immediately, shielding her eyes.
“Control him!”
Not help him.
Control him.
Thorn wrapped both arms around Solar before the next pulse could hit.
And Solar—
Solar collapsed instantly.
Like his strings had been cut.
His forehead slammed against Thorn’s shoulder as his breathing turned ragged and uneven. Too fast. Too shallow.
“I will guard your gentle glow…”
The light around Solar flickered weakly now between Thorn’s fingers.
Thorn kept singing.
Not because he wanted to.
Because it worked.
That was the horrifying thing.
After years of panic attacks, breakdowns, shaking episodes, sleepless nights, and dissociation, they had eventually discovered one thing capable of calming Solar down consistently.
Thorn’s voice.
Specifically this lullaby.
Their mother once called it “useful.”
Thorn hated that word now.
Their father crouched beside them, inspecting Solar with clinical irritation.
“Can he still perform tomorrow?”
Perform.
Solar wasn’t awake enough to react.
Thorn’s arms tightened around him.
“He hasn’t slept in three days,” Thorn whispered.
“And?”
The room fell silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
The dangerous kind.
Their father smiled slowly.
“Do you think exhaustion changes expectations?”
Thorn lowered his head immediately. “No.”
“Good.”
“You keep him stable. That is your responsibility. If he breaks, you answer for it.”
Solar stirred weakly against Thorn’s chest.
“No…” he mumbled hoarsely.
Their father released Thorn immediately and stood.
“Get them cleaned up.”
The adults walked away.
Just like that.
Like nothing had happened.
Like two children shaking in the dark dining room was normal.
The hallway light buzzed overhead.
Thorn kept singing quietly.
“If the world turns cold and loud…”
Solar’s fingers weakly curled into Thorn’s sleeve.
There it is.
That tiny movement.
That desperate grasp.
Solar only did that when he thought Thorn might leave.
Thorn adjusted his hold carefully.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
Solar’s breathing slowly evened out.
The shattered glass still covered the floor around them.
Nobody cleaned it.
Somewhere deeper in the apartment, a heavy metal door locked with a loud mechanical click.
Thorn froze.
Solar’s eyes opened slightly at the sound.
Fear flashed across both their faces instantly.
Morning arrived like it always did in households like theirs: aggressively, without permission, and with zero regard for anyone who had slept less than four hours.
The mansion was already awake.
Staff moving silently. Floors polished. Breakfast prepared in portions too precise to feel human. Everything arranged like a showroom pretending to be a home.
Solar sat at the dining table staring at a uniform folded with military-level discipline.
Blazer. Tie. Badge. Everything expensive enough to be insulting.
Thorn adjusted Solar’s collar without asking.
“You’re doing it again,” Solar muttered.
“Doing what?”
“Breathing like that.”
Thorn paused. “I will stop breathing next time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
That got a reaction. A small one. Solar blinked once, like his brain had to reload the sarcasm module manually.
From upstairs, their father’s voice echoed.
“Don’t be late. You represent the family.”
Thorn didn’t answer. Neither did Solar.
They had learned early that acknowledgment only encouraged further dialogue.
The school was large in the way institutions are when they’re funded by people who believe architecture fixes emotional neglect.
“Heritage Academy,” the sign read.
A man stood near the entrance holding a clipboard like it was a weapon.
“Class 1-A,” he called. “I am your homeroom teacher, Mr. Hariz Kamil. Don’t make me repeat myself. I already hate repetition.”
Honesty. Rare. Almost refreshing.
Students filtered in.
Chaos began immediately.
Solar arrived five minutes early, which in his case meant “already mentally three steps ahead and physically standing still like a loading screen.”
He stopped in front of Class 1-A.
Taufan was already there.
Leaning against the wall like the building owed him money.
“Yo,” Taufan said casually. “You look like you haven’t slept since the invention of sleep.”
Solar tilted his head.
“I slept,” he said.
Pause.
“I was unconscious for six hours.”
Taufan stared for a second, then laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
He extended a hand.
“Taufan.”
Solar looked at it like it was a puzzle with missing instructions.
After a moment, he shook it.
Grip too firm. Too precise. Like he was calculating acceptable pressure instead of greeting a person.
“I am Solar,” he said.
Taufan blinked. “Cool name. Very ‘main character who’s either tragic or overpowered.’”
Solar nodded once. “I am statistically above average in academic performance.”
“…I wasn’t asking for your GPA, man.”
From inside the classroom, someone else watched.
Ice.
Just observing.
Quietly.
Like a crack forming under glass that hasn’t shattered yet but already knows it will.
Ice’s gaze flicked briefly to Solar’s hands.
Then his posture.
Then the faint, controlled stillness that didn’t match the age of someone standing there.
Nothing was said.
But Ice looked away slower than necessary.
Like remembering something unpleasant.
Or recognizing it.
Taufan kept talking. Because of course he did.
“So, Solar, you into sports? Clubs? Chaos?”
“I optimize my time usage for academic output,” Solar replied.
Taufan nodded slowly. “So… no.”
Ice exhaled once through his nose. Barely audible. Not laughter. Not approval. Something in between.
A crack in a wall nobody else had noticed yet.
Across the hallway, Class 1-B was louder.
Not emotionally louder. Physically louder.
Someone had already knocked over a chair.
Twice.
Thorn stepped inside quietly.
No announcement. No hesitation. Just presence.
And immediately—
Someone slammed into a desk in the back row.
Blaze.
Laughing like pain was part of the curriculum.
“Sorry,” he said to nobody in particular. “Chair attacked me first. Self-defense.”
A teacher sighed.
Ms. Farah Adlina, subject teacher for Combat Ethics, pointed at him without looking up from her attendance sheet.
“Blaze. If you break another piece of school property, I’m assigning you to inventory duty. You will count every chair you’ve emotionally harmed.”
Blaze raised both hands. “Understood, ma’am. I fear spreadsheets more than consequences.”
Thorn quietly took a seat near the window.
That’s when Blaze noticed him.
Not immediately. Blaze noticed things the way storms notice rooftops—accidentally, through impact.
Blaze’s eyes paused.
On Thorn’s cheek.
Bandage on the right side.
Clean. Fresh enough to be recent, but not urgent enough to be treated as emergency.
Above it—
A small beauty mark.
He stared for half a second too long.
Thorn noticed him noticing.
They both understood the unspoken rule of their world:
You don’t ask questions that already have answers carved into someone’s skin.
Blaze turned away first.
“Nice weather today,” Blaze said loudly to nobody, like that was relevant to anything happening.
Thorn responded politely anyway.
“Yes.”
Silence followed.
Not comfortable. Not awkward.
Just… acknowledged.
Blaze glanced once more at Thorn’s bandage before sitting properly.
Thorn did the same, briefly noting the faint bruising along Blaze’s knuckles.
Old damage. Repeated damage. The kind that wasn’t an accident anymore, just routine.
Neither commented.
Because in this place, everyone spoke fluently in injuries.
The bell rang.
Mr. Hariz Kamil walked in, clapped once, and said:
“Welcome to school. Try not to emotionally implode before lunchtime. It messes with attendance records.”
Somewhere in the room, Taufan whispered:
“I think I like this teacher.”
Ice didn’t respond.
But his eyes stayed slightly narrowed.
Like he had already seen something everyone else hadn’t.
And Solar, sitting perfectly still, stared at the board like it was about to stare back first.
Mr. Hariz Kamil clearly believed in chaos management through democracy.
Which is ironic, considering the class had been functioning at peak chaos since he entered the room.
He tapped the whiteboard twice.
“Class structure assignment. Class president. Vice president. Treasurer. Whatever titles children pretend matter at this age.”
Taufan raised a hand immediately.
“Mr. Haris Kamil—”
“It’s Hariz.”
“Right, Mr. Haris Kamin.”
A beat of silence.
Mr. Hariz stared at him with the expression of a man deciding whether this is worth retirement.
“Just… sit down.”
Taufan saluted. Incorrectly.
Ice, meanwhile, had already stopped participating in reality halfway through the explanation. His head tilted against his desk, eyes closed, breathing even.
Asleep.
Mid-lesson.
Not even subtly. Like his body had decided attendance was optional.
Solar watched all of it without reacting, like he was compiling a report no one requested.
Then it happened.
“Class president will be—” Mr. Hariz paused, scanning the room like the answer might crawl out and introduce itself.
“I choose you.”
He pointed directly at Solar.
Silence dropped so hard it felt like gravity changed.
Solar blinked once.
“Define function.”
“…What?”
“Role expectations,” Solar clarified. “Authority scope. Behavioral constraints.”
Mr. Hariz sighed. “You will organize class communication and ensure students don’t set anything on fire. Metaphorically or otherwise.”
Taufan leaned over. “Congrats, boss man.”
Solar stared forward.
“I accept administrative responsibility.”
Nobody applauded. That would’ve been weird.
Ice continued sleeping.
Mr. Hariz looked personally offended by how smoothly that went.
Meanwhile...
Ms. Farah Adlina was conducting what she called “structured self-introduction therapy,” which was just a fancy way of saying:
“Walk to every desk and talk. Yes, I will force humanity into you.”
Most students were not cooperating with humanity.
One was drawing on the desk. One was pretending to be asleep but blinking too much. Two were actively dissociating in different directions.
Ms. Farah stopped at each table.
“Name.”
“…”
“Name.”
“…”
“Fine.”
Blaze was at the back.
He had started as a controlled fire hazard and ended as a horizontal object.
Head on desk.
Arms crossed.
Still.
For once.
Even his usual restless energy had apparently clocked out.
Ms. Farah paused beside him.
“Blaze.”
No response.
She stared.
Then sighed.
“Remarkable. He’s unconscious. On day one. I respect the efficiency.”
She moved on.
No one corrected her assumption.
Blaze remained asleep like the concept of responsibility had finally stopped chasing him.
Recess Bell
The bell rang like a reset button nobody really deserved.
Instantly, chairs scraped. Bags moved. Students evaporated into corridors like someone had opened a floodgate labeled “freedom.”
Blaze was gone first.
Not walking.
Not running.
Just… disappearing.
One moment he existed. Next moment, absence.
Even Thorn, standing near the doorway of Class 1-B, only caught the afterimage of motion.
“…fast,” Thorn muttered.
He didn’t get time to process it.
Because something else was wrong.
The hallway outside was loud.
Too loud.
Students everywhere. Noise bouncing off walls. Movement layered on movement until it stopped feeling like individuals and started feeling like pressure.
And in the middle of it—
Solar.
Standing completely still.
Like someone had paused him mid-render.
No blinking. No shifting weight. No reaction to collisions or voices or movement brushing past him.
Just staring forward.
Not at anything.
Through everything.
Thorn’s stomach dropped.
That wasn’t “class president Solar.”
That was something else entirely.
Something overclocked.
Something waiting.
“Solar,” Thorn called softly.
No response.
Solar’s eyes didn’t track him.
Didn’t track anything.
Just glass-still focus on a hallway that didn’t exist to anyone else.
A student bumped into him. Apologized. Walked away.
Solar didn’t move.
Not even a fraction.
Thorn crossed the distance immediately.
Grip around Solar’s wrist.
Firm. Anchoring.
“Hey.”
Still nothing.
The noise around them dulled slightly in Thorn’s perception. Not because it stopped, but because something more important had taken priority.
Solar’s fingers twitched once.
Barely.
Thorn pulled.
“Come with me.”
No resistance.
That was worse.
They turned down an empty corridor behind the main hall. Less noise. Less people. More air.
Only when the door slid shut behind them did Solar finally react.
A breath.
Sharp. Delayed.
Like he’d just remembered how lungs worked.
Thorn didn’t let go.
“You still have to perform,” Thorn said quietly.
Solar’s head tilted slightly.
Not toward Thorn.
Not toward anything stable.
Just slightly off-center.
Like the world had shifted a few degrees and he hadn’t recalibrated yet.
The fluorescent light above them flickered once.
And stayed on.
For now.
Thorn tightened his grip just a little more.
The hallway behind them felt too far away already.
Like something had started closing in.