A soft, drawn-out "Aaah~" slipped through the thin wall, feminine and unguarded.
Kael's pen froze mid-stroke. The nib hovered above the half-finished mathematics problem as though the ink itself had lost the will to continue.
He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, fingers threading into dark hair, and muttered, "Again. I just hate this."
He exhaled sharply through his nose and rose from the narrow desk. The chair scraped against bare linoleum. Crossing the cramped room in three strides, he reached the single window and shoved it shut with more force than necessary. The latch clicked, but the gesture felt futile even before he let go.
Living in the college dormitory had been, without question, the worst decision of his nineteen years.
"Yeah… yeah…" The sounds still leaked in—muffled now, but stubborn, a low, rhythmic cadence that vibrated through plaster and cheap wood. No amount of glass and aluminum could kill them completely.
"Seriously, can't they be a little quieter?" he said under his breath.
Kael dragged the over-ear headphones from the corner of the desk, settled them over his ears, and cranked the study playlist to maximum volume. A wall of strings and steady percussion flooded his skull, drowning the rest of the world.
He dropped back into the chair, squared his shoulders, and forced his eyes down to the page. The pen moved again.
He could not afford to waste time.
Unlike the rich kids who drifted through these halls—who knew which girl they were buried inside right now—he had no safety net.
No parents wiring money, no trust fund cushioning failure. He had entered this college on full scholarship and kept his place here by tutoring high-schoolers two evenings a week and most weekends. The money was thin, the hours long, but it was his.
Three years earlier his parents had died. His father's brother had swept in, claimed every asset that should have belonged to Kael, and cited the law: he had not yet been eighteen, and he had no one else to speak for him.
At least the uncle had been conscious enough to let him stay under that roof for a while.
The aunt, though—her pinched mouth and colder silences had made it clear he was an inconvenience. Her daughter had simply followed the example.
So Kael had studied harder, clawed his way to the scholarship, and left.
Four months now since he'd walked out of that house with two suitcases and a bus ticket. Not one phone call had followed. Not one "Are you okay?" Not one "Do you need anything?"
That was why the music stayed loud. That was why the pen could not stop.
Outside, voices began to rise—sharp, urgent.
"Fire! Fire!"
Feet pounded the hallway. Someone hammered on doors.
The knocks reached Kael's own door, frantic and fast.
He never heard them.
The strings swelled. The bass thrummed against his temples. The world beyond the headphones had already been erased.
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Kael's pen scratched steadily across the page, the music still a roaring shield inside his skull.
Then—something acrid curled into his nostrils.
Hmm? Smoking?
He lifted his head. Blinked.
The room was no longer dim and familiar. Orange light danced across every surface. Flames licked up the far wall, crawled along the baseboard, curled hungrily toward the ceiling. For one stupid second he thought it was an illusion, some trick of exhaustion.
Then the heat slammed into him—real, dry, suffocating.
"Fuck, it's fire!"
He ripped the headphones off. The sudden absence of music let the roar rush in: crackling wood, snapping fabric, the low hungry growl of flames eating through cheap drywall. Heat pressed against his skin like an open oven door.
The door.
He lunged for it. The fire hadn't reached it yet. He slapped his palm around the knob—iron searing hot, a white-hot brand against his skin.
"Fuck!"
He jerked back, shaking his stinging hand. A gray rag lay crumpled on the nearby chair; he snatched it, wrapped it around his fingers, and twisted the knob hard. The door flew open.
Smoke poured in like black water.
The hallway beyond was chaos—shouts crashing against each other, feet pounding, bodies shoving.
"Fire! Run! Fire—outside, quickly!"
"Someone—someone save me!"
"What do you mean save you, old hag? Go away!"
"Fuck, which fucker started the fire?"
Fear. Pleading. Rage. Desperation. All of it tangled in the thickening smoke.
Kael yanked the neck of his t-shirt up over his nose and mouth. His eyes burned instantly, watering, blurring the edges of everything. He forced them open anyway.
The door beside his burst open.
Out stumbled the fat boy—the one who'd been grunting and moaning through the wall for months—clothes thrown on in frantic haste, shirt half-tucked, belt unbuckled. Beside him, the thin woman, makeup smeared, hair wild, skirt twisted. Her eyes were wide with panic.
Kael didn't waste a second glaring at them. Survival first.
A frail voice cut through the din again—"Someone save me…"
It was the old janitor grandma, the one who always nodded hello in the mornings, hands trembling on her cane, trapped in the smoke-choked corridor.
Leaving her would sour in his gut forever. He knew it.
He crossed the distance in three strides, crouched, and hoisted her onto his back. She was lighter than he expected—fragile bones and worn cotton. She gasped but didn't fight him.
He ran.
The hallway was mercifully free of actual flame—just choking smoke. He barreled through it, lungs burning, grandma clinging to his shoulders, until cool night air hit his face.
Outside.
He set her gently on the grass. She stared up at the building, eyes glassy.
"Oh no… my home…"
The words landed like a stone in Kael's chest.
His own home—everything he owned—was inside that furnace now. Clothes, books, notes, the little cash he'd hidden in the pocket of his other pants. All of it feeding the fire. A sharp, twisting pain bloomed behind his ribs.
Then a scream sliced the night.
"Someone save me!"
Kael's head snapped up.
High above—his own window. The girl from next door stood framed there, hair whipping in the smoke, face pale with terror.
Isn't that my window?
Confusion spiked through him—why was she in his room? Why hadn't she come out when the fat boy did?
Before he could process it, a heavy, wheezing shape burst from the entrance.
The fat boy. Running like a dying animal, chest heaving, face purple. He made it three steps onto the lawn, then collapsed face-first into the dirt. Motionless.
Smoke continued to billow from every window. Flames roared louder.
And the girl was still screaming from his window.
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