"Hey, you hear about the new guy?"
"Yeah. Transferred from a rough school. Punched a teacher, I think."
"He's got a scar on his cheek. And tattoos. Real ones. Like a gang member."
Ethan heard the whispers the moment he stepped through the front gates of Ridgeway High. He didn't say a word. Just chewed his gum, adjusted his leather jacket, and kept walking like he owned the pavement. His walk was relaxed but sharp—each step slow and heavy, like he was dragging a history of fights behind him. The tattoos creeping up his neck and arms, inked in black and red, looked like they told stories. Dragons, blades, flames. The kind of ink you don't get for fashion.
His black jeans had just the right amount of tears. His steel-toed boots thudded like war drums across the concrete.
He looked like he'd killed a guy.
A group of guys near the front entrance parted like he had some kind of aura. One of them gave a nervous nod. Ethan didn't nod back. He just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked right past them. He counted in his head: Three, two, one...
Behind him, someone whispered, "Bro's cold as hell."
Ethan smirked.
His classroom was 2-B. He found it easy enough. On the way, a girl dropped her books. He bent down and helped her. She froze like he was holding a knife instead of textbooks.
"T-Thanks," she muttered, taking the books from his hands like they might explode.
"Don't mention it," he said, voice low and lazy, like he didn't care.
He took the empty seat in the back corner without asking.
The teacher eyed him, then went back to the board.
First period was math. Boring. Second was biology. Also boring. Ethan stayed in character: head down, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be in a back alley fight. But he was alert. Watching. Counting how many people stared at him. Listening to the fake stories already forming.
He noticed the girl two seats over.
Round glasses. Messy bun. Quiet. Focused on her notes.
She didn't talk. Didn't look up. Just kept to herself.
Ethan didn't stare too long. Didn't want to stand out. Didn't want her attention.
Lunch break.
He took his food outside. Didn't want to risk being approached.
He sat under a tree and opened his bento. Rice, boiled egg, sausage cut like octopus. He made it himself that morning, waking up at 5:30 to get it right.
He noticed someone sitting a few trees away. It was her. Glasses Girl.
She was eating quietly. Alone. Not looking at him.
Good.
Word got around fast. By the end of the day, rumors were flying.
"Ethan beat a guy unconscious in middle school."
"I heard he has connections. Like, mafia stuff."
"He was expelled for putting someone through a desk."
Ethan didn't correct them. Just shrugged when asked questions, or gave vague answers like "That was a long time ago."
Every once in a while, someone tried to test him. Like the guy near the vending machines during last period.
Big guy. Football jacket. Walked up and said, "You're not as tough as people say."
Ethan stared at him. Didn't say a word.
The guy grabbed his shoulder.
Bad move.
Ethan jerked his arm in a way he saw in an anime once and stepped back. The guy stumbled and almost tripped over a trash bin. He recovered fast, but Ethan was already walking away.
People watching broke into laughter.
Ethan didn't even smirk this time.
After school, he took the bus home. His apartment was tiny. Just one room, a bathroom, and a closet. Posters lined the walls—anime, manga, game art. A few cosplay props hung behind the door. His desk was stacked with light novels and unopened model kits.
He locked the door behind him and let out a long breath.
"Holy crap. That was too much."
He peeled off his jacket. Then the black shirt underneath.
The tattoos were still there. Clearer now, without the shirt covering them. Every line told a story. Pain, obsession, maybe a bit of overcommitment.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
No thug. No fighter. Just a skinny dude with glasses and messy hair who once thought getting full sleeves would make him cooler.
His name wasn't in any system. He'd made sure of that. All his socials were deleted. Even his school records were "transferred manually." He was a ghost. That was part of the lie.
He sighed.
"What the hell am I doing?"
His phone buzzed.
A new message.
Unknown number: "You caught my attention. Let's talk soon."
No name. Just that.
He stared.
Then looked at his reflection again.
"Yeah. This is definitely going to blow up in my face."
He went to the closet and pulled out his hidden stash of figures, DVDs, and cosplay gear.
The mask was off.
For now.
He spent the next hour watching anime reruns while eating instant curry. The real kind of comfort food. No lies. No roles to play.
But even while he laughed at dumb gags and dramatic speeches, part of him stayed tense.
This lie—this "Ethan Graves the badass" thing—it was supposed to be a short-term deal. Just something to keep the bullies off his back. Maybe make some friends who wouldn't shove his face in a locker.
But now?
People were scared of him.
That was fine.
What wasn't fine was how deep the story was already getting. He barely said anything all day and somehow gained three different reputations. If he wasn't careful, someone real would test him. Someone who actually trained, who knew how to punch without breaking their own wrist.
He didn't want that smoke.
Not even close.
___
The next morning was normal. Or as normal as it could be when you had to fake being someone else. He adjusted the fake scar he drew with makeup, styled his hair just right, threw on the jacket, and became "Ethan" again.
At school, the whispers were louder.
Some students moved out of his way. Others nodded like they wanted to be on his good side. A few girls stared a little too long before quickly looking away.
And then she walked by.
Glasses Girl.
Lena.
She glanced at him. Just for a second. But it was sharp. Like she was reading something others couldn't.
Then she walked off.
Lunch came around and Ethan returned to his usual spot under the tree.
But today, Lena sat closer.
Not right next to him—but closer than yesterday.
She ate silently, like before.
He tried not to stare. Tried to focus on his food.
Then she spoke.
"You made that?"
He looked up. "What?"
"Your bento," she said. "Did you make it?"
He blinked. "Yeah."
"Hm."
She didn't say anything else.
Ethan stared at her for a second. Then went back to eating. His heart was beating fast but he kept his face still. Cold. Quiet. Like the character he was playing.
Lena didn't say another word for the rest of lunch.
But she didn't move either.
Later, after school, he was about to head home when someone blocked his path.
Tall guy. Sharp jaw. Eyes that didn't blink much.
"Name's Mason," the guy said. "I heard you're tough."
Ethan sighed in his head.
Here we go.
Mason cracked his knuckles. "We've got a little club. Sparring stuff. You should swing by."
Ethan stared back. Didn't say anything for a few seconds.
Then gave a small nod. "Maybe."
Mason smirked and walked off.
Ethan walked the other way, heart thumping.
Sparring? He'd rather walk barefoot across Legos.
That night, Ethan sat at his desk, sketching a new character for a webcomic he never planned to post.
Lena Caldwell.
He drew her face from memory. The way her eyes narrowed when she was thinking. The way she sat straight like she was trained to. There was something off about her.
Not in a bad way.
In a dangerous way.
The next day, it got weirder.
She waited for him by the tree.
Didn't speak at first. Just sat.
Then, after a while, said, "You don't act like the others."
"What others?" he asked.
"The wannabe tough guys."
Ethan gave a lazy shrug. "I'm not trying to prove anything."
She looked at him, quiet.
"Good," she said. "Because if you were, I'd see through it."
His stomach dropped for half a second. But he kept his face still.
She stood up and left like it was nothing.
He watched her walk away, pretending he wasn't sweating bullets.
Because Lena?
She wasn't normal either.
And just like him—she was hiding something.