There was once a boy who had known how to love, known how to feel — but in the end, it had all been in vain. Even in his final moments, in his last breaths, he had nothing good to say about his life. He had lost all hope in this world. And yet, somehow, he still clung to something. A tattered flag flailing in the wind, so delicate it could tear from the gentlest breeze.
His name was Abdul. And this is the story of how the man known as The Ruined Apocalypse came to be.
Abdul had regressed — but not long before. It happened on the very day he was meant to start Year 7 at the Academy. Memories slammed into him like waves: the pain, the mistakes, the betrayals he'd thought were long buried. But this time, those memories were weapons — tools he would wield to rewrite his fate.
Armed with knowledge of what awaited, he vowed to shatter the cycle.
He arrived at the Academy alongside the other Year 7 students, but a day earlier than the rest. This early arrival was meant to help him navigate the sprawling grounds, the boarding house, and the complex social maze lurking beneath the surface.
Among the new faces was Zuni — a fellow Year 7 student whose smile hid a shadow Abdul already recognized. The enemy he hadn't yet met, but would soon learn to fear.
A sharp, sudden sound broke the quiet.
Abdul appeared — a caramel-skinned boy of eleven — unremarkable in looks, but in his eyes burned the cold patience of a tiger waiting in the brush. A boy desperate to escape a life that seemed determined to trap him, only to be pulled back time and again.
"Did I really regress?" his mind whispered, hollow and haunted.
"Do I have to face all this pain again?"
"NO!" he snapped under his breath.
This time, he promised himself — nothing bad would happen. He would succeed. He would change everything.
But deep down, he knew the truth... these were just words, fragile as glass.
The sharp voice of his mother sliced through his thoughts — a sound he could recognize anywhere. His "Overdoing Mother," as he sometimes called her, though not without affection.
He hurried down the stairs, the familiar scent of old wood and faint vanilla wrapping around him like a fading memory. There she stood — tall, 5'7, with dark curly hair cascading like a crown, her face one he believed could shame the gods themselves.
Beside her stood a man whose presence chilled Abdul more than the grey skies outside. His father — cold, calculated, his eyes unreadable and heavy with silent judgment.
Abdul's hatred for his father ran deep — tied to memories too painful to summon. So, he looked away, focusing instead on his mother — still vibrant, still holding onto the light that seemed to fade in Abdul's own chest.
He had always believed she married his father for money. But that theory fell apart — his father wasn't wealthy when they wed. That inconsistency gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"I just want you to know," she said softly, "as you go to that new school... be a good boy. Make your parents proud."
The weight of those words settled in his chest like a stone.
And just like that, it hit him. This was it. The beginning of the end. The spiral that would drag him under. The place where everything began: The Academy.
Located in Ogun State, Nigeria, the Academy was one of the most prestigious schools in the country — a shining beacon for the best and brightest. A supposed golden ticket to Britain, a gateway to success.
But for Abdul, it became a battlefield. A stage for a war he didn't want but had no choice but to fight — especially against the person he hated most: Zuni.
Before that war, there was the car ride.
Silence hung thick inside the Mercedes-Benz. The scent of leather mixed with faint cologne and a stale undertone that made Abdul's throat tighten. Grey clouds pressed down from above, heavy with unshed rain. The engine hummed quietly, the only sound in the tense space.
"Why the long face?" his father asked abruptly, breaking the quiet.
Abdul said nothing.
"You're going to a great school. You should be grateful," his father added, voice sharp.
His mother glanced at him, soft and concerned. "He's just nervous."
"I'm not nervous," Abdul muttered, eyes fixed on the window where raindrops began to streak the glass.
"Well, stop acting like it," his father snapped.
"Maybe if you hadn't pushed me to go there, I wouldn't be," Abdul said, voice low.
His mother bit her lip, looking away.
At last, they reached the school gates. Green and white — colors once a source of pride, now dull and childish to Abdul. Probably the idea of Dew, the smug Head Boy.
Dew Transina.
The first piece in his puzzle.
His first crush.
The first illusion he'd need to shatter.
The gates slid open silently, welcoming them. They drove past perfectly trimmed lawns toward the boarding house — a looming structure with windows like watchful eyes.
Abdul's gaze hardened. This is where it starts.
After parking, his parents spoke with the boarding house master while Abdul hefted his bags inside.
"Room opposite theirs? How convenient," he muttered with a bitter smirk.
Just as he finished unpacking, the door burst open.
A boy, about thirteen, messy braids bouncing, wide grin lighting up his face.
"Hey! You the new guy?" the boy asked, dropping his bag with a heavy thump.
"Yeah," Abdul said cautiously.
"I'm Rasaq Wobi. But you can call me rocky."
"Hero?"
"Long story. I'll have your back when it counts." He winked.
Abdul blinked, unsure what to make of him.
Rocky leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look, man — I know this place can feel like a battlefield. I've seen what it does to people. I've been through my own storms."
Abdul's eyes narrowed. "You say that like you've been through hell."
Rocky shrugged, a shadow crossing his grin. "Let's just say… I get it. And if you ever need someone who's got your back, I'm that guy."
Abdul studied him for a long moment, wondering if this was genuine or just another game. But something in Rocky's steady gaze stopped him from shutting the door.
"Alright," -Abdul said finally. "But don't expect me to trust easily."
Rocky chuckled. "Fair enough. We'll take it slow."
Later that night, lying on his narrow bed, Abdul stared at the ceiling.
His mind drifted to his sister, Amina — the only family member he felt both connected to and haunted by. She was older, attending an elite school across town, wrapped in privileges Abdul never wanted but somehow envied.
Their last fight replayed endlessly in his head — the words unsaid, the silence that followed.
She had tried to protect him once. But her world was a fortress built on distance and secrets.
And somewhere in that divide lay one of Abdul's deepest scars.