"Some boys don't break things because they're angry. They break things so no one sees they're broken."
Rudren didn't believe in peace.
Not because he hated it—but because it had never stayed long enough to be trusted.
Every time life got quiet, something happened. Someone left. Someone hit. Someone forgot he existed.
So he filled silence with noise—loud steps, sharp words, a scowl that worked like a wall.
That morning, he arrived late again.
Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Bag barely zipped.
He tossed himself into his chair, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling fan as if daring it to fall.
Behind him, Vikran sat quietly. Ahead, Ameira doodled light patterns on the margin of her notebook.
The teacher called for attention.
Rudren didn't raise his head until Ameira nudged his arm with her pen.
"You'll fail if you keep ignoring everything," she whispered.
"I'm not here to pass," he muttered.
"Then why are you here?"
He didn't answer.
After school, they continued their mural planning. They painted base outlines on a huge sheet pinned across the wall: clouds, vines, flowing rivers.
Ameira chose soft colors.
Vikran added layers that shimmered in light.
Rudren just... stared.
"Do something," Ameira teased. "You said you used to paint."
"Yeah. Before."
"Before what?" Vikran asked gently.
Rudren looked at them both. His jaw tightened.
"Before I realized it never mattered."
He turned away, grabbed a paintbrush, and without a word, painted a thundercloud into the corner of the sky. Deep grey. Sharp. Alive.
They said nothing—but the shape stayed.
That evening, Rudren wandered alone. He didn't go home. Not yet.
His uncle would be out drinking or yelling at a television no one watched.
So he walked.
Past the broken playground. Past the overgrown field. Past the alley where a week ago he'd shoved a thief off a bicycle just because he could.
He wasn't proud of it. But it made him feel real. Felt like something.
Near the abandoned water tank, he heard a small cry.
A puppy, shivering, trapped under a loose sheet of rusted metal.
Rudren cursed under his breath, squatted, and pulled it free. It yelped, then nuzzled into his arms.
He stared down at it, confused.
Then whispered, "What are you doing here?"
It licked his wrist.
He brought it home.
His uncle screamed.
Rudren ignored him, found a box, laid out a ragged towel, and fed it a half-slice of old bread.
The puppy licked his fingers again.
"You're annoying," he muttered.
But he didn't push it away.
That night, the storm came.
Rain pounded the roof like war drums. Lightning flashed, but no thunder followed.
Rudren sat on the floor, back against the bed, the puppy curled into his lap.
He dozed off with the faint hum of wind outside his window.
In his dream, the storm didn't end.
Instead, it formed wings.
Massive, feathered, electric wings.
A creature hovered in the sky—neither bird nor beast—its eyes golden, its feathers laced with sparks.
"You burn," the voice said. "But not to destroy. To survive."
Rudren reached out.
The lightning struck.
And he didn't flinch.
He woke up gasping.
The puppy was still there, asleep.
But his hands… tingled. Like they remembered something his mind didn't.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked at the sky.
It wasn't storming anymore.
But something inside him still was.
To be continued ....