"Oh wow," I said, lifting an unimpressed brow. "What are you doing here—couldn't get enough of me?"
Lucien chuckled, leaning one shoulder against the frame of the door. "Someone's delusional… I attend this school. Well—now I do, anyway. Just moved here about a month ago. My dad finally realized I hadn't enrolled anywhere, threw a fit, and now here I am… with Little Miss Cinderella."
I snorted. "So now you're the new kid. Weird how no one's been ranting about it."
He stepped fully into the room, the door creaking as it fell shut behind him. "Yeah, probably because I'm trying not to get noticed. Most people assume I've always been here. I'm blending in with the wallpaper." He spun in a lazy circle, arms out. "Very incognito."
"Yeah, whatever," I muttered. "That's Ashpointe for you. No one really notices anything unless it's something to hate."
I sighed and let myself slide down the wall, the cold of it seeping through my hoodie as dried paint flaked under my shoulder blades. "You're weirdly good at showing up when things are going to shit."
Lucien grinned. "Maybe I'm a chaos magnet. Or maybe I just hang out in weird places."
A laugh slipped out. It caught me off guard—soft, unpolished, kind of painful, like my throat didn't remember how to do it properly.
Lucien found a dusty stool and dropped onto it, spinning slightly before the legs wobbled and forced him still. "That girl back there… fan club president?"
"She's the type that fails upward," I muttered, tilting my head to rest against the wall. "Screams, lies, cries, and everyone eats it up with a silver spoon."
"And you? You just take it?"
"I exist," I said flatly. "They hate that."
He gave me a look—curious, too careful—but didn't say anything for a second. Just nodded like he was storing the words in some invisible folder labeled Do Not Poke Too Hard.
"You always come here after a grand public shaming?" he asked eventually.
"Sometimes," I said. "Sometimes I just like the quiet. It doesn't ask questions."
Lucien studied me, something unreadable settling in his features. "Sounds lonely."
"Better than fake noise."
Lucien scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the window. "I'm supposed to be in class."
"I'm supposed to be suspended," I deadpanned.
He grinned slowly, like a light warming behind storm clouds. "Want to skip school together?"
I blinked at him. "That's a thing?"
"It is now," he said with mock ceremony, getting to his feet and bowing like an underwhelming prince. "Come on, Ashpointe's dull, but I know where the vending machine gives two snacks if you hit it right."
I eyed the door, then him. "Lead the way, chaos magnet."
We made it past the school gates by sheer dumb luck and one well-timed delivery truck that parked like a godsent wall. Lucien grinned the entire time like he'd won something. Maybe he had. I didn't ask. I, on the other hand, just walked fast and didn't make eye contact.
There was a close call near the gate when the janitor glanced our way. Lucien threw an arm around my shoulder like we were best friends on a lunch run, and I played along, pretending not to flinch. Once we made it past the fence and around the corner, I shoved him lightly in the side.
"Don't ever do that again."
He smirked. "What, touch your shoulder?"
"Pretend like you know me that well."
"Got it," he said, grinning wider. "No fake affection. Noted, Miss Mysterious."
We walked a while—long enough for the silence to stretch comfortably between us. The town looked quieter during school hours, like it was holding its breath. Eventually, Lucien led us to a place tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat with half its letters burned out.
I paused. "This was here the whole time?"
He nodded toward the door. "Maybe get out more. The new kid knows more than you. That isn't very Ashpointe of you."
I laughed—an actual laugh. "Yeah, well… I do wish I wasn't very Ashpointe. Why'd your family even come here? It's a soul drain, I tell ya."
Lucien shrugged. "Pops wanted to get away from a lot of stuff. New start, that kind of thing. He found this place on a whim, and boom—we moved. No questions asked."
He reached for the door and held it open like some old-fashioned gentleman. I raised an eyebrow but stepped inside anyway. The place was small, almost claustrophobic, with mismatched chairs and hand-painted mugs hanging from a crooked rack.
I made my way to a tiny table near the window and dropped into the seat like my limbs had been dying for a break. Lucien followed, sitting across from me as I stared out at the quiet street.
"Well, that makes sense, I guess," I said. "But give Ashpointe time—it'll make you want to leave again."
He tilted his head. "Then why haven't you?"
I hesitated, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Can't."
Before he could push that thread any further, a waitress appeared, pad in hand. Probably around our age, bored out of her mind.
I ordered a grilled sandwich and a mango smoothie. Lucien asked for a double bacon burger and a banana-strawberry smoothie—my brother's favorite. I froze for a half-second, but my face didn't move. Just stared at the chipped edge of the menu like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
He didn't notice. Or maybe he did and pretended not to, which I respected more than I should've.
The waitress scribbled down the order and left us in a silence that settled again—not awkward, not heavy. Just… there.
Lucien leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. "So, do I get to ask why you can't leave, or is that one of those questions the quiet don't ask?"
I looked at him, eyes narrowed. "It's one of those, finish your smoothie, and maybe I'll talk later about things."
He raised a brow. "Fair enough."
We finished eating in a rhythm that felt weirdly normal. The kind where no one rushed, but neither of us really said much more. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the way the silence around Lucien didn't feel like a trap.
After he paid—despite my weak protest—we stepped back out into the sleepy afternoon of Ashpointe. The streets were still mostly empty, save for a delivery truck coughing in the distance and an old woman dragging her poodle like it weighed thirty pounds more than it did.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. The bruise on my hip throbbed a little with each step, but I ignored it like I'd ignored everything else today.
"Well," I said, squinting into the light, "today's been… fun. In a way."
He raised an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like a lie."
"Half-lie, really," I admitted, shrugging. "But I gotta go."
Lucien tilted his head. "If you were having fun, why are you running off?"
"I'm not running," I said, already a step away. "I have work to get to."
"Right," he said, smiling. "And here I thought since you found Prince Charming, you wouldn't run off again."
I laughed—short and sharp, like a reflex. "I haven't lost a shoe yet, Mister Charming. So yes, I will be running off now."
He chuckled, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on me like he was trying to read more than I was willing to give. "See you tomorrow then? At school? Or the church rooftop?"
I paused mid-step, looked over my shoulder. "Yeah. I'll be there. Maybe. If the universe doesn't implode."
He nodded once. "I'll be there. Star gazing."
I smirked. "Get a new hobby. Bring something interesting."
He grinned. "Challenge accepted."
And just like that, I turned and walked away, the rhythm of my sneakers hitting the pavement somehow lighter than it had been all day.
I made it to the gas station just as the sky started blushing orange. The air smelled like fuel, rust, and fading sunlight. Typical Ashpointe cocktail.
After unlocking the side door and heading to the backroom, I swapped my hoodie for the station's faded blue T-shirt. It still had a bleach stain on the hem and someone's initials sharpied inside the collar—"R.L." Whoever that was, they probably didn't miss this job.
I tied up my hair, shoved a piece of bubble gum in my mouth, and went out to the front, settling behind the register like I was clocking into purgatory.
First customer came in—middle-aged woman with that "I'd rather be dead than be seen here" energy. She didn't look at me. Just grabbed her oat milk and vegan jerky, paid, and left like I was part of the decor. The next four followed the same script. Silent. Robotic. Fast.
I rested my chin on my hand, blowing a small bubble and popping it just to break the silence.
God, I was so bored, I started counting the cracks on the ceiling tile above me.
Then I heard it—a weird clanking sound, like someone fiddling with metal. Not the usual pump groan, but something twitchier. I stood, stretched a little, then headed outside.
That's when I saw him.
Tall. Greasy hair. A leather jacket that probably hadn't seen a wash in five decades. He was messing with the pump valve like he was trying to crack open a safe.
"What are you doing?" I called out, standing a few feet away.
No answer.
I stepped closer. "I'm calling the police."
That got his attention. He turned slowly, like a horror movie villain on low battery. Then he sneered. "Oy… you think those old geezers would do anything to help you?"
Then his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute... you're that bitch from yesterday. Knew I'd meet ya here."
He started walking toward me—slow, deliberate, like I was a deer and he was the dumbest lion in the zoo.
I didn't move. "Erm, okay. So will you leave now?"
He grabbed my shoulder. Hard. Like he thought he was making a point.
"You're really annoying," he hissed. "Startin' to make me real pissed. You never apologized for spilling chili on my face yesterday. Say sorry. Now."
I blinked at him. "I don't recall needing to apologize when you were being a pig last night."
That was it.
His hand flew across my face, open-palmed, hard enough to knock the gum out of my mouth. My cheek stung instantly, lip splitting against my teeth as I hit the gravel.
I stayed down for a second. The ground was cool under my palms.
"Well," I muttered, pushing myself up. "That hurt."
"No shit, bitch," he spat. "Y'know, no one's around here. No one's gonna save you."
I sighed. Brushed dirt off my palms. Stood. I could taste blood now.
He cocked a fist, ready to swing again. I didn't wait. I darted to the side, putting a row of oil barrels between us. My heart was slamming, not from fear—but something colder. Focused.
There was a pile of broken junk near the side lot—scrap pieces from the station's old pump system. I reached for something metal. My fingers found a pipe. About two feet. Solid. Heavy.
I kept it behind me, gripping it tight.
He stalked toward me again, laughing like he thought this was all foreplay. "You're gonna pay for that."
When he lunged, I ducked. Then I swung.
The metal pipe cracked against his skull with a wet thud.
He stumbled back, swearing and crashing into the ground like a sack of bad decisions.
He didn't move.
Just groaned once, slurred something unintelligible, then went limp again.
I stood there a beat, breathing through my nose. My cheek still burned, my lip stung, and there was blood on my tongue, but my hands? Steady.
I blinked once. Twice.
Then I knelt, wiped my fingerprints off the pipe with the hem of my shirt, and placed it carefully by his side like I was tucking in a child for bed.
My eyes drifted to his jacket pocket—bulky.
I reached in and found his wallet. A wad of notes, torn receipts, a crusty condom wrapper, and a photo of someone who definitely wasn't praying for him.
I took the cash, shoved the rest back, and slid the wallet underneath the half-empty trash bin near the lot's edge.
Then I walked back inside, grabbed another piece of bubble gum, and chewed like I had been bored all evening. No urgency. No mess. No crime.
An hour passed.
A few customers came in and out. None noticed the guy slumped outside like a drunk leftover. That was Ashpointe for you—step over the weird stuff, mind your coupons.
Then I heard a scream.
I turned slowly, like I didn't already know what I'd see.
A woman stood outside near pump three, clutching her oversized bag with one hand and shaking her husband's arm with the other. "Do something!" she shrieked, eyes darting from the man on the ground to her frozen spouse. "He's not waking up!"
I stepped outside, popping my gum. "Something wrong?"
The woman's mascara was halfway down her cheeks. "Call an ambulance! Oh my God, call someone!"
She pulled out her phone, but I was already walking toward the front of the station, dialing the emergency line like a good little employee.
The ambulance came ten minutes later. Red lights, white noise, and people who cared.
When they asked me what I knew, I put on my most confused expression, thumb hovering just under my bruised lip.
"I had no clue he was out there," I said, voice flat. "I've been on shift. The store's quiet at night, sometimes I… zone out. Didn't notice till that woman screamed."
They nodded.
Checked the security cameras. Nothing showed but me standing behind the counter, looking half-dead from boredom. The guy must've been mugged, they said. Attacked by some stranger.
They looked at me with mild sympathy. Then left me alone.
I went back behind the counter, popped another piece of gum, and sank into the chair.