"I don't want to end up like my father."
That was Noah's standard reply whenever someone asked why he buried himself in textbooks. Those seven words were enough to silence most questions—and enough to convey the depth of his resentment.
Noah adjusted his black square-framed glasses and continued working through the calculus problem. The fluorescent lights of the classroom buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow that made the pages appear unnaturally white. Other students chatted in small clusters around him, their laughter and conversation creating a bubble of isolation around his desk in the corner.
He was used to it by now. Three years since his mother had fled to another country with her new husband, three years of living like a ghost in his own home, sharing space with the hollow shell that was his father—a retired gangster who had replaced violence with vodka.
They existed in parallel, two strangers who happened to share blood and an apartment. Noah cooked meals for both of them, left his father's portion on the table, and retreated to his room. It was a routine built on silence and unspoken resentment.
The morning air felt crisp against Noah's face as he pedaled his bicycle down the familiar route to school. His backpack weighed heavy with textbooks—anchors that would someday lift him out of the life he was trapped in. The journey took between thirty and forty minutes, depending on traffic, but Noah didn't mind. These were the only moments of his day when he felt truly free.
Westridge High School loomed ahead, a weathered brick building that had seen better decades. Noah locked his bicycle and made his way through the crowded hallways, eyes fixed on the floor tiles ahead of him. Whispers followed in his wake.
"That's the gangster's kid..."
"I heard his dad killed someone..."
"Stay away from him if you know what's good for you..."
Noah had perfected the art of pretending not to hear. He slipped into his classroom and took his usual seat at the far corner, becoming invisible to everyone except the teachers who had come to appreciate his dedication and intelligence.
The day unfolded like any other—lectures, note-taking, the occasional question directed his way because teachers knew he would have the answer. Noah excelled not from natural brilliance but from sheer determination. Every equation solved, every essay written, was another brick in the wall he was building between himself and his father's legacy.
When the final bell rang, signaling dismissal, Noah gathered his materials methodically, waiting for the initial rush of students to clear. As he made his way toward the exit, a voice called out behind him.
"Noah, wait!"
He turned to see Mr. Klein hurrying toward him, a book clutched in his hand. Mr. Klein taught mathematics with a passion that few students appreciated, but Noah wasn't most students.
"Sir Klein?" Noah's brow furrowed slightly.
The teacher's face broke into a warm smile as he extended the book. "Here, this is a new edition of 'Fundamentals of Integrals' published by K. Rudh. Prepare for your exam with this."
Noah's eyes widened slightly as he accepted the gift. New textbooks were a luxury he rarely afforded himself. "Thanks, Sir Klein! I promise to score good marks in the coming exam."
Mr. Klein nodded approvingly. "Bye, take care."
The unexpected kindness left a warm feeling in Noah's chest as he unlocked his bicycle. Perhaps today wouldn't be so bad after all.
The sky, however, had other plans.
What had been clear blue all day suddenly darkened as Noah was halfway home. Fat droplets began to fall, quickly intensifying into a downpour that soaked through his clothes.
"Damn it," he muttered, hunching over the handlebars. "It was clear all day, why now? I don't even have my rain coat."
He pedaled faster, the streets transforming into slick, treacherous paths beneath his tires. By the time he reached his building—a shabby four-story structure with peeling paint and rusty railings—he was drenched to the bone.
Noah locked his bicycle in the building's small storage area and trudged up the stairs, leaving wet footprints in his wake. Water dripped from his hair and glasses as he fumbled with the keys to the apartment.
The door swung open.
Something was wrong.
Noah stepped inside, his shoes squelching against the floor. He looked down, expecting to see puddles from his own wet clothes, but instead saw something darker. 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 ajar.
Noah pushed it open.
The metallic scent of blood hit him first, so strong he could taste it. Then came the sight—his father's body sprawled across the floor, surrounded by a pool of dark red that seemed to have consumed the entire room. The walls were spattered with evidence of violence, telling a story Noah wasn't prepared to read.
His knees buckled beneath him as the reality of the scene burned itself into his mind.
His father—the man he had spent years despising, avoiding, resenting—was dead.
And nothing in Noah's carefully planned future had prepared him for this moment.