The Red Town

The night air rushed in through the half-wound windows of the cherry-red coupe as it sped down the main road behind Heldale school bus. Loud music blasted from the stereo, bass thudding so hard it rattled the empty cans in the footwell.

Ely's friends were completely unhinged now — half drunk off cheap mixers and full of wild festival adrenaline. One of the girls screamed out the window, flicking her empty can onto the roadside.

"Woo! Grendale rules, Heldale sucks!" the boy at the wheel shouted, pounding the horn like a maniac.

Sylan sat stiffly in the back seat, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes flicked from the rearview mirror to the road ahead, then back to the chaos inside the car.

Another can — this time half-full — flew from the front passenger seat and clanged against the back of the Heldale school bus just ahead of them.

"Hit it!" the girl laughed wildly. "Bulls-eye!"

"Do it again!" someone slurred.

Another can hit the back wind shield of the bus.

Students inside began turning toward the windows, confused and irritated, pressing their faces to the glass to see who was acting out.

Inside the bus, Kant sat by the window, beside Marin at the back, eyes distant—until the sharp thunk on the bus shell snapped him back.

Marin looked up, frowning. "What was that?"

Kant craned his neck to look behind. Through the rear window, he could make out the coupe, lights flashing, kids hanging out the windows, clearly drunk — and in the middle of them…

His heart skipped.

Sylan.

He wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling. He was just there , quietly sinking into the passenger seat like he didn't belong.

Back in the coupe, Sylan shifted. "Hey, maybe we should chill with the trash-throwing. People are in that bus."

"Oh, come on, Sylan," Ely giggled from behind the seat, tossing her arm over his shoulder. "They're Heldale kids. Who cares?."

"Yeah, lighten up!" the driver shouted, chucking a wrapper out the window.

Sylan leaned forward. "I'm serious. That's enough."

A few groans, some mocking chuckles. But Ely glanced at him, her buzz dimming slightly as she read his expression.

Sylan looked past her — past all of them — and locked eyes with someone.

Through the back window of the bus.

Kant was staring at him.

Both frozen, again. But this time, the distance between them was filled with something heavier than silence. Shame and maybe Regret.

And then the bus turned off down another road — and the car sped on ahead.

The eye contact broke.

But neither of them would forget it.

The laughter and music vanished in a split second.

The coupe veered sharply, tires screeching against the asphalt before slamming nose-first into a thick tree at the edge of the wooded roadside. The sound of shattering glass and crushing metal echoed through the darkness.

Kant's heart stopped. He had seen it happen—just as the Heldale school bus was preparing to turn off onto the old town road.

He leapt to his feet and rushed to the bus driver, slamming his palm on the front rail. "Stop the bus! Now! Someone just crashed!"

The students inside jolted in their seats, murmuring in confusion and worry. The driver, startled, stomped the brakes.

Before the wheels even screeched to a full stop, Kant had jumped off, sprinting down the gravel path toward the wreckage.

The red coupe was mangled at the front, smoke hissing upward into the night sky. The impact had crumpled the hood like paper. Bits of shattered headlight and beer cans littered the ground.

"Hey! Someone call emergency services!" Kant shouted behind him as he reached the wreck.

He yanked open the passenger side door. The girl in the front seat whimpered, dazed and trembling. Her forehead was cut, but she was conscious. Kant gently helped her out and propped her against a rock away from the wreck.

Other students from the bus were arriving now, crowding behind him, murmuring anxiously while some helped.

One by one, they pulled the others out — the driver, one of the girls, then Ely, still dizzy but walking.

And then—

Sylan.

He was slumped in the back seat, blood trickling from his nose, a small gash above his brow. His arm hung limply to the side, face pale and barely responsive.

"Sylan!" Kant gasped as he pulled the door open.

Without hesitation, he reached in and lifted him out, cradling him against his chest. The weight of him — too familiar, too fragile — made Kant's knees nearly buckle.

"Hey—hey, look at me," Kant whispered shakily, holding Sylan's face gently, fingers brushing the blood away. "Are you okay? Sylan? Say something. Please."

Sylan blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused, pupils slightly dilated. His lips parted but no sound came.

Sylan's eyes flicked to Kant.

And then—

He collapsed in Kant's arms, body limp.

The students began shouting around him, someone yelling for an ambulance, someone else already dialing on small mobile phones. Kant just knelt there, holding Sylan, as if willing his warmth to stay, willing him to wake back up.

The sound of sirens began to rise in the distance, but all Kant could hear was the thud of his heart and the feel of Sylan's pulse slipping too far away.