Quynten gathers his things without missing a beat, shoving the last wave of irritation about the trio of douchebags to the back of his mind. The late hour creeps in, and all that matters now is getting home.

He doesn’t have a car—not because he’s incapable of driving, but because his parents refuse to let him own one. More specifically, his father refuses.

“There’s always buses and trains,” his father had said once, tone dismissive. It was right after Quynten aced his permit test and was praised by his instructor—“One of the best student drivers I’ve seen.”

Naturally, his father chalked it up to empty flattery. So he insisted on testing Quynten himself.

To no surprise, Quynten passed that test too.

He had to be focused—had to be flawless. If he wasn’t, the scolding would come fast, followed by the shame. “You’ve got to be sharper than that,” his father would say. But Quynten was sharp. Always had been.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Not enough to earn trust. Not enough to borrow Kalana’s car. Not enough to be granted any real independence.

Maybe it was spite. Or maybe his father just didn’t believe Quynten could handle life without constant supervision.

Even college had been a point of contention.

His father pushed for community college. Something “practical.” But Quynten applied to state schools and universities on his own—every essay, every form, every submission—and to his quiet triumph, he was accepted into several. Scholarships followed. Two of the offers were substantial enough that he’d barely have to pay for anything beyond books.

One came from Winston University, a renowned HBCU in Richmond with a stellar arts program. The other, from Hilman Jerard University—a highly selective, state-of-the-art institution in Baltimore. It wasn’t known for its diversity, not exactly, but it had just enough variation for his mother to refer to it as having “a whisper of color.” That didn’t deter Quynten. Their psychology department was strong—clinical and forensic offered as separate tracks with some overlap. He figured he’d major in forensic psychology, minor in clinical, and maybe tack on criminal justice with a concentration in criminology. It all fit.

His father, slowly, began to ease up. Especially when Quynten chose to commute rather than live on campus. The university wasn’t far, and this way, his father could keep a semblance of control.

His mother, on the other hand, was radiant. Tearful. She held his face in her hands the day he got his final acceptance and said, “You know what you want.” Her pride shone through every syllable.

She was a registered nurse—always had been. And while there were stretches in his childhood when she had seemed... distant, subdued—moments when she was too still, too quiet—those days felt further away now. She’d grown stronger. Or maybe just better at hiding it.

His father, a seasoned legal consultant, kept everything buttoned up. Always professional. Always in control.

When Quynten finally told them about his major and minors, something unexpected happened. His father stood from his recliner, walked over, and clapped a hand on Quynten’s shoulder.

“Good job, son.”

Three words Quynten had wanted for years.

And yet… they hit wrong.

They settled in his chest like gravel, leaving a bitter aftertaste and a twist in his gut he couldn’t explain.

Maybe it was because the moment felt rehearsed. Conditional. Performed.

Thankfully, it only happened once.

Quynten walks home beneath a patchwork of streetlights, their soft glow painting halos on the pavement as the night presses in around him. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain and distant exhaust. His phone buzzes in his pocket, jolting him from his thoughts.

He pulls it out and sees the voicemail notification—the same unfamiliar number from earlier. His brow furrows.

“What do you want…” he mutters, unlocking the screen and raising the phone to his ear.

A voice plays through the speaker—low, familiar, a slow drawl laced with warmth.

“Hey Quynten… sorry to bother you. Just checking in. This is Marco, by the way, in case you forgot and are wondering who the hell this is.”

Marco…?

The name echoes for a moment before it clicks—Marco.

Suddenly, it all floods back.

The College Recruitment Program. That two-week, whirlwind introduction to future campuses, designed for a select group of students. Quynten had been one of them. Marco was the guide who introduced him to Hilman Jerard University. More than a guide—Marco had been his anchor during the entire experience.

Quynten remembers the way Marco carried himself: confident but never arrogant, built like an athlete but with none of the aggressive edge. His frame was broad, solid—like the kind of person who could shield you from anything. His skin was a deep mocha, a few shades richer than Quynten’s, and his hair was cropped in clean, tight curls with a sharp fade along the sides. There’d been a tattoo on his upper arm too—something sprawling, bold, but tasteful.

And then there was the smile—those damn dimples.

It wasn’t just charm. Marco had a presence, an energy that lit up every space he entered. Being around him felt… safe. Easy. That kind of ease was rare for Quynten.

So hearing Marco’s voice again—unexpected, soft with pride—feels like someone’s peeled back a memory he hadn’t realized was tucked so close to his heart.

“Just heard about your acceptance to HJU,” Marco says in the message, “and I wanted to say congrats, man. Seriously. I’m proud of you. I’ll be on campus when you get there—looking forward to catching up.”

By the time the message ends, Quynten’s crossing into his neighborhood. He tells himself the warmth rising to his cheeks is from the night air nipping at his skin.

Another lie, probably.

But the moment shatters as soon as he reaches his street.

Flashing lights.

Two police cars parked in front of his house.

A small crowd of neighbors lingers on the sidewalk, murmuring among themselves, their eyes sharp with curiosity.

His chest tightens. Something cold spreads through his limbs.

He hurries to the door, heart pounding, hands trembling as he steps across the threshold. The house is too quiet. Too still.

He rounds the corner into the living room.

Two officers stand at the center, stone-faced, their postures stiff with authority. But it isn’t them that makes the ground tilt beneath him.

It’s his father.

Sitting on the couch.

Frozen.

His face slack, drained of all color and command, eyes glassy and hollow. Like the soul behind them has been ripped out.

“Son,” one of the officers begins gently, “are you—”

“I’m fine,” Quynten says, barely above a whisper, though his gaze never leaves his father’s.

His legs move on their own, carrying him up the stairs, past the hum of voices he no longer hears.

He enters his room, closes the door, and the silence wraps around him like iron.

His chest tightens.

His lungs burn.

The walls tilt.

His vision begins to blur at the edges, and then—he breaks.

Collapsed in the stillness, curled in on himself as the weight of something unnamed crushes the air from his body.