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The shock knocked the breath out of me. My breathing froze for a second, leaving only a harsh wheeze in my throat. I stood rigid, arms slightly apart, eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading quickly across the pale cotton of my shirt. It grew like living ink, hot and viscous against my skin, a grotesque symbol of a city that never stopped moving, indifferent to collisions and burns it inflicted. My gaze clung to that dark blotch spreading across my shirt, burning and sticky, as if the coffee had imprinted itself directly into my flesh. Each heartbeat sent a wave of searing heat through the soaked fabric, and I felt the clammy warmth of the liquid clinging to my skin, sliding slowly down my abdomen in an irritating trail. The acrid, roasted smell of nostrils, mingling with the sharper scent of fresh sweat.
Then a voice cut through the surrounding noise, soft but tinged with concern, like a clear note in a storm:
— Are you all right?
The man set his belongings on the nearby table with a muted thud: a canvas bag brushing against the plastic tray, right beside my phone whose screen still glowed faintly. Without waiting for my answer, he began blotting my shirt clumsily with a paper napkin he had grabbed from the counter. The rough paper rubbed against the damp fabric, producing a muffled, repetitive sound, while his fingers brushed my chest through the shirt. Each press sent a small jolt of lingering heat mixed with unexpected coolness.
I slowly raised my head. My eyes met his: a clear, limpid blue, almost unreal, violently contrasting with the harsh yellowish neon light of the fast-food. Those irises seemed to absorb the light, reflecting it in crystalline sparks, like two fragments of summer sky trapped in a face. His blond hair, slightly wavy, caught the neon glow with golden and copper highlights, each strand capturing a fleeting shimmer that danced with his movements. A faint scent of fresh soap and coconut shampoo emanated from him, cutting sharply through the air saturated with grease and burnt coffee. My heart skipped a beat, a dull, brutal thump in my chest that rose to my throat, leaving behind a strange, warm emptiness.
— You are Jäher von Tod, if I remember correctly, he said with unsettling confidence, his low, velvety voice sliding over the words like a caress.
— And you… Wave Withman, I replied, as if his name had returned to me from a distant dream, spoken in a voice still rough, rasped by the shock.
The world around us seemed to fade gradually. The roar of cars and horns turned into a distant, indistinct hum, like a muffled ocean behind thick glass. The invasive smell of frying and hot oil lost its intensity, pushed into the background. The noisy conversations of customers and the clatter of trays became a blurred murmur, almost unreal. Only this improbable face-to-face remained, suspended in time, as if two parallel paths had suddenly crossed for the first time. The air between us seemed charged with a faint static electricity, making the skin on my forearms tingle. The coffee stain, still warm against my stomach, pulsed in rhythm with my slower, deeper breathing.
Wave gently withdrew his hand, the paper napkin now soaked and crumpled between his fingers. A drop of coffee fell to the floor with a faint "plop." His lips curved into a discreet smile, and I noticed how his blond lashes cast tiny shadows on his cheekbones under the harsh light.
Around us, the city kept breathing, but for a few stolen seconds, it had ceased to exist. I remained frozen, unable to tear my eyes from his. Those clear blue irises seemed to absorb all the neon glare of the fast-food, transforming it into a soft, almost liquid glow dancing in the depths of his pupils. The world around us had stopped dead: the chatter, the sputtering fryers, the clatter of shoes on sticky tiles—all had dissolved into a muffled hum, as if someone had slipped a thick layer of cotton between me and the rest of the universe. The flickering neon lights above lost their harshness, blending into a diffuse golden glow that gently caressed the contours of his face.
— Wave Withman, I whispered, his name sliding on my tongue like a forgotten flavor, at once familiar and strangely new, leaving a warm resonance in my chest. ---
He smiled, slow, discreet, one of those smiles that says nothing openly but promises everything: a subtle curve of the lips that carved a faint dimple into his left cheek, while his eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the corners. A faint scent of fresh soap and coconut still emanated from his skin, mingling with the lingering note of burnt coffee that clung to my shirt.
— I didn't expect to run into you here, Jäher. Chance sometimes has more imagination than we do.
His words struck me like a tangible truth, almost physical. They resonated in my chest, vibrating something deep and unknown. Was it really chance? The scalding coffee biting into my skin, the clumsy—or calculated—collision, this sudden face-to-face… Everything felt scripted, like a scene rehearsed in the shadows until it finally unfolded, perfectly timed. My heartbeat quickened, each pulse sending a warm wave up my neck, making my nape tingle.
I felt a strange warmth spreading inside me, different from the liquid still staining my shirt and clinging to my stomach in a clammy trail. This warmth was internal, slow, almost liquid too: it bloomed in the pit of my stomach, unfurled in my chest like a flower opening beneath the skin, gently shifting the invisible lines of my life. My fingers trembled slightly against my thighs; I clenched my fists to still them, nails digging into my sweaty palms.
— So, he continued, gathering his things with a fluid gesture—the canvas bag brushed against the tray with a muffled sound—shall we stay frozen in this moment, or see where it leads?
His voice was low, velvety, with a hint of amusement that made the air vibrate between us. He tilted his head slightly, a blond strand slipping across his forehead, catching a neon glimmer like a living thread of gold.
I didn't answer right away. My heart was pounding too hard, a dull, irregular drum echoing in my temples. My thoughts clashed like metal pieces in a too-small box: Jackson still in the bathroom, the coffee stain cooling slowly on my skin, Jayden's grin haunting me only minutes earlier… But deep down, I already knew: this encounter wasn't just a parenthesis. It was a crack in the ordinary flow of things, a door ajar onto something larger, more dangerous, more alive.
The air between us felt denser, charged with silent electricity that made the fine hairs on my forearms bristle. The city kept spinning around us, indifferent, but for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like a mere spectator. I stayed mute for a moment, captive of that blue gaze that seemed to dive straight beneath my skin, brushing corners of my mind I usually kept locked. The fast-food's chaos had dissolved: voices, fryer crackles, the slap of soles on sticky tiles… all had retreated, leaving only a vibrant silence, almost electric, pulsing between us.
Wave Withman straightened slowly. His blond hair caught a neon ray, creating a fleeting golden halo sliding along his strands. He tilted his head slightly, and a light scent of soap and coconut drifted toward me, cutting through the stale grease and cooled coffee.
— You know, Jäher, he murmured, I don't believe in coincidences.
His phrase slipped into me like a key turning in a rusty lock. It vibrated something deep, a truth I had always sensed but never dared to name aloud. The burn of coffee on my shirt was now just a lukewarm memory; the damp fabric still clung to my stomach, but what truly mattered was this unexpected collision, this brutal crack in the monotonous course of my day.
I wanted to reply, to articulate something clever, detached. But the words stuck in my throat, heavy and dry like sand. My tongue suddenly felt too thick, my breath too short. Only my chest rose in uneven bursts, betraying the inner chaos I tried to mask.
Wave didn't seem in a hurry. He kept watching me with that calm assurance, his fingers idly playing with the strap of his canvas bag. A residual drop of coffee slid slowly down my abdomen, tracing a cool, ticklish line across my heated skin. Around us, the world began filtering back: a shrill laugh at the counter, the clink of a tray being set down, the distant hum of a car passing in the lot. Yet none of it broke the invisible thread stretched between us.
My pulse throbbed hard in my temples, each beat sending a warm wave up to the roots of my hair. The air between us felt denser, charged with almost palpable tension, like the instant before a storm.
Finally, my voice returned, hoarse, barely more than a breath:
— So… what do you suggest?
Wave smiled again, more openly this time, and that smile carved a small dimple into his right cheek. His blue eyes glittered under the artificial light. The fast-food vibrated with a dirty, oppressive energy. The neon lights buzzed above the counters, casting a yellowish, flickering glow that made shadows tremble across sticky tables. The air was thick, saturated with rancid frying oil, overcooked meat, and synthetic vinegar that clung to the throat like a greasy film. Each breath left a metallic, sweet-salty taste on the tongue.
Suddenly, Jackson burst in, breath short, sneakers squeaking on the sticky tiles. A smell of fresh sweat and cheap deodorant followed him.
— Hey, Jäh, sorry for keeping you waiting, he said, shrugging.
His gaze immediately slid to Wave. An ironic smile stretched his lips, revealing a slightly crooked canine.
— Hm… did I miss an episode or what?
The taut thread between Wave and me snapped instantly. Jackson pressed on, sharper, his voice cutting the air like a knife:
— I don't want to ruin your… moment, but Jäh… we need to get back to Ballu. Right now.
I clenched my phone in my sweaty palm, the warm plastic sticking slightly to my skin. My voice stayed calm, neutral:
— Yes. You're right.
Wave didn't move. His pale blue eyes stayed fixed on me, too still, too deep. A faint scent of coconut soap still floated around him, but beneath it seeped something else—a damp, earthy, almost rotten note, like soil turned after rain.
— I hope we'll meet again, he murmured, his low voice sliding like a cold caress along my nape.
Jackson cut him off, tone dry, almost aggressive:
— We've got problems waiting for us. Move your ass, Jäh.
I turned away without another word. The fast-food door opened with a sharp electronic "ding." The outside air slapped us instantly: hot, dusty, filled with exhaust fumes and overheated asphalt vibrating beneath our soles. The sweat on my nape turned cold at once in the wind.
In the car, the cabin smelled of worn leather, stale tobacco, and artificial vanilla air freshener that stung faintly in the nose. Jackson started the engine, its growl low and heavy.
— What was that? he asked, shifting gears, the lever vibrating under his hand.
— What was what? I replied, voice flat, emotionless.
— That scene straight out of Fifty Shades of Grey, man.
— Jackson, shut up and drive.
Silence fell for a few seconds, broken only by the engine's hum and the tires scraping against uneven asphalt. I broke it:
— And you, why did you take forever in the bathroom?
Jackson snickered, mint gum scent wafting from his mouth:
— Needed to take a dump.
— More like you were screwing someone.
— You're so crude… and totally right.
He burst out laughing, too loud in the confined cabin. Then added, lower:
— How did you know?
— When you came back, you were still hard.
— Little bastard.
— Bastard or not… how did you know we had to go back to Ballu?
Jackson unlocked his phone with a flick of his thumb. The screen lit his face with cold blue light. He handed it to me. A message from Cléo was displayed:
— Look.
I stared at the acronyms. The phone was warm, almost hot in my hand.
— Who uses acronyms to talk?
— Cléo, dumbass.
The car stopped abruptly in the school parking lot. The handbrake snapped sharply. We got out. The evening air was still heavy, sticky with humidity. The school grounds seemed strangely empty; silence weighed, broken only by the wind slamming a distant door and gravel crunching under our soles.
A classmate appeared, panting, face slick with sweat.
— The principal is waiting for you in his office. You guys are screwed.
Jackson frowned, voice tense:
— Wasn't he supposed to be dead?
We crossed the courtyard. The wind carried a distant smell of wet earth and rotting leaves from the bordering forest—an odor that shouldn't have been there in the middle of the afternoon.
I knocked on the office door. The wood vibrated under my knuckles.
— Enter, a muffled, deep voice said.
Inside, the air was cooler, almost cold, with a faint smell of old paper and furniture polish. Cléo and Riven were already seated, stiff in their chairs. The principal gestured slowly to the remaining seats.
— Sit down,Voici la suite et fin de la traduction du passage que tu as partagé :
---
Cléo half-rose, nervous, her voice trembling:
— We'll explain everything… We're really sorry…
— Shut up, snapped the principal, his dry voice cracking like a whip.
The wind outside slammed a window violently. The sound echoed in the room like a warning.
— You're detained for the rest of the evening. You'll help Tod clean the school.
An unpleasant shiver crawled up my spine. Something was wrong. The smell of rotten earth seemed to have seeped into the office itself. The principal slammed his hand flat on the desk. The sharp sound reverberated in the cold room.
— You're detained for the whole evening. You'll clean the west wing of the school. Sweep the halls, scrub the floors, empty the trash, and tidy the locker rooms. No phones, no useless chatter. You start now.
Cléo sighed loudly, shoulders slumping. A bead of sweat slid slowly down her temple.
— The whole evening? Seriously? We have class tomorrow morning…
Riven crossed his arms, jaw tight. His voice came out rough, irritated:
— We've already had a shitty day. And now we have to play janitors until midnight? Great.
Jackson wiped his face, leaving a damp trace on his skin. He still smelled of fast-food grease.
— Damn, I was planning to go home, shower, and play. Instead, I'll spend hours scrubbing school vomit. Thanks, guys.
I stayed silent for a moment, hands flat on my thighs. The wood of the chair was hard and cold beneath me. The room smelled of old paper and polish, with a hint of nervous sweat from all of us.
— We don't have a choice, I said calmly. We'll finish faster if we start right away.
The principal stood. His chair creaked behind him.
— Exactly. Take the brooms, buckets, and cleaning products from the service closet at the end of the hall. And don't leave anything lying around. I'll check back in two hours.
We left the office. The hallway was long and poorly lit. The neon lights buzzed above our heads, casting a cold white glow that made the dirty tiles shine. Each step made a dry, sticky sound on the slightly damp floor.
Cléo grabbed a broom with bad grace. The wooden handle was rough and cold in her hand.
— Honestly, I hate this. My feet hurt, I'm hungry, and now I have to smell bleach all night.
Riven picked up a bucket that banged loudly against the wall. The water inside sloshed.
— I'm exhausted. I want to sleep, not clean bathrooms full of shoe marks.
Jackson opened the supply closet. A strong smell of lemon detergent and ammonia hit us in the face, sharp and aggressive.
— Ugh, this stuff smells like death. And we're going to sweat in here. I'll stink of bleach and sweat until tomorrow.
I took a broom and a rag. The fabric was rough and dry under my fingers. I already felt the fatigue in my shoulders and the clammy heat sticking my shirt to my back.
— Stop complaining, I said without raising my voice. The more we whine, the longer it'll take. We split the tasks: Cléo and I do the halls, Riven and Jackson the locker rooms. We move fast and get out.
Cléo groaned, pushing her broom. The bristles scraped the tiles with a regular, irritating sound.
— Easy for you to say. You always talk like nothing gets to you. I just want to go home, take a hot shower, and forget this shitty day.
Jackson wrung out a mop in the bucket. The dirty water dripped noisily, splashing his sneakers.
— Yeah, and I still have the taste of cold fries in my mouth. Instead of digesting peacefully, I'm here breathing bleach. Thanks, life.
Riven kicked the bucket, making the plastic snap.
— We're all pissed, okay? So shut up and work. The faster we finish, the faster we get out of here.
The hallway seemed even longer under the cold neon light. The air was heavy with cleaning product, stinging our noses and making our eyes water. Sweat was already running down my back, warm and unpleasant, while the rag scraped the floor with a wet, repetitive sound.
No one was happy. Everyone was tired, irritated, and just wanted this punishment night to end as quickly as possible.
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