One's younger years were supposed to be spirited, ever-changing, and memorable. Each day, something new and brilliant.

 

Some said so.

But Vin loved how every day was predictable and routine. As long as he didn't deviate from the norm, nothing could go horribly wrong.

He rested until his father's boisterous voice woke him.

"Breakfast in ten!" the man announced with a bang on the door.

Vin groaned and pulled his bedsheets over his short black hair. He didn't want to move; he felt flat—muted as the gray walls of his punk-styled room.

Eventually, Vin, sporting an incurable resting-bitch-face, wrestled the comfy bed to sit upright. The room's tall, narrow windows flanked his body, inviting in the sun's golden rays. Light caught his sharp eyes and warmed his brown skin.

Tilting his head, Vin growled at the innocent glow. Bright. Ordinary. Perfectly boring.

His ankle ached when he tested his weight—leftover sting from training the night before—but nothing dire.

He drifted toward the wall lined with skateboards and reached for his favorite: a fully translucent board made of high-impact acrylic that resembled glass. Slick, risky, and sharp.

It summed up his life.

Transparent. Obvious.

He pocketed his T-shaped repair tool from the desk and headed downstairs.

The aroma of brewed coffee and bacon met him halfway, filling the house.

"Morning, champ," his father greeted, setting plates on the table. "Ready for your race today?"

Side by side, the resemblance was uncanny—Vin was his father's echo. 

Made sense, considering he was named after him, just more into loose-fitting clothing, unlike his hefty father, who wore shirts that squeezed his muscles like a latex glove.

"Another trophy for the collection," Vin answered.

Gavin grinned and squeezed his son in a bear hug tight enough to pop ribs.

Hellen, his mother, swept by with her silk hair and flowery dress, kissing them both on the forehead.

"You'll be competing on an empty stomach if you don't finish setting up."

Vin helped finish the table while his sister, Macy, gathered condiments, waving him off when he tried to assist. She had their mother's scowl, sharpened by karate practice and teenage attitude. 

Breakfast followed in comfortable chaos. Vin could always tell which dish Macy made—she'd watch him until his fork touched it, waiting for approval. He made sure to groan in exaggerated delight after the first bite.

She smiled—just for a second—then hid it behind her plate.

When they finally left the house, sunlight washed the quiet suburban street. The family walked the familiar twenty-minute route toward town—the gradual fade from rural calm to city noise.

Vin rode his board on the sidewalk, wheels humming softly on the concrete. Nothing was out of place. Nothing unpredictable.

Exactly how he liked it.

He didn't know yet how right—and wrong—he was.