At the news of Wade Thomson’s death, the cssroom seemed to lurch back in shock.

  Gasps rippled through the students like a wave, followed by a stunned, suffocating silence. The girls were particurly shaken—hands flying to mouths, wide eyes pooling with disbelief. A few clutched at their desks, as though bracing themselves, their breaths shuddering. Some whispered Wade’s name under their breath, as if saying it aloud would make the truth easier to accept.

  The boys, though equally shaken, were more taciturn. Some stiffened in their seats, jaws clenching, brows furrowing deeply. A few exchanged brief, uneasy gnces, their fingers tightening into fists on their desks. Even those who weren’t particurly close to Wade sat in muted shock, grappling with the sheer weight of the moment.

  And Jet?

  Jet allowed his expression to shift—slowly, carefully.

  He let his muscles scken at first, his lips parting slightly, as if robbed of words. His brows furrowed with just the right amount of tension, a flicker of disbelief dawning in his sharp green eyes. Then, gradually, his features contorted into something more visceral—something just shy of horror.

  Now’s the time to make a scene.

  Suddenly, he was on his feet.

  The scrape of his chair against the floor was loud in the stunned quiet, sharp enough to make some students flinch. His tall frame wavered as though his legs had lost strength, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as if to keep bance. His shoulders shook, his breaths uneven. His face, usually composed and gentle, was raw with emotion—shock, sadness, anger.

  All eyes turned to him.

  And the girls in the room—oh, the girls—felt their hearts twist painfully in their chests. Because everyone knew that despite everything, Jet and Wade got along well.

  They were rivals for school captain, yes, but they were also the captain and vice-captain of their grade. They worked together, spoke often, probably interacted with each other more than anyone else. They were meant to stand side by side in leadership, even if they were running against each other. To see Jet—poised, brilliant, untouchable Jet—break like this… it was unbearable.

  “I—is this a joke?” His voice wavered, something it never did.

  The great Jet Ragnarsson, the boy who always had an answer, who carried himself with effortless confidence, who seemed unshakable—was shaken.

  And it was heartbreaking.

  Some of the girls felt their eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “There’s got to be some kind of mistake,” Jet continued, his voice cracking, his breathing unsteady. His green eyes shone, wet, as though he were barely holding himself together. “I was literally talking to him yesterday afternoon. Are you sure—” His voice broke on the st word. “Are you sure you didn’t get the wrong person?”

  At that, Ms. Decroix—who had been holding onto some sembnce of professional composure—crumbled. Her breath hitched, her fingers trembling where they clutched the folder to her chest. Then, suddenly, she was crying—shoulders shaking, soft sobs escaping her lips as she buried her face in her hands.

  It was real.

  It was real.

  A fresh wave of grief swept through the room like an icy wind.

  Jet staggered back.

  He moved slowly at first, retreating step by step down the narrow aisle between desks, as if trying to distance himself from the unbearable truth. His gaze was far away, dazed with hurt, his lips trembling as he shook his head. “No,” he murmured softly. “No, no, no.” He csped his hands before him, as if in prayer, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. Then his back hit the cssroom wall.

  For a moment, he just stood there, eyes hollow, body unmoving. Then—his strength seemed to give way, and he slumped down against the wall, sinking to the floor.

  The air in the room turned suffocating.

  Even the boys—who had tried to remain stoic, to mask their emotions—sat frozen, fists clenched hard on their desks. Silent tears rolled down a few faces, blinking furiously as they stared bnkly ahead, as if refusing to acknowledge what had just been said.

  The girls, unable to hold back any longer, sobbed quietly. Some wiped at their eyes with their sleeves, others pressed their hands over their mouths to muffle their cries.

  Then, finally, a voice broke through the grief.

  “How?”

  It was a girl’s voice—soft, fragile, yet trembling with urgency.

  Celia Wells—AKA ‘Gssy’ because she wore gsses.

  She sat near the front, her usually bright blue eyes dimmed with shock behind her spectacles, her blonde hair tied in two neat braids that rested over her shoulders. The red ribbon in her hair—a perfect match to the crimson trim on her uniform bzer—stood out starkly against the pallor of her skin. Her hands were csped tightly on her desk, knuckles white, as if bracing herself for whatever answer was coming.

  “How did Wade die?”

  As Ms. Decroix fought to steady her breathing, her eyes gssy with unshed tears, Mr. Rowman stepped forward to speak in her pce. He exhaled slowly, adjusting his gsses as he took in the sea of distraught faces before him. His voice, though measured, carried a weight that pressed down on the room.

  “We can only share what his parents have told us,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the students with solemn gravity. "Wade suffered multiple aneurysms during the night—three, to be exact. They ruptured simultaneously." He paused, allowing the words to settle before continuing, "In the same instance, he experienced sudden organ failure. His heart and kidneys shut down without warning. From what we understand, Wade woke up in the middle of the night with a severe headache and chest pain. He also compined of a deep, aching pain in his body. When he got up to find his parents, he colpsed right in front of them. He lost consciousness within seconds, and by the time paramedics arrived, there was nothing they could do.”

  A heavy silence bnketed the room, thick and suffocating, as the enormity of his words sank in

  The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

  Gssy swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the hem of her skirt. Her pale complexion seemed even more ghostly under the fluorescent lighting. “But…” she hesitated, pushing up her gsses with shaky hands. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, I know aneurysms can happen suddenly, but three at once? And his organs failing at the same time?” Her voice grew weaker, almost as if she didn’t want to hear the answer. “Did he take some kind of medication or something?”

  The principal shook his head firmly. “There’s no indication that Wade had taken anything out of the ordinary. His parents are just as confused as we all are. The doctors believe it was a rare but catastrophic medical event—one that no one, not even Wade himself, could have predicted.”

  A boy sitting near the back let out a shuddering breath, rubbing harshly at his wet eyes. His voice cracked as he blurted out, “What the fuck?”

  No one flinched at his nguage.

  No one cared.

  Even Mr. Rowman didn’t reprimand him—he simply nodded, acknowledging the raw disbelief in the boy’s outburst.

  “I know,” the principal said, his voice quiet but firm. “I know this is difficult. It’s unfair. It’s shocking. And it’s painful. That’s why I want to make sure every single one of you knows—none of you have to go through this alone.” He gnced briefly at Ms. Decroix, who was still struggling to compose herself, then turned back to the css.

  “We will have grief counselors avaible on campus for as long as they’re needed. If any of you need to talk, whether it’s today, tomorrow, or weeks from now, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Your teachers, your counselors, myself—we are all here for you. Do not carry this alone.”

  Some students nodded numbly. Others simply sat there, staring, unable to process it.

  Jet, still slumped against the back wall, had his head lowered, his hands csped together in his p. From a distance, he looked broken—his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight with strain. But if anyone had been watching him closely, they would have noticed the way his fingers curled ever so slightly, as if deep in thought.

  “We will also be holding a memorial service for Wade,” Mr. Rowman continued, his voice carrying through the heavy silence. “His family will be organizing a private funeral, but we want to make sure every student here has the opportunity to grieve, to honor him, and to say goodbye.”

  The words say goodbye hit the css like another blow.

  Gssy broke into a fresh wave of sobs, her delicate shoulders shaking as she covered her face with her hands. A few of her friends reached out, wrapping their arms around her in quiet support, their own eyes brimming with tears.

  Jet finally lifted his head.

  His face was pale, his shes damp, his expression still unreadable—but his gaze was sharp, scanning the room, taking in every reaction, every broken whisper, every tear-streaked face.

  And then, just as quickly as he had unraveled, he exhaled shakily, blinked a few times, and lowered his head once more.

  Because now, more than ever, he needed to think.