The alarm went off at six, but Kieran was already awake.
On a normal day off, he'd still be buried under his blanket, scrolling on his phone until noon while convincing himself it was "resting his eyes." But today was not a normal day. Today, he was standing at a bus stop in the gray quiet of dawn, clutching a paper cup of vending-machine coffee that tasted faintly of rust and regret of buying it.
The road stretched empty ahead, slick with last night's rain.
"Kieran!"
The shout came from down the street. Kieran turned just in time to see a wiry figure sprinting toward him, hair a mess, shirt half-tucked, a backpack flapping wildly.
Dante.
Dante's legal name being Dante Rossi was less a carefully considered decision and more a long-term consequence of his parents being unreasonably obsessed with football. His father, a die-hard late-night match watcher, and his mother, who pretended not to care but somehow knew every stat, had both fallen in love with a flamboyant Italian player named Dante Rossi—a man known more for dramatic goals and even more dramatic celebrations. When their son was born, common sense briefly tried to intervene. It failed.
Growing up, Dante learned two things very quickly: one, he had absolutely no talent for football—and two, he was forever stuck explaining that no, he was not Italian.
"You're… early?" Dante panted, bending double, dramatic as ever. "Miracles do happen."
"Don't sound so shocked," Kieran muttered. "I have layers."
"Like an onion?"
"Exactly. Peel me, and you'll just cry."
Dante chuckled, recovering quickly. He had that kind of energy—unkillable, like a bad idea that keeps working out. Despite being an accountant, a man who spent most of his life balancing spreadsheets, he carried himself like someone who'd just won a marathon.
"I still can't believe you agreed to this," Dante said, bumping his shoulder. "You, outdoors, voluntarily? Did your Wi-Fi die or something?"
"Let's just say the walls at home were starting to talk back," Kieran replied, taking another bitter sip.
"Relax," Dante grinned. "This trek's going to change your life."
"Yeah," Kieran deadpanned. "Gravity might do that if I fall off the mountain."
Kieran glanced around the nearly empty lot, then back at Dante. "By the way… weren't you coming with, like, five other people?"
Dante's grin twitched. Just a little.
"Plans change," he said lightly. Too lightly.
"Uh-huh." Kieran narrowed his eyes. "That didn't answer anything."
"Well—" Dante started, scratching the back of his head. "One had a thing, another had a thing, and the rest had… existential emergencies?"
"That's not a category."
"It is if you're avoiding responsibility."
Kieran opened his mouth to press him further—
HISSSS.
The bus screeched up before he could retort, doors hissing open to let out a stale cloud of diesel and dust.
As they got inside, it smelled faintly of old oil and forgotten gum. The vinyl seats were cracked and patched with duct tape.
They slid into a seat halfway down. Dante leaned across the aisle, eyes shining.
"You know what this feels like?" he said. "Freedom. No bosses, no deadlines, no fluorescent lights frying our souls."
"You make it sound like a eulogy," Kieran muttered.
Dante ignored him, as always. "Think about it — fresh air, open skies. Maybe you'll even meet someone special."
"Right. Because nothing attracts women like a man who lives off instant noodles and unresolved trauma."
Dante's laughter filled the bus, loud enough to make the driver flinch.
Outside, the city faded — gray towers giving way to open fields and distant hills. Their jokes died down as the hum of the engine took over, steady and hypnotic.
At the next stop, the bus doors sighed open again.
A girl stepped in.
She wasn't flashy — jeans, sneakers, a simple jacket — but there was a calm to her, the kind that made people look twice. She scanned the bus before sitting directly across from Kieran's seat.
He tried not to stare. He failed spectacularly.
He considered saying something but his throat betrayed him. All he saw in the window reflection was himself: unremarkable, stuck, and pretending he wasn't both.
Dante noticed, of course. He smirked. "Ohhh, I see what's happening."
"Nothing's happening."
"Sure. And I'm not already planning your wedding playlist."
Kieran groaned, turning to the window.
Happiness wasn't something he was used to. The world had never handed him joy — only scraps of distraction between struggles. All he really had was his stubbornness.
Eventually, the rhythm of the bus lulled him toward sleep.
When he woke, the air had changed. The city was gone — replaced by the scent of pine and rain, the hum of cicadas, the kind of silence that made your own heartbeat sound loud.
The bus came to its final stop.
The trekking site wasn't much to look at. A crooked wooden shack leaned near the trailhead, its roof patched with rusted tin sheets. A faded hand-painted sign creaked in the wind:
Respect the mountain. It respects you back.
Kieran stepped off, stretching, taking in the crisp air. For the first time in a long time, his lungs didn't feel like they were inhaling dust.
He turned — maybe to look for the girl from the bus — but the low growl of an engine cut through the quiet.
A battered jeep roared into the clearing, tires spitting gravel.
The door swung open, and she stepped out.
Tall. Confident. Every movement sharp as a blade. Her black tank top and worn jeans didn't soften her — they defined her. But it was her eyes that caught him — the kind that had seen trouble and decided to stare it down.
A man near the shack let out a low whistle. "Nice ride, sweetheart."
Her head turned slowly.
"Say that again."
Her voice was calm. But it made a statement.
The man shrank back. "I was—uh—just saying nice ride."
"Then say that next time."
She brushed past him, the matter already dead in her eyes.
Dante elbowed Kieran. "Oh, imagine if she ends up in our group."
"I'd rather imagine peace and quiet," Kieran muttered.
Before Dante could tease him more, the shack door creaked open.
Out stepped their guide — Edward Grey.
He looked like he'd walked straight out of a library and into the wrong movie. Skinny, hunched, hair unkempt, eyes darting like he was late for an apology.
"Uh… hello," he stammered. "I'm Edward. Your guide for today."
He gave a nervous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Kieran leaned toward Dante. "That's our guide? He looks like he needs a guide."
"Relax," Dante whispered back. "The best adventures start with terrible introductions."
Kieran sighed. "Or funerals."