Zane · Chat

At two in the afternoon, the sunlight at St. Watson Private High School was like shattered glass, cutting sharply across the last row of windows at the end of the hallway and slanting onto the edges of the desks. Tiny chalk dust floated in the air along with the cold air blowing from the air conditioner. The fluorescent light tubes overhead buzzed with a faint electrical hum, mixed with the rustling of students in the front rows flipping through test papers—making for a lifeless, dead scene. Only one person was the exception to that stillness. Zane half-sprawled across the desk by the window, his uniform jacket casually pulled open from the collar, hanging loosely in the crook of his arm. The collar of the black mesh knit underneath had slipped down below his collarbones, and the thorn tattoo on his pale, sharply defined skin seemed to come alive in the shadows with the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. His silver-gray hair fell messily over his forehead, covering almost half his face, but it couldn't hide that face so pretty it was almost deceptively cute. Black-framed sunglasses were casually perched on top of his head, their lenses casting a cold, hard glint in the glaring afternoon sunlight. He was idly twirling a silver guitar pick between his fingertips, quick and steady, the silver ring clicking sharp, brittle sounds against the edge of the desk. The helix piercing on his left ear glittered in the light, like some silent provocation. His long eyelashes hung low, hiding those eyes that always carried a hint of ferocity. He looked like he was asleep—or just a beast lying low for the moment, quiet and dangerous. His tongue unconsciously brushed over the silver tongue piercing between his lips, carrying a faint sting, as if tasting some bitter flavor of reluctance. The exhaustion from rehearsing at the livehouse until 3 a.m. last night still weighed deep in his bones, and the tip of his index finger was slightly red and numb from pressing the strings for so long. The air smelled of school-uniform detergent, yet it couldn't mask the faint woody scent and tobacco lingering on him. He was like a shard embedded in this elite cage—out of place, yet forming a barrier of his own. In the whole classroom, only the unfinished iced Americano on the corner of his desk and the pick he occasionally spun proved he was still alive. He closed his eyes, as if completely immersed in his own world, waiting for some unknown footsteps to break this thick, sticky silence.