The lunchroom buzzed with the usual symphony of high school life—clattering trays, laughter, and muffled conversations. It was just another day at Crestwood High School until it wasn't.
A heavy thud echoed across the cafeteria, silencing the chatter. The sound came from two boys locked in a vicious brawl near the center of the room. A larger boy, broad-shouldered and towering, swung a heavy fist toward his opponent—a leaner, smaller boy with short, jet-black hair and a fierce glare.
"Get him, Marcus!" someone shouted, spurring on the larger boy.
Students quickly formed a circle around the fight, their voices rising in excitement. The larger boy, Marcus, grinned through the sweat on his face, reveling in the cheers. His movements were raw power, his fists hammering down like sledgehammers. But the smaller boy was quick, his footwork sharp, and his eyes locked on Marcus with a determination that burned brighter than the jeers around him.
"You think you can keep running, Zayn?" Marcus growled, throwing a hook aimed at the smaller boy's jaw.
Zayn ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a sharp jab to Marcus's ribs. The larger boy grunted, his face twisting in frustration.
The fight teetered on the edge of chaos, each exchange drawing gasps from the crowd. Marcus's swings were relentless but sloppy, fueled by raw strength and adrenaline. Zayn, on the other hand, moved with precision, slipping past punches and landing his strikes in quick, calculated bursts.
"Come on, Marcus! Don't let that bastard win!" another voice rang out, louder than the others.
The words only seemed to fuel Zayn's focus. His movements became sharper, each dodge and strike punctuated by a sharp exhale. A feint left Marcus open for a devastating punch to the gut. The larger boy staggered, his balance faltering as Zayn pressed the advantage, landing another blow to his chest.
The tide was shifting.
Despite his size and strength, Marcus was beginning to falter. The cheers from the crowd grew louder, urging him on, but it was clear—Zayn was winning.
Just as Zayn dodged another wild swing and prepared to deliver what might have been the final blow, a thunderous voice cut through the chaos.
"ENOUGH!"
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, students stepping back with guilty expressions as Mr. Callahan, the towering gym teacher, stormed into the fray. His booming voice carried an authority that could silence even the most unruly teenagers.
"What in the world is going on here?" Mr. Callahan barked, his sharp eyes scanning the scene.
Marcus, still clutching his stomach, stood upright, panting heavily. Zayn, his chest heaving from exertion, straightened, meeting Mr. Callahan's gaze without flinching.
"You two! Fighting in the cafeteria?" Mr. Callahan's tone was incredulous as he glared at both boys. "Have you completely lost your minds?"
The surrounding students shrank back under his withering gaze, muttering excuses and looking away.
"You're all just as guilty," Mr. Callahan snapped, pointing at the crowd. "Cheering on a fight like it's some kind of circus. Get out of here before I start handing out detentions to every single one of you!"
The students dispersed, some muttering in disappointment. A few cast lingering, disdainful glances at Zayn, clearly unhappy that their favorite hadn't triumphed.
"Marcus, Zayn, follow me," Mr. Callahan ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The two boys trudged behind him, Zayn still standing tall despite the bruises forming on his face. The murmurs of the crowd faded as they left the cafeteria, but the resentment lingered in the air.
As they disappeared down the hallway, one student whispered, "Figures Zayn would pull some stunt like this. Always causing trouble."
Another replied, "Yeah, he's lucky Callahan showed up. Marcus would've crushed him eventually."
"Ugh! I hate that guy. You should have helped beat his face in!" a girl complained to her boyfriend.
On the other hand,
Mr. Callahan marched Marcus and Zayn through the school halls, their footsteps echoing ominously. The tension between the two boys was palpable, but neither said a word. When they reached the principal's office, Mr. Callahan knocked once before opening the door.
Principal Reinhardt, a man in his late forties with thinning hair and a permanent scowl, was on the phone. He held up a finger to signal them to wait, his voice sharp and clipped as he wrapped up the call.
"I understand, Senator. I'll look into the matter personally," Reinhardt said before hanging up. He turned his piercing gaze toward the boys and Mr. Callahan. "This better be important."
"It is," Mr. Callahan began, crossing his arms. "These two were brawling in the cafeteria. A full crowd gathered around them, too."
Reinhardt's expression darkened, and he sighed heavily. "Fighting? Again?" He pinched the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. "Start talking, Callahan."
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The gym teacher relayed the details of the fight, his tone dripping with disappointment. When he finished, Reinhardt leaned back in his chair, directing his first wave of frustration at Marcus.
"Marcus, what were you thinking?" Reinhardt's tone was sharp. "You're jeopardizing your spot on the football team. Do you even realize what that means for your future? For this school?"
Marcus, still clutching his side from Zayn's hits, immediately adopted a contrite expression. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what came over me. It won't happen again."
Reinhardt eyed him skeptically but eventually sighed. "Fine. At least no one was seriously hurt. But this is your first and last warning, Marcus. Any more incidents, and you're off the team. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Marcus replied quickly, his tone as fake as his apology.
Reinhardt waved him off before turning to Zayn, his face hardening further. The disappointment in his eyes morphed into outright disdain.
"And you," Reinhardt said, his voice cold. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you? Always reckless. Always in something. Why can't you just be normal until you graduate?"
Zayn stood silently, his face unreadable as Reinhardt's words lashed out at him.
"You're more trouble than you're worth," the principal continued. "If it weren't for the government laws, I'd rather see you sitting in a jail cell than in my school."
The harshness of Reinhardt's words might have cut deep for someone else, but Zayn remained quiet, his stoic expression unyielding.
Reinhardt sighed in exasperation. "Three weeks of detention, starting today. And if you so much as breathe wrong in my school again, we're having a much bigger conversation."
"Yes, sir," Zayn replied evenly.
Reinhardt dismissed them with a wave. As the two boys left the office, Marcus shot Zayn a smug grin, his lips curling in triumph. "Looks like you're the real loser, huh?"
Zayn didn't respond. His gaze fell to his digital watch. A glance told him he still had a few hours before school ended. As Marcus strutted away, basking in his perceived victory, Zayn's mind drifted elsewhere.
The Library.
Zayn decided he had no intention of attending his remaining classes. Navigating the quiet halls, he made his way to an abandoned building of the school—a place few dared to venture. Dusty, dim, and eerily silent, this part of the school felt like a relic of a forgotten era.
Eventually, he reached the library. The double doors creaked slightly as he pushed them open, revealing a vast space. Rows of bookshelves stood like solemn sentinels, their contents untouched for what felt like years. The air carried the faint scent of old paper and disuse.
Not a single person was around. Zayn remembered reading about librarians, people responsible for maintaining places like these. Though, just like many other jobs, they had become useless and unneeded.
Zayn let the doors close behind him, his footsteps the only sound as he walked deeper into the room.
Libraries had become obsolete, a relic of a bygone age. The rise of technology had rendered books unnecessary. Schools like Crestwood kept these spaces out of tradition—or because no one had figured out what to do with the extra square footage.
Zayn ran his fingers along the spines of books as he walked past, their titles blurred by years of dust and neglect. He found an old wooden chair near a window and sat down, staring at the books surrounding him.
This was one of the few places he could find peace. No jeering classmates. No scolding teachers. No suffocating expectations. Here, he could escape, even if only for a little while.
He leaned back, letting his gaze wander to the faintly glowing screen of his watch. Somewhere deep in his mind, he felt the weight of the world pressing down—but in this moment, it didn't matter.
The silence of the library was a comfort. For now, that was enough.
Zayn wandered deeper into the library, leaving the less dusty sections behind. This far in, the shelves stretched taller, the lighting dimmed, and the air carried a weighty stillness.
His fingers trailed over the spines of books in various genres. Each one seemed to mockingly reflect a world long past, a time when imagination had thrived.
He passed through the dystopian section, smirking faintly at titles like The Hungry Championships with its depiction of a grim-faced girl holding a loaf of bread against a burning backdrop. Beside it sat Divergence, its tagline reading: "What if society sorted you by your favorite fruit?"
The science fiction section had its share of curiosities. Zayn lingered for a moment on Metal Clones' War and A Galaxy Far, Far Away Chronicles, before his eyes caught a title that brought a chuckle to his lips: Star Voyagers: The Quest for the Boldly Gone. Its cover featured a mismatched crew of humans and aliens standing dramatically on the bridge of a spaceship shaped suspiciously like a spoon.
"Boldly gone, huh?" he muttered with amusement before moving on.
The fantasy section soon drew him in like a gravitational pull. His gaze landed on a large, weathered tome titled The Lord of the Bracelets. The cover depicted a ragtag group of travelers standing solemnly in front of a mountain, all focused on a gleaming golden bracelet held aloft by a farm boy.
Zayn carefully pulled the book from the shelf, running his fingers over the embossed title. He carried it to a dusty corner where a desk sat beneath a flickering light. The deeper parts of the library were completely abandoned, a realm entirely his own.
He settled into the chair and opened the book.
As he read, the words transported him to a world of peril and wonder. The story followed a humble farm boy tasked with destroying a cursed bracelet forged by a dark lord. The world-building was vivid—lush forests, towering mountains, and endless peril. Zayn's heart quickened as the characters faced betrayal, fought monstrous creatures, and overcame their own doubts.
Stories had always been his refuge, his way to escape a life he felt shackled to. He often dreamed of living in the 21st century, a time when creativity was king and humans poured their souls into their work. Back then, books, games, movies—everything—had been crafted with passion and effort. Now, in 2184, AI had taken over. Art, storytelling, and even personal expression were all automated, optimized, and sterile.
It frustrated him. Humanity had forgotten the joy of creating for the sake of it. The spark that once drove people to dream had dimmed, leaving only efficiency in its wake. It still annoyed him though that humans still found things like sports entertaining. Though soon that will also be lost.
He had no issues with sports, in fact, he was a big fan of American football and would have tried out for the team if it wasn't for his past. He was just frustrated that his hobby was forgotten so greatly.
But here, in the deeper recesses of the library, surrounded by these forgotten relics, Zayn could pretend. Pretend that stories still mattered. Pretend that someone had poured their heart into every word he read.
Unbeknownst to Zayn, the heavy creak of the library's double doors echoed faintly through the cavernous space.
At the entrance, Marcus and two of his friends hesitated, glancing around the dimly lit library. Dust motes danced in the weak sunlight streaming through high windows.
"You sure he's here?" Marcus asked, his tone low but laced with annoyance.
"Yeah, man," one of his friends replied, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. "He always comes here after school and he didn't go to class either."
Marcus scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Figures. Who even uses a library anymore? Just one more thing to add to his freak tab."
They ventured further inside, their footsteps muted by the thick carpet. Despite their presence, Zayn remained oblivious. The shelves between them and his secluded corner formed a barrier, insulating him from their intrusion.