"I don't want to end up like my father."
That was the standard response of Noah whenever someone asked him why he buried himself in books. Those seven words were enough to shut most mouths—and enough to show the severity of his bitterness.
Noah pushed up his black square-framed glasses and went back to solving the calculus problem. The fluorescent lights in the classroom hummed overhead, throwing a cold glare that made the pages seem falsely white. Other students discussed things in small groups around him, their laughter and voices creating an environment of solitude around his corner desk.
He was accustomed to it by this point. Three years since his mother had run off to a foreign land with her new spouse, three years of existing like a ghost within his own household, coexisting with the empty husk that was his father—a retired mobster who had substituted violence for vodka.
They lived side by side, two strangers bound by blood and a shared apartment. Noah prepared meals for both of them, set his father's plate on the table, and went to his room. It was a life constructed upon quiet and latent bitterness.
The cool morning air stung Noah's face as he rode his bicycle along the familiar path to school. His backpack was heavy with textbooks—weights that would one day buoy him out of the existence he was stuck in. The ride took thirty to forty minutes, depending on traffic, but Noah didn't care. These were the only times of his day when he felt completely free.
Westridge High School towered before him, a faded brick structure that had better days behind it. Noah chained his bike and pushed through the throngs of people, eyes on the floor tiles in front of him. Whispers trailed behind him.
"That's the gangster's son."
"I heard his father murdered someone."
"Stay away from him if you know what's good for you."
Noah had mastered the technique of acting like he did not hear. He crept into his classroom and sat in his customary position at the back corner, becoming all but invisible to everyone but teachers who had learned to value his commitment and mind.
The day went by as usual—lectures, note-taking, the occasional question pointed in his direction because teachers were certain he would know the answer. Noah was good not due to natural talent but due to determination. Every problem solved, every essay written, was one more brick on the wall he was constructing between him and his father's reputation.
When the last bell sounded, and dismissal was official, Noah picked up his materials carefully, anticipating the first surge of students to pass. Moving toward the door, a call stopped him behind him.
"Wait, Noah!"
He looked back to watch Mr. Klein coming toward him, a textbook in his hand. Mr. Klein taught mathematics with an ardor that not many students acknowledged, but Noah wasn't typical students.
"Sir Klein?" Noah's forehead creased ever so slightly.
The teacher's face lit up with a gentle smile as he handed over the book. "Here, this is a new edition of 'Fundamentals of Integrals' by K. Rudh. Study for your exam with this."
Noah's eyes opened a little wide as he took the gift. New books were a luxury he could hardly treat himself to. "Thanks, Sir Klein! I promise to get good grades in the next exam."
Mr. Klein smiled. "Bye, be careful."
The kindness, out of nowhere, filled Noah with a good feeling in his chest as he opened the lock on his bicycle. Today mightn't be that terrible after all.
The sky, though, had other intentions.
What had remained blue all day darkened without warning when Noah was about half-way home. Fat raindrops started to fall, fast thickening into a shower that drenched him through his clothing.
"Damn it," he cursed, leaning forward over the handlebars. "It was clear all day, why now? I don't even have my raincoat."
He pedaled harder, the streets becoming slick, hazardous routes under his tires. By the time he arrived at his building—a dilapidated four-story affair with flaking paint and rusty railings—he was soaked to the core.
Noah locked his bike in the cramped storage room and climbed the stairs, leaving pools of water in his wake. Water dripped from his glasses and hair as he struggled to get the key into the apartment.
The door creaked open.
Something was off.
Noah came in, squelching against the floor. He glanced down, anticipating that he would find puddles of water from his own wet coat, but saw something darker instead. Thicker.
His eyes bulged. His body trembled.
"Bl. Blood?"
The apartment was in disarray. Furniture overturned, picture frames shattered, cabinet doors hanging open. Signs of a violent struggle were everywhere.
"What happened here?" Noah whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Something happened to dad?"
His gaze followed the trail of crimson that snaked across the floor, leading to his father's bedroom. With trembling legs, Noah moved forward, each step heavier than the last.
The door was open.
Noah shoved it wider.
The metallic smell of blood greeted him at first, so overpowering that he could feel it on the back of his tongue. Then came the sight—his father's body lying sprawled on the floor, covered in a pool of deep red that appeared to have engulfed the room. Evidence of the violence against his walls told a tale Noah wasn't ready to hear.
His knees gave way under him as the truth of the scene seared itself into his brain.
His dad—the guy he'd spent years hating, avoiding, resenting—was gone.
And nothing in Noah's precisely mapped-out future had forewarned him for this second.