Ethan stared blankly at the chalkboard.
The numbers scrawled across it—formulas, graphs, a whole world of clean-cut logic—meant absolutely nothing to him right now.
His eyes were half-lidded. His head buzzed—not from caffeine, but from four hours of sleep, back-to-back classes, and the night shift he'd just finished three hours ago at Crimson Lantern, a dim-lit bar tucked away in the city's lower districts.
'Stay awake. Stay quiet. Stay invisible.'
That had become his motto. Not because he wanted to disappear, but because life had stopped noticing him first.
But the woman standing in front of the class—Professor Hannah Harper—was the one person he couldn't quite tune out.
She didn't smile easily. She didn't care for popularity contests or flattering students. But something about her—the authority in her voice, the way she never treated anyone like they were beneath her—demanded respect.
And for Ethan, admiration came silently.
Even when he was thinking about how to afford next month's rent.
"Ethan," she said suddenly.
His body stiffened. The whole class glanced back.
He sat up, blinking. "Ma'am?"
Professor Harper folded her arms, tone calm. "I asked, what happens to the slope of the line if the correlation coefficient drops to zero?"
'Crap. What slope? What coefficient—?'
He stared, mouth half-open. But before he could embarrass himself, she continued, "Never mind. See me after class."
Snickers rippled behind him. Ethan kept his head down.
---
5:30 PM – After Class
The rest of the day passed in a tired haze—more lectures, a few scribbled notes, and the slow drag of his body from one classroom to the next. But eventually, the hallway emptied, the buzz of students faded, and Ethan found himself standing awkwardly near Professor Harper's desk, backpack slung over one shoulder.
She didn't look up from her papers.
"You're not stupid, Ethan," she said finally. "But you're not here either."
"I'm trying, Ms. Harper. Just… things are a bit tough outside school."
She looked at him then. Eyes sharp, not unkind.
"Tough doesn't mean invisible. I've seen you zoning out three classes in a row. Whatever it is, don't let it bury you. You've got more in you than you let on."
Something flickered in him. Gratitude? Shame?
"Thanks," he muttered, already backing away.
---
That flicker stayed with him all the way back to his apartment building.
Even as he trudged up the cracked stairs, even as he opened the door to the same four walls and the same suffocating silence, her words echoed louder than the city noise outside.
Inside, he pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to push the headache back into the shadows where it belonged. A half-eaten cup of ramen sat on the corner of the desk. Cold. Like everything else in his life.
Another overdue notice peeked out from under the pile of textbooks on marketing and microeconomics. He didn't need to open it. The number hadn't changed.
And in the next room, he could hear the soft wheeze of his mother's breathing. Rhythmic. Labored. Fragile.
"Just a few more weeks," he whispered to himself. "I just need a break."
---
That break never came.
Instead, there was Ms. Rathi—the woman renting him the back room of her run-down house. Late 40s. Sharp tongue. Zero sympathy. She knocked like the police and spoke like a loan shark.
"I don't care about your troubles, Ethan," she barked through the door. "Rent is rent. You don't pay, you don't stay."
He swallowed his pride, again. "Two more days, please. I have a double shift at the bar this weekend."
She scoffed. "Okay. This is the last time. Or you'll be sleeping under the bridge."
The door slammed shut.
---
That weekend arrived faster than expected.
By the time Ethan clocked in at the Crimson Lantern, his body was already protesting. Muscles tight. Stomach half-empty. Mind spinning.
The bar was already loud—music pulsing low, voices clinking against glasses and laughter. He wiped down the counter like muscle memory and kept his head low. People ordered, flirted, laughed, and lived. Ethan? He just survived.
By 11:47 PM, he was running on fumes. His feet hurt. His thoughts blurred. But he forced a polite smirk for every patron.
Then came the final order. He poured the last glass, leaned back on the counter…
…and something strange happened.
The lights flickered—not in the bar, but in his head.
A chime.
A sound that didn't exist in real life.
Then a glowing message popped in front of his eyes.
[DING! ]
---