The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and as students poured out of their rooms in chatty clusters, John silently drifted in the opposite direction. His feet knew the way—down the east hallway, past the trophy case that never bore his name, through the courtyard choked with laughter and clusters of friends—until he reached the canteen.
He walked past the crowded tables, the smell of hot food and youthful arrogance hanging thick in the air. Then he reached his table—that strange one in the far corner, marked not by any sign, but by an unspoken rule: never sit there.
It wasn't cursed, not in any supernatural sense. But anyone who had dared sit at that lonely table before had soon found themselves mocked, whispered about, or ostracized. Maybe it was the way John sat there every day, alone and unmoving. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Whatever the reason, the table had become a symbol of something no one wanted to be.
But for John, it was home.
He slid into the seat with a practiced motion, placed his lunch on the table, and opened it without fanfare. His hands moved, but his mind was elsewhere—buried under the weight of a project that hung over him like a guillotine.
Miss Julie's assignment: "Write a detailed report on the monsters of our world and city—their preferences, behaviors, habitats, and evolution. Due tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
It was a project that should've taken weeks, not hours. Even professional Monster Tamers would struggle with something so massive. And John? He wasn't even sure if he belonged in this school anymore.
"Who do I even ask for help?" he thought bitterly. "No one talks to me. I'm just the orphan that Doctor Luna keeps on life support here."
His hand rested heavily on his forehead as he took another bite, chewing more out of habit than hunger.
And then came the thought he'd been avoiding.
"Should I ask Luna?"
He froze.
It would be so easy. She was one of the top Monster Doctors in the entire city, perhaps the entire continent. She didn't just know about monsters—she dissected them, modified them, created them. A single word from her, and this impossible project would become a simple evening task.
But pride is a cruel thing.
Luna was the only family he had left, but also the source of so many buried memories. Despite her love, he couldn't forget what he'd grown up believing—that their mother's reckless obsession with monster experiments had led to the death of their parents. Luna had tried to explain it differently, but John had clung to the pain like a scar.
Over the years, he'd created a distance. And distance, once normalized, becomes a prison harder to escape than bars of steel.
"I won't bother her. She's done enough already."
It was true—if not for her, the school wouldn't have tolerated his lack of progress. Talentless students were usually weeded out by the third term. But John had lasted this long because no one dared challenge Doctor Luna's decisions.
"Still, maybe that's the problem," he muttered. "If I can't make it on my own, then maybe I don't deserve to be here at all."
He barely whispered the words, but they stung like venom.
"I'm not talented. I'm not cut out to be a Monster Tamer."
SLAM!
A hand crashed down onto his table, the metal surface clanging under the impact. John flinched, eyes snapping up as a cruel, booming voice filled the canteen.
"What's wrong, Kiddo? Finally accepted you're not fit for this profession, huh? Well done!"
The speaker was a broad-shouldered boy with spiked hair and an ever-present smirk—Mason, one of the more aggressive students in the Tamer track.
"Look at this, everyone!" Mason called out, turning to the other tables. "John just admitted he's not cut out for it!"
Laughter. Snickering. A few heads turned, just long enough to fuel John's shame.
His face flushed red, but not from rage. It was the kind of red that came from humiliation—the raw exposure of thoughts that should've remained hidden in the dark corners of his mind.
He'd been interrupted, again—first by the impossible weight of his life, and now by the cruelty of a world that never stopped watching. A world that judged, mocked, and labeled.
And for a brief second, John felt as though his fate was being chosen for him.
But something stirred beneath that shame—a flicker of fire buried deep within the ashes of doubt.
He clenched his fists under the table.
The world may have had its say. But he wasn't done speaking yet.