The bell rang like a scream trapped in metal—too loud, too sharp for a school that pretended to be peaceful.
The halls of Northridge High flooded with students. Some laughed too loudly, some pushed each other around like it meant something. But none of them noticed him. Riven drifted past the chaos, his expression unreadable, his footsteps silent.
He liked it that way.
No eyes. No attention. No trouble.
But trouble always found him.
As he stepped into Class 2-D, he headed straight for his usual seat: back row, last by the window. He liked the corner. It was quiet, tucked away from curious eyes and loud mouths.
The window overlooked the fence, the traffic beyond, the skyline of the city that never looked back at him. It was a view that whispered freedom—and reminded him how far he was from it.
"Trash boy's still crawling," a voice said behind him.
Riven didn't flinch.
Dorian again. Always Dorian. His voice was sharp like someone who laughed because he was afraid not to.
Riven kept his eyes on the sky.
Thud. A half-empty milk carton slammed onto his desk and spilled over his notes.
"Oh no," Dorian gasped dramatically. "Did I ruin your precious homework?" Laughter followed—from Liam and Ren, the shadows that clung to Dorian's side like rusted chains.
Riven wiped the milk off slowly, then turned his gaze toward them—not angry, not scared. Just… tired.
"You should thank us," Dorian smirked. "We give your boring life purpose."
Riven met his eyes and said quietly, "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?"
The smirk dropped.
Before Dorian could reply, the classroom door slid open. Their homeroom teacher strolled in, calling for quiet.
Riven turned back to the window.
Another war, postponed.
The hours dragged. Teachers droned on about equations, history, politics—things that meant little when your world was shaped by bruises and low ceilings.
At lunch, Riven didn't eat in the cafeteria. He never did. He sat under the staircase behind the gym, biting into a half-squished sandwich he made at dawn.
It tasted like paper and regret.
After school, he changed behind the convenience store—pulling on the brown apron that smelled like oil and soy sauce. His job at Han's Diner wasn't glamorous, but it was quiet. Mr. Han didn't ask questions. He just barked orders and paid him on time.
"You're late," Han grunted as Riven entered.
"Forty-three seconds," Riven said.
"You're getting slow."
"I'm getting smarter. I know you won't fire me."
Han snorted. "Smart mouth. Wipe down tables, ninja boy."
Riven cracked a tired smile. It was the closest thing to affection he got in a day.
Evening fell. The neon signs outside flickered as Riven wiped down the last table. His muscles were sore, his back ached, and his mind was heavy.
He headed home through the alleyways, where stray cats hissed and drunks laughed at nothing.
His apartment was a one-room space on the fourth floor of a crumbling building. The light switch flickered when he pressed it. The fridge hummed like it had asthma.
He collapsed onto his futon and stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head.
This was his life.
School by day. Work by night. Silence always.
But at midnight, he slipped out again—onto the rooftop.
Up there, under the moonlight, he moved.
Stretches. Punches. Footwork. Elbow strikes. Knee thrusts.
A silent rhythm, carved from discipline and old instincts.
He wasn't practicing. He was remembering.
Every motion whispered of a life he left behind. A life he couldn't mention. Not here. Not yet.
He finished with a deep breath, exhaling into the sky.
Peace never comes to those born for war.
And Riven knew...
If you hide a blade too long,it begins to rust.