Like a razor-sharp blade, the cold Chicago wind blew in from the shores of Lake Michigan, wreathing dead leaves and humidity as it swept violently across DePaul University's Lincoln Park campus.
Orange leaves swirled and fluttered on the sidewalks, and the air smelled of salty lake water and the fumes of distant barbecue stands.
Jace Raven weaves through the hustle and bustle with his head bowed. His lanky frame is wrapped in a tattered gray sweatshirt with a hood pulled so low that it nearly hides his gray-blue eyes.
The schoolbag on his back was heavily patched and rickety as if it were a joke about to fall apart. Its straps were frayed and white, and messy threads were showing around the edges.
With his hands in his pockets, he walked briskly, trying to avoid the loud talking and laughing students, for whom this college had never been a friendly place.
"Hey, South Side trash, picking up our leftovers again?" A raspy voice came from up ahead, not hiding the malice in it.
Jace stopped in his tracks and looked up, obvious disgust in his eyes.
Brad, the star of the football team, was six-foot-three, blonde, wearing a brand-new North Face duffle coat and a sneer at the corner of his mouth.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the way forward like a wall.
Several of his followers immediately gathered around him, some chewing gum, some holding Starbucks coffee cups, all with a look of amusement.
Jace clenched his teeth, lowered his eyes, and squeezed out a low voice, "Don't bother me."
He didn't want to invite trouble, and his South Side background already made him an outlier in this university.
The South Side of Chicago, a place where gunshots were more frequent than sirens, had bred his quiet, stubborn nature.
All he wanted was to get through this economics class, go back to the leaky, run-down apartment, hide in a corner where no one could find him, eat a bowl of cheap instant noodles, and sleep until morning.
However, fate always seemed to be against him.
"I'm bothering you? Ha, a poor man like you deserves to be here?" Brad took a step forward and shoved Jace violently with his thick arm.
Jace couldn't dodge in time and stumbled back, nearly falling over, his book bag slipping to the ground, the textbooks and notebooks inside scattered all over the place.
A worn copy of Microeconomics was flipped open by the wind, its pages clattering in the wind.
The surrounding laughter grew louder and louder, like a flock of crows circling overhead, emitting an ear-piercing racket.
Someone even deliberately threw ketchup-stained fries at Jace's feet, the ketchup staining his worn shoes as if to mock him.
"Pick it up, garbage man!" One of the heels shrilled, his voice full of provocation.
Facing the crowded bullies, Jace had no choice but to endure this humiliation in silence, bending down to pick up the scattered books. His fingers were bruised from the exertion.
He did not want to look up at those superior, contemptuous eyes.
However, the moment he reached for his notebook, a blinding white light suddenly flashed in his mind as if someone had struck him hard in the head with a wooden stick.
He stood there stiffly-not from the cold, but because the sudden image was so quick and clear, so clear that it was as if he had shot the movie himself.
In the image, Brad sat in a flashy red sports car, the roar of the engine speeding past along with the streetlights of Lakeshore Boulevard.
Inside the car, deafening heavy metal music plays, Brad's fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with the rhythm, chewing gum in his mouth, his smile reveals a kind of unbridled wildness.
Immediately after, an ear-splitting brake sound pierced the night sky, the tires skidding on the snow out of control, the body violently hit the guardrail, rolled twice, and then came to a standstill, glass shards splattered in all directions, and blood flowed from Brad's forehead, staining the white snow into a scarlet red.
Time seemed to freeze at 8:42 p.m. The ticking of the second hand, like the footsteps of death, was audible.
Jace suddenly woke up with a start, his heart palpitating, his hand trembling so badly that the notebook slipped out of his hand.
He looked up at Brad, the guy was still smiling, seemingly completely unaware that the shadow of death was creeping in.
The jeering around him faded into a blur, and all that was left in Jace's ears was the sound of his violent heartbeat, hitting his chest as hard as a heavy fist hitting a sandbag.
He didn't understand why this was happening, but this ability to "see" had been bothering him for years - the first time was in elementary school, when he saw the old lady in his neighborhood fall off a building, and she died the next day.
The second time, in high school, he foresaw the shooting death of a street gangster, which came true three days later when an alarm sounded.
He has tried to confide in others, but no one believes him, only see him as crazy.
"You ... don't drive tonight." Jace couldn't help but blurt out, a slight tremor in his voice.
He didn't understand why he had said it, perhaps it was Brad's arrogant demeanor that had stirred the urge to try and change something.
Brad froze for a moment and quickly resumed his cocky attitude, erupting into a fit of maniacal laughter, laughing so hard that he almost fell on his back, even with tears in his eyes, "Are you cursing me? Freak!"
He suddenly grabbed Jace by the collar and cornered him, his fist raised high in the air.
The bystanders around him became even more emotional and were up in arms, "Hit him! Shut him up!"
With no way back, Jace closes his eyes and prepares for the punch.
But surprisingly, Brad didn't do anything, he just glared at him viciously before letting go and pushing him away, "Get out of here and don't let me see you again or I'll make you crawl back to the South Side."
Jace took a deep breath and his body relaxed as he fell to the floor. He picked up his scattered books and staggered towards the school building.
The wind was strong enough to make his cheeks sting and his heart beat faster as if the rhythm had been doubled.
He tried to convince himself that the incident had nothing to do with him, that despite the hatred he harbored for Brad, Brad's life and death should not be a burden to him.
Throughout the afternoon, his thoughts were consistently occupied with that scene, and it was hard to shake them off.
In class, he didn't listen to a word of what the professor explained. The pen in his hand-scribbled mindlessly in his notebook, outlining an overturned sports car and Brad's gruesome death.
By eight o'clock in the evening, Jace finally couldn't contain his curiosity, and he threw on the tattered cotton-padded jacket and walked alone toward Lake Shore Drive.
The Chicago wind grew fiercer, laced with the moisture of Lake Michigan and blowing on his face like pins and needles.
He stood on the curb, his eyes fixed on the headlights whizzing by in the distance, his hands in his pockets clenched in fists, his mind silently counting the minutes.
8:40, 8:41 ...8:42, a sharp sound of brakes cut through the night sky.
A red sports car went out of control, crashed into the guardrail, tumbled twice, and came to a standstill, the engine emitted thick black smoke, and the body twisted and deformed, like a flattened tin can.
Jace was dumbfounded, he had not expected the scene in front of him to be so vivid, no, this was not an illusion, but a real death.
Ignoring the snow and wind, Jace slowly approached, and through the hazy light of the streetlamp, he witnessed Brad's dead eyes, blood flowing from the corner of his forehead, coloring the snow into a scarlet red.
Brad had truly passed away.
At this moment, the sirens were getting closer.
Jace's taut nerves finally collapsed, and his stomach rolled violently with stomach acid, he let out a dry heaving sound, and was about to turn around and flee from the scene, but just as he took two steps, a majestic command rang out behind him, "Stop, young man!"
Jace realized he was in a desperate situation.
Two police officers quickly rushed out of their patrol car, guns pointed directly at him, their lights flashing blindingly in the snowy night, "Someone reported you for threatening Brad Wilson today, and now that he's dead, what do you have to say?"
Jace's thoughts went blank, he hadn't threatened Brad, merely out of curiosity, no, concern for Brad...
But in such a prejudiced world, who would believe a deviant from the South Side?
Giving up on his pointless fantasies, he turned and rushed into the side alley.
He stepped on the cold snowy water and ran wildly, the water splashed his pants, but he was oblivious and just kept running wildly forward.
At the end of the alley, he leaned against the graffiti-covered wall and gasped for breath, as if he were a prey that had just escaped from a cage.
Jace pulled out his cell phone to call the police and turn himself in, but the moment his finger touched the screen, another wave of dizziness passed before his eyes.
This time it's not an omen, but a harsh reality - he looks down into the puddle at his feet, and his own reflection begins to look unfamiliar, his pupils glowing with an eerie blue light as if possessed by some supernatural force.
Whispers rang in his ears, chillingly, as if they were diving into his mind from under the water, "You cannot escape your destiny."
Jace jerked his head up as the puddle returned to normal, but the voice still echoed, as if someone was whispering in his ear.
He clenched his fists as the roar of a motorcycle engine suddenly came from the mouth of the alleyway amid a misty blizzard, and two dark shadows grew clearer in the shadows.
The eyes coming out of their helmets were as cold as eagle eyes, and the red light from the motorcycle's taillight trailing on the snow was as blinding as blood.
"They're coming, damn it," Jace whispered to himself, his mood sinking to the bottom.
He didn't know who "they" were, but his instincts told him they weren't cops, and this was no accident.
Jace took a deep breath and turned into a deeper alley, the wind and snow swallowed his figure, but the roar followed him like the Grim Reaper speeding up his pursuit.