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Chapter 1 – The Incident

The metro hissed to a stop, its doors creaking open with the tired groan of something that had been alive too long. As the crowd spilled out, two boys emerged side by side—one with an angular frame, quiet eyes, and a brain full of overthinking. The other? Broad, lazy-eyed, walking like gravity hadn’t finished sculpting him yet.

That was us.

I adjusted the strap of my backpack and looked over at him—Mo. My best friend. Or… something like that.

"So, Mo," I said as we stepped onto the platform, "what's your plan for next year?"

He shrugged, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket like he was hiding stolen candy. “To be honest with you, Seno—I’m changing schools.”

I stopped walking for half a second. My brain did that little mental trip it does when you misstep on a staircase that wasn’t there. I was disappointed, yeah. But I couldn’t let it show.

People leave. Things change. That’s just how the chapters turn.

I nodded slowly. “Alright. Which school you going to?”

Then he paused—like he didn’t hear the question. Or maybe like he had something much dumber to say.

And then he said it.

"Those girls sure do look hot."

I blinked. “Huh?”

He tilted his chin across the street.

A group of kindergarteners—tiny kids in neon backpacks and flashing Velcro shoes—were walking through the school gate, escorted by a teacher who looked like she hadn’t slept in twenty years.

I laughed. Nervously. “You’re joking, right?”

But Mo didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He just kept staring, lips pressed together, like he’d just made a deep philosophical observation about the world.

My stomach flipped. I knew Mo was weird. Like... studies-roadkill-to-understand-anatomy weird. But this?

“What?” he said, tilting his head. “They’re cute.”

“They’re FIVE!” I snapped.

He shrugged. “So?”

I blinked. My brain froze like someone just poured cold water into my skull.

“I swear to God,” I growled, stepping toward him, “I will beat the ever-living shit out of you.”

Mo grinned lazily. “Do your worst, weirdo with bad taste.”

“YOU’RE the weirdo!” I roared.

And then all hell broke loose.

I dropped my bag mid-step. My body moved on instinct, years of martial arts practice burning in my veins. My first strike was a clean jab to his chest, which would’ve staggered a normal person. But Mo? Mo absorbed it like a punching bag that had been wrapped in twelve layers of bubble wrap and existential apathy.

He laughed—actually laughed—as he barreled forward with all the elegance of a rolling refrigerator. I ducked under his swing, swept his leg, and brought him to the ground. He landed with a thud that shook the air, but instead of staying down, he bounced back up like he was made of rubber.

I circled. He charged.

He tried to bear-hug me, but I slipped out, spun behind him, and locked an arm around his neck. For a second, I had him. Had him.

But then he dropped his entire body weight backwards like a walrus doing a trust fall. I got crushed under a hundred kilograms of pure, useless fat and questionable moral decisions.

We rolled. We clawed. I landed another punch to his ribs, and he retaliated by body-slamming me into a newspaper stand.

People screamed.

A woman pulled out her phone. Someone shouted, “Call the cops!”

And then, finally, a group of bystanders jumped in—two teenagers, a delivery guy, and a grandpa who fought like he’d been in a war once. They pried us apart like two rabid animals, both of us still growling, breathing heavy, eyes locked in pure, incandescent hatred.

We didn’t speak after that.

We just went to school.

The entire day was silent. But every time I passed him in the hallway, every time our eyes met across a classroom, the air burned. We were shooting invisible daggers at each other. Nuclear glares. The kind of tension that made the walls sweat.

Everyone noticed. The teacher asked what happened.

We both answered at the same time.

“Nothing.”

But they didn’t believe us.

Because that day, something changed.

And it all started... with a kindergarten.

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