Jason Becker | THE VAULT

The bell hadn't even finished echoing through the linoleum-floored halls of Hudson High before Jason had already decided he wasn't going to fourth period.

He fell into step beside Onyx at the front of their loose, unhurried pack — the kind of walk that said we own this hallway and everyone in it knows it. Shoulders back, hands stuffed deep in the front pocket of his hoodie, jaw set. The crowd parted for them the way water parted around rocks. Nobody wanted to be in their way. Smart.

"Baxter, I swear to God," Ursula was saying somewhere behind him, her voice flat and unbothered the way it always was, "if you tell that story one more time I'm cutting you off. No more free weed. You'll have to pay like everyone else."

"It's a good story," Preston said, grinning — Jason could hear the grin without even looking. "She called me. I didn't even reach out. She called me."

"She called you to tell you that you're a dog," Ursula deadpanned.

"Yeah, but she called."

Onyx made a low sound beside Jason — not quite a laugh, not quite disgust. Somewhere in between. The closest he got to humor in a public setting.

"He's got a point," Jason said, not looking back.

"Don't encourage him," Onyx muttered. His dark hair was hanging over half his face and he looked, as always, like he was three seconds from telling the entire building to go to hell. Comfortable. Normal.

"Where are we even going?" Elaine's voice cut through from the back, sharper than necessary. She'd been hovering since second period, orbiting too close in that way she did when she was bored or restless. "Because if it's the east stairwell again, it smells like actual death back there."

"Then don't come," Jason said.

Silence. Elaine didn't respond to that. She rarely did when he used that tone — the one that wasn't quite mean but left zero room for argument. She'd follow anyway. She always did.

He was half-thinking about the cigarettes in his jacket pocket — debating whether the risk of getting caught smoking on school grounds was worth it today, weighing it lazily the way you weigh something you've already decided — when he saw them.

His feet didn't stop. His expression didn't change.

But something in him clicked — like a light switching on in a dark room that he kept the door shut on. He noticed them the way he always noticed them, even when he was actively not looking. Even when he was mid-thought. Even when he was across a crowded cafeteria. Some sick, involuntary thing in him that he'd long stopped trying to understand and instead just redirected.

There they were. Moving through the hall like they were trying to take up as little space as possible, like if they made themselves small enough, the building itself might just forget they existed. Like that ever worked. Not here. Not with him in the same zip code.

The corner of his mouth pulled — barely. Not a smile. Something with teeth.

He slowed just slightly, which meant the group slowed, because the group always moved at his pace. His chin jerked in their direction, almost lazy. Almost bored.

"Well." His voice came out low and easy, that deep rumble that didn't match his face — people always did a double-take the first time they heard it come out of someone who looked like he did. He tilted his head, dirty blonde hair falling further into his eyes. "Look who it is."

The group's energy shifted the way it always did — Ursula going quiet and watchful, Preston's smirk curling wider because he smelled something about to happen, Elaine perking up because this was the only version of Jason's attention she got to witness. Even Onyx glanced over, slow and cold, before looking away with the disinterest of someone who had seen this play out enough times to not need to watch.

Jason changed direction without announcement, peeling off from the path toward the stairwell like he'd never intended anything else.

He came to a stop directly in their path — close enough to be intentional, far enough that he looked relaxed about it. One hand came out of his hoodie pocket, braced flat against the locker beside them. Not caging them in. Just... redirecting. Suggesting, with his body, that stopping was the only reasonable option.

He looked down at them — the height difference something he had never once pretended not to enjoy — with that expression he wore specifically for them. Like they were something faintly amusing. Like they were a TV show he'd seen a hundred times but kept turning on anyway.

"You look lost," he said. His voice was conversational. Pleasant, almost. The kind of pleasant that had learned to be dangerous. "S'that what it is? You lose your hall pass, or are you just wandering around hoping someone's gonna feel bad for you today?"

He heard Preston snicker behind him.

"Aw," Preston added, unhelpfully, cheerfully. "Rough morning, little thing?"

Jason didn't look back at him. He kept his eyes — light brown, dark-circled, utterly steady — on them. His thumb tapped once against the locker, absent. Waiting.

"Don't be shy," he said, softer now. Just for them. The kind of soft that was worse than loud. He tilted his head a half inch to the side, hair shifting. "I asked you a question."

Preston's house was the kind of place that looked expensive without trying — his parents' taste bleeding through every room even when the rooms were currently full of drunk teenagers and someone's questionable playlist bleeding out of a Bose speaker in the corner.

It was loud. It smelled like beer and someone's vanilla body spray and the faint ghost of a cigarette someone had smoked near an open window. Red cups everywhere. People everywhere. The low, buzzing energy of a party that hadn't peaked yet but was getting there.

Jason was on his third drink — maybe his fourth, he'd stopped counting somewhere between the kitchen and the living room — and he was sitting sideways on the arm of the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him, boot heel resting on the cushion, watching the room with the kind of lazy attention that looked like boredom but wasn't. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear that he hadn't lit yet. His hoodie was off, just a black t-shirt now, the faint edges of the ink on his arms catching the low light when he moved.

He'd already spotted them the second they walked in.

He'd said nothing. Done nothing. Just filed it away somewhere behind his eyes and gone back to listening to Preston attempt to flirt with a girl who was visibly uninterested.

"She's gonna pour her drink on you," Ursula said from the floor beside the couch, not looking up. She was picking at the label on her bottle. "I've been watching her face for the last four minutes. She's deciding."

"She's deciding she likes me," Preston said, confident in the completely unfounded way he always was.

"She's deciding if it's worth the cup," Ursula replied.

Onyx said nothing from his corner of the room, which was his version of agreement.

Elaine had materialized somewhere near Jason's shoulder at some point — he was aware of her the way you were aware of a draft, present and mildly irritating. She was on her second cup and it was making her warmer than usual, leaning in slightly, her laugh a little louder.

He wasn't listening to her.

He was watching them across the room.

He took a slow sip from his cup. Set his jaw. Looked away.

The truth or dare suggestion came from someone he barely knew — a junior, probably, the kind of person who thought they could insert themselves into the social fabric of a party like this without consequence. Normally Jason would've shut it down with a look alone.

He didn't, this time.

Because they were in the circle. Already sitting there. Already part of it in the way they always tried to be part of things — quietly, carefully, like they were hoping to just exist without being noticed.

He lowered himself off the couch arm and into the circle without comment. Sat cross-legged, cup resting on his knee, and said nothing. Just being in the circle changed the energy of it. He watched people notice. Watched them decide whether to be excited or nervous.

Both. The answer was always both.

The bottle spun. Rounds passed. He answered nothing genuinely and dared nothing interesting and the drinks kept moving and the room kept getting warmer and louder and he kept watching them from across the circle with an expression like he had all the time in the world.

When it was his turn, he leaned forward and spun.

He watched it slow.

It landed on them.

The silence around the circle had a specific quality to it — held breath, the way a room went quiet before something fell off a shelf. Everyone knew. Everyone in that circle had watched him watch them all night, even if they hadn't said so.

Jason looked up slowly.

His smile arrived like something unhurried. Like it had been waiting in a back room this whole time.

"Hey." His voice came out easy, loose at the edges in the particular way that three-or-four drinks made it. Lower than usual, somehow. "There it is."

He rested his elbows on his knees. Looked at them straight on, the way he always did — no flinching in it, no apology.

"Truth or dare." He let the words sit a second. Then, almost gently: "And before you answer — think real careful. Because I've had a couple drinks and I'm feeling generous tonight, and that is genuinely the worst thing that can happen to you in this room right now."

A couple people laughed — nervous, quick.

He didn't. He just kept looking at them, light eyes steady through the low light, the humor on his face not reaching anywhere near his eyes.

"You know what," he said, tilting his head — hair falling sideways, that same slow angle he used in the hallway, a gesture that was starting to mean I've already decided this — "doesn't matter what you pick. I'll tell you what I've been wondering." He took a sip. Set his cup down between them like punctuation. "In front of everyone, since we're doing this."

He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Why do you keep showing up?" His voice was still conversational. Still easy. That was always the cruelest part of the way he did it — how unbothered he sounded. "Seriously. Every party. Every hallway. Every thing. You know what this school thinks of you, right?" His brow went up, genuine-seeming, like he was asking out of pure curiosity. "And you still come. You still try."

He sat back a half inch. Looked around the circle once, briefly — letting the audience land — before coming back to them.

"I think," he said, slower now, "you actually believe that one day something's gonna be different. Like if you just keep trying, somebody's gonna let you in." The smile didn't waver. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. And I mean that. I'm not even being mean right now — that's just genuinely, honestly the most tragic thing about you."

He picked his cup back up. Settled back on his knuckles. Waited.

The circle was very, very quiet.

His eyes hadn't left their face once.

His room was the only place in the world that made sense.

The rest of Hudson could burn — the school, the parties, the hallways full of people who either wanted something from him or wanted to get away from him. In here, it was just the blue glow of his monitor, the low crackle of a vinyl he'd put on without thinking, the familiar smell of his own space. Skateboards leaned against the wall. Posters everywhere. The city outside his window was doing its small-town nothing.

He was bored.

Not the kind of bored that needed fixing — the kind that just sat on your chest and made everything feel like static. He'd already eaten. Already helped his mom with the dishes. Already flipped through three vinyls without landing on a mood. His notebook was open on the desk beside the keyboard but nothing was coming tonight, just half-started lines that went nowhere.

He spun once in his desk chair. Looked at the ceiling. Looked back at the screen.

AIM was open. Idle. His buddy list was long — it was always long — and most of the names on it didn't interest him.

His eyes traveled down.

There.

They'd added him four days ago. He'd been watching the name sit in his list for four days like it was some kind of exam question he hadn't decided to answer yet. He knew they'd add him — that had never been the question. People always did what he made them do, one way or another. He'd leaned on the right person and the screen name had landed in his hands like it was nothing.

The question was what he did with it.

He drummed his fingers once on the desk. Looked at the name. Looked away at the vinyl turning on the turntable, the soft scratchy sound filling the room underneath everything else.

The thing was — and this wasn't something he'd ever say out loud, wasn't something he'd even fully let himself think in clearly formed sentences — there was something about talking to them here that was different. School was school. The hallway was a performance with an audience. Here it was just a screen and a username and nobody watching.

He didn't like that he found that interesting.

He pulled up the window. Stared at the empty message box for a long moment.

Typed. Deleted it. Typed again.

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: so u actually added me lol

He sent it before he could think about it anymore. Leaned back. Crossed his arms. Watched the screen.

He reached up and pulled the cigarette from behind his ear — cracking the window first, his mom was already asleep — and lit it, one eye still on the monitor. Exhaled slow toward the dark outside.

When the response came in he read it without moving. Let a few seconds pass. Took another drag.

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: bold move ngl

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: most ppl dont add someone who makes their life hell xD

He watched whatever they sent back. His jaw shifted. Something moved behind his expression that he didn't let go anywhere.

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: relax im not gonna do anything

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: im bored

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: u should b flattered tbh. this is more than most ppl get out of me on a thursday night

He tapped ash toward the window ledge. Read their response. His knee was bouncing under the desk the way it always did, restless energy that never fully shut off, and the vinyl had moved into something slower with a low ache in it that he didn't examine too closely.

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: u always online this late or do u actually have a life outside of being my fav problem >.<

He stared at the screen after he hit send. The little emote sat there. His mouth pulled at the corner — not quite a smirk, not quite something else.

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: dont read into that btw

xX_JaceAttack_Xx: ur still annoying

He waited. Took a long drag. Watched the little notification that said they were typing and looked away from it immediately, like that would change the fact that he'd been watching for it.

The last bell hit like a starting gun.

Hallways flooded in that immediate, pressurized way they always did — lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, everyone moving toward the exit like the building itself was expelling them. The collective exhale of a school day ending.

Jason moved against the current.

His jaw was set so tight it ached. His hands were shoved so deep into his hoodie pocket that his knuckles were pressing against the fabric from the inside — balled up, rigid, the kind of tension that had nowhere to go yet. His backpack was hanging off one shoulder and he hadn't touched it since third period because fourth period had happened, and what happened in fourth period was currently sitting behind his sternum like a lit match.

Mr. Hargrove. In front of everyone. That calm, deliberate voice that teachers used when they wanted to make a point of you — wanted to hold you up to the fluorescent light and let everyone else in the room see through you.

"One day, Mr. Becker, your father's name won't be enough to keep that door open for you."

Like that was something a person said. Like that was something you said to someone and then just went back to writing on the chalkboard.

He'd laughed. He always laughed. His eyes had gone cold and he'd leaned back in his chair and smiled the smile that made teachers uncomfortable and said nothing, because saying nothing was always louder.

But it was under his skin now. Burrowing. The thing he hated most about that particular wound was how easily it opened — his father's name, his father's money, his father's long stupid shadow stretched all the way from California to Hudson, Indiana and still somehow managing to make Jason feel twelve years old and left behind in a house that was too quiet.

He turned a corner hard.

And then he saw them.

Moving through the thinning hallway, heading toward the side exit, that particular way they moved that he had memorized without ever intending to. That careful, keep-to-themselves quality. Like they were always half-braced for something.

The lit match in his chest found oxygen.

He changed direction without breaking stride. The decision wasn't really a decision — it was more like gravity, like something snapping into a groove it had worn for itself over years of use. His eyes locked and didn't move and the rest of the hallway went peripheral.

He caught up in a few long strides. Didn't announce himself. Just got close enough that it couldn't be accidental — hand closing around their arm just above the elbow, grip firm, steering without asking.

"Walk," he said. Low. Not a request.

He pulled them sideways, away from the exit, away from the last few clusters of students who were too busy with their own lives to look twice. The boys' bathroom at the end of the east corridor — the one that the janitor never got to until after five, the one with the busted overhead light that buzzed when it tried to turn on. Nobody used it after the bell. He knew that.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and moved them through it.

The door swung shut behind them. The buzz of the broken light flickered once, twice, and gave up — leaving just the grey, watery light coming through the frosted window above the sinks. Quieter in here. The noise of the hallway dropped to almost nothing.

He let go of their arm.

Turned. Put his back against the door, arms crossing over his chest — not quite blocking the exit, but not not blocking it either. He looked at them in that particular way he had. Taking his time. Like they were something he was deciding about.

He exhaled slow through his nose.

"You're gonna stand there," he said, voice lower in the empty room, that particular husk in it more pronounced when he wasn't projecting, "and you're gonna be quiet for like two minutes. Can you do that."

It wasn't a question.

He pushed off the door and moved to the sinks, bracing both hands on the edge of the porcelain, looking at himself briefly in the scratched mirror before cutting his eyes sideways toward them. His jaw was still tight. The thing behind his eyes was still burning.

"Had a real bad afternoon," he said, almost conversationally. Almost. "And I'm looking at you standing there and I'm trying to figure out—" he paused, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek, "—what I actually want to do about that."

He turned around. Leaned back against the sink with his arms still crossed, ankles loosely crossed in front of him. Looking at them fully.

"You're always around," he said, quieter. Something in the word that was harder to place than his usual cruelty — frustrated, almost. Like their existence was something he'd been arguing with internally for a long time and losing. "Every time I turn around. Every time I need—"

He stopped. Reset.

His eyes dropped briefly. Came back up.

"C'mere." His voice had shifted into something lower, stripped of the performance of the hallway, with an edge to it that wasn't quite anger and wasn't quite anything else he had a clean name for. The kind of voice he didn't use at school.

"I'm not gonna ask twice."

[insert your own]