Ethan stared at the new teacher. So did everyone else. No one spoke.

  His name was long and difficult, the kind you forget before you finish hearing it. He stood behind the desk like the bruised apple sitting on top of it—still, sunken, and slightly sour. His eyes scanned the room with the sharpness of someone who didn’t expect to be liked.

  “Sit.”

  That was it. No greeting. No smile. Just a flat command.

  But no one blamed him. He looked like someone who’d been through the Great War—and come back colder, like everyone else. The class sat down quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible, like they were already being punished.

  Then he began to write stuff on the board. His handwriting was so perfect it was almost terrifying.

  “I bet this year is gonna be fun”, Ethan whispered to his classmate beside him, who only grinned in response.

  “Yeah, can’t wait to make him quit his job” said the one behind them, a little shorter.

  Ethan looked at the old man and shivered. He didn’t know why. But he did know one thing: he loved the feeling of it. Even though they would probably not drive him crazy, it was going to be fun. At least more fun than being a slave.

  “I bet he’ll kill us before we even try anything,” Ethan muttered.

  “What if we lit a firework in his ass?” the boy behind him whispered.

  Ethan laughed. Too loud. The kind of laugh that forgets where it is. Shit. The glowing glasses turned toward him. The room froze.

  Only Ethan was still smiling.

  The teacher stopped writing. Then came the sound of shoes—heels tapping slow, steady, and straight down the aisle.

  “You.”

  One word.

  It hit harder than a slap. Not because of the volume, but because it was no longer aimed at everyone.

  Now it was just him.

  And it could be anyone next.

  “Stand up.”

  Ethan felt it in his legs. They shook without permission. But he smirked anyway—he wasn’t alone. He looked to the side.

  His friend, the one who joked louder, had gone quiet.

  His face down. Like all the others.

  No one smiled back.

  Ethan’s smirk died slow.

  “I said—STAND UP!”

  This time it cracked through him like a hammer.

  He stood up fast, heart pounding, eyes stuck to the wooden floorboards.

  He didn’t dare look at the red face behind the glasses.

  “What’s your name?”

  “E... Ethan.”

  No reaction. And Ethan knew what the teacher wanted, so he gave him.

  “…Ethan Harlow, sir.”

  “I would’ve thought, by your final year of middle school, you’d have figured out this is not a playground, Mr. Harlow.”

  Ethan flinched. It was the first time anyone called him that. It sounded like his... father.

  He didn’t speak.

  The man leaned in, just slightly.

  “Explain.”

  “We… we were just talking about our holidays, and—”

  “Is that right?” the teacher cut, without even blinking. He looked at the boy behind Ethan. The brave one. The one who wanted to make him quit.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The boy shook his head like a coward.

  Ethan’s fists clenched.

  “What?! Are you fucking kidding me?!”

  The room didn’t just go quiet.

  It stopped breathing.

  ...

  The teacher started his lesson the first day of school, it wasn’t about welcoming students into their last year before teenagerhood. It was about page 399 of their math manual. It was about trigonometry. They’ll have a test next week. As he was speaking, a boy sat in the back, where the tables were old and scribbled, where bad students were usually sent.

  Well... he was a bad student.

  His hair wasn’t neat, the collar of his school uniform wasn’t correctly shaped... heck, he had his elbow over the table, and holding his head with the palm that wasn’t bleeding. The ruler hurt like hell.

  But now he was silent. And hurt.

  “Dickheads”, he muttered, as he glanced at them.

  They were now behaving like good students. Hell – they were even worse than him. But then...

  Ethan blinked, as he realized.

  They were worse in their ideas, not in their actions. They always let him do the thing they wanted, to get a laugh, without consequences. And now some even glanced at him, grinning, waiting...

  As if they waited that he would pull out some other shit. Maybe throwing a pen at the teacher. Maybe moving the table to be in front of his face.

  They loved what he usually did. And it made him feel even more alone.

  Ethan shook his head and sighed, trying to ignore the stare still burning into his mind. He didn’t want more trouble—at least not today. So, he sat up, grabbed his pencil, and reached into his bag to grab something to write in.

  As his fingers slipped inside, the late summer light spilled across the open bag, and for a second, he smiled—just a little. Tucked between crumpled papers and broken pencils was his new notebook.

  Well… not really a notebook.

  He found it in his uncle’s attic. The whole room smelled like dust, old wood, and books that hadn’t been opened in years. There were cobwebs in every corner, stretched thin like spider-silk curtains, and no one had cleaned the place since his uncle disappeared—before the war.

  His mom had told him to stop wasting time bringing trouble and read, like Adrian, his smartass little brother. So, he brought back the one book that had nothing written in it.

  Because it was empty. And it looked cool, for a notebook.

  Ethan opened the book and—God, it looked ancient. Like a relic. Like something that had lived through centuries. The pages were almost orange, stained like someone had spilled tea on them a hundred years ago.

  He checked again. Still empty.

  He looked up at the board, then back down at the blank page.

  It felt… wrong. Writing about cosines and tangents in a book that looked like treasure map material.

  Ethan sighed. He almost rolled his eyes at himself.

  He wasn’t five. He was fourteen.

  He was too old to be thinking about that kind of stuff.

  Stupid.

  But sitting there, behind everyone, far from his so-called friends— It didn’t feel stupid.

  So, he didn’t write math. He didn’t even try to get in trouble. He just started drawing something quick. Not thinking—just remembering.

  Someone from way back.

  From before he got like this.

  Before he started acting out.

  Before the war.

  Maybe even before his dad died in it.

  He couldn’t really place the memory.

  Only the feeling.

  And the name.

  When he finished, Ethan chuckled under his breath.

  He’d drawn a pirate.

  One that, if you looked closely… kind of looked like him.

  Before Ethan could lift his head, he heard the footsteps—quick, sharp, coming straight toward him. Too fast to think.

  He tensed. Then slammed the book shut.

  “I thought I made myself clear, Mr. Harlow.”

  The voice was right above him now.

  Before he could move, the teacher snatched the book from under his arm.

  “H-Hey—g... give it back!”

  The man didn’t answer. He just stared at the dark cover, then at Ethan.

  There was something cold in his eyes—something quiet.

  “What would it take for you to just behave like everyone else?” he said, leaning closer.

  Ethan could smell the coffee on his breath. It made his stomach twist.

  He wanted to yell, to grab the book back, to disappear.

  If anyone saw the pirate—if anyone laughed—he’d never live it down.

  It would go from teasing to full-on bullying in no time.

  “What did I even do, sir?”

  The teacher opened the book.

  “Maybe instead of drawing, you should—”

  But he stopped.

  His voice cut off like someone had hit pause.

  He flipped to another page.

  Then another.

  Then back again.

  He looked confused.

  So did everyone else.

  Ethan felt his hands start to shake.

  The teacher muttered, “Well… this is quite strange.”

  He suddenly ducked down, glancing under the desk with a loud thump. Ethan flinched. Then frowned.

  “Stand up,” the teacher said.

  Ethan was already rising before he finished the sentence.

  “Empty your pockets.”

  “What...? Sir, I didn’t—”

  “Now.”

  His voice left no room.

  Ethan’s fingers trembled as he pulled everything out. A pencil stub. A scrap of paper. His house key.

  The teacher stared at it like it didn’t make sense. Like he didn’t make sense.

  Then, without warning, he grabbed Ethan’s bag and turned it upside down.

  Books, papers, crumbs—everything spilled to the floor.

  Gasps rippled through the class. Ethan clenched his fists. Closed his eyes. But he didn’t say a word.

  What did he think I had? A knife? A gun?

  The teacher stepped back slowly, still staring at the book in his hand.

  “Well,” he muttered. “You don’t look like you tore the page out. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  He walked away.

  Ethan didn’t care about the mess. Not yet.

  He bent down, picked up the book, and opened it again.

  The drawing was gone.

  In its place, written in ink, was a question.

  Who is that?