Accidentally His.

The gunshot echoed like thunder.

He ran, barefoot, breathless, across the marble floor covered with blood. His lungs burned, each gasp like fire in his chest. His throat was raw, and dried from screaming.

“Mom—!”

Her hand reached out from behind the silk curtain. Trembling. Red-soaked fingers curled as if trying to hold on to him, one last time.

Then the shadows moved.

A masked figure stepped forward, pistol raised.

Another shot.

His father’s eyes widened, then went empty.

The world cracked apart.

Drake dropped to his knees. His sobs were broken, silent, stolen by the horror around him. The chandelier groaned as it broke loose from the ceiling and fell in a blaze of crystal and gold, shattering across the floor in a burst of firelight.

And then.

Silence.

He woke with a gasp, choking on nothing.

His chest heaved, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs. The room was dark and too quiet, the ceiling fan’s gentle music, suddenly a cruel mimicry of distant gunfire. The nightmare always ended the same way. But it never really ended. It clung to him, deeply into the air.

Gunpowder.

And that second shot.

He sat up, clutching his blanket like armor. He didn't cry. Not anymore. Not where anyone could see.

“I’m sorry, Mom… Dad...” he whispered, voice barely audible in the dark. His eyes stung, but he blinked the tears away. They had no place in the life he was stepping into.

He slipped out of bed, feet brushing the cold floor, and padded toward the tiny bathroom of the one-room apartment he shared with his drunk, mostly-absent uncle. The mirror above the sink was cracked, but he still caught his reflection, sunken eyes, brown skin pale under the flickering bulb, and a quiet defiance swimming beneath the tiredness.

He scrubbed himself clean in record time, dressed in a white shirt, tucked into black pants that had faded with too many washes, and pulled his old backpack onto his shoulder.

It was his first day at Brian’s Academy.

And he had to survive.

**

California mornings were brisk this time of year. Drake walked down the busy sidewalks, head lowered but eyes scanning everything. His sneakers were old, but clean. He kept his steps light, not wanting to be noticed.

Then he saw it, on a massive LED billboard above a department store:

“We love you, Miguel!”

Miguel Sanchez. Golden boy. Pop star. Brian’s Academy’s crown jewel.

Drake couldn’t help but smile broadly, pausing for a split second. The billboard blazed with Miguel’s smile. It was warm, confident, and effortlessly charming.

A blast of a car horn shattered the moment. “Hey! Get your filthy self off the road!”

Drake flinched and jumped onto the pedestrian lane, muttering an apology to the angry cab driver. His ears burned with embarrassment. Maybe today wasn’t the day for daydreams.

The gates of Brian’s Academy loomed ahead. tall, and guarded like a palace. Drake stopped just short of stepping inside.

It was… magnificent.

The buildings stretched out like art, marble columns, grand archways, and glass that gleamed like it had never known a fingerprint. The air even smelled different. It was cleaner, expensive. Inside, students were already gathering. Their uniforms were spotless, tailored. Designer shoes tapped rhythmically against marble floors. Laughter echoed through the courtyards, casual, carefree.

Drake felt like an imposter the second he crossed the gate.

He barely had time to admire the place when a hard shoulder collided into his.

“Watch your step, dude!” a sharp voice snapped.

“I—sorry, I wasn’t watching— I think I’m lost, I’m new—”

“Who cares,” the girl sneered, flicking her hair as she brushed past him. “What are you wearing, the 1800s?”

Drake’s throat tightened. He kept walking, ignoring the laughter trailing behind her. He clutched the strap of his worn backpack tighter, grounding himself in its weight.

“Hey, newbie!” a voice called.

He didn’t realize it was meant for him until a cold splash hit his back. He froze.

Two boys stood by a vending machine. One had a water canister in hand, still dripping.

“You lost?” the taller one asked, a mocking grin on his lips.

Drake turned, heart in his throat. “I’m looking for the principal’s office.”

“You from the ’80s?” the second boy muttered, eyes running over Drake’s clothes.

Drake laughed softly, the kind of laugh that tasted like iron. He’d heard worse. But somehow, coming from their perfectly sculpted mouths, it stung more. He pulled his strap tighter, like maybe it could shield him from how small he felt.

The first boy pointed lazily. “Next hallway. First office.”

“Thanks,” Drake said quietly, waiting until they were gone before turning toward the direction. His back still felt cold.

The principal’s office was a world of its own, air-conditioned, and intimidating. Drake stood awkwardly in front of the grand mahogany desk, hands clenched.

The woman behind the desk had been speaking, but he’d zoned out again.

“Hello, young man?” Her voice was sharper this time.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“You’re Drake Houston, correct?”

He nodded.

She lifted the desk phone and murmured something. Then she looked at him with a flat expression. “Wait here. Your class president will show you around.”

He nodded again, awkward, out of place.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here, Mr. Drake. But remember, this is not charity. Your performance will determine whether your scholarship continues. Misconduct will lead to immediate expulsion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.

She didn’t smile. “Scholarship students are under close observation. Don’t forget that.”

Before he could respond, the door chimed open. The boy who walked in made Drake’s breath hitch.

He knew that face.

Sharp jawline, cool gaze, dark hair falling slightly over his brows.

Xander Hayes.

Miguel’s bandmate. Part of the pop group that had dominated charts for the past year. But here he was in the flesh, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

Drake gulped down a lump of saliva..

“Xander, thank you for coming,” the principal said, her tone suddenly warmer. “He’ll be joining your class. I expect you to keep an eye on him. You know the drill.”

He didn’t smile. But there was something in the way he looked at Drake, quick, sharp, like he was sizing him up and finding him lacking.

Xander didn’t say a word also. He turned and walked away.

Drake blinked. “Wait—uh—sorry!”

But the boy was already halfway down the hall.

Drake bowed quickly to the principal and rushed after him.

Xander didn’t slow down. His walk was effortless, head slightly lowered, steps confident, like he owned every hallway he passed through.

Drake trailed behind, fidgeting, careful not to be noticed. He was too scared to ask the question he wanted to ask: Is Miguel in your class too? That would sound crazy, right?

Instead, he watched.

Watched the way Xander’s white uniform shirt clung to his back, how his dark jeans fit perfectly. Watched the way his fingers twitched slightly when he passed a group of whispering girls.

Drake had always had… crushes.

But they were secret things, written in journals and hidden under his mattress. Feelings he never allowed to grow teeth. Not in his world.

They stopped at a classroom door.

GRADE 10.

Xander glanced back, expressi

on flat. “You’ll never survive here if you keep dressing like that.”

Then he opened the door and walked in.

Drake stood frozen for a beat.

Then he followed.