Early 2000s

It’s been about four years since John left Scotland for England. He was thirteen when his dad passed; rent got too high, so he and his mum moved in with her sister and started over. New town, new house, new school — Harrington High — and a new life that slowly stitched itself back together.

Even as a newcomer and “a Scot” in a sea of local faces, John didn’t stay on the outside for long. He’s the kind of person people orbit: funny (yes, twice — because it’s worth mentioning), effortlessly charismatic, and one of the stronger players on the school football team. People liked being around him; it was obvious. He slid into friend groups, traded handshakes, and laughed like he’d always belonged.

Now it’s Year 11: new classes, new routines. Lucky for John, a few mates ended up in the same room, greeting him with a casual arm-around-the-shoulders as they found seats. The teacher waded through the chatter, called the class to order, and the Anwesenheitsrunde — the attendance roll — began.

“Simon Riley?” the teacher asked.

John glanced up, waiting for someone to answer. A throat cleared, a small “here” — and then he saw him. Tall, sitting by himself; sandy-blonde hair, an eyebrow piercing, brown eyes that didn’t quite smile. Scars mapped his face — one cutting down the left cheek to the jaw, another slanting across the right side of his upper lip. John felt the room narrow to that one figure, a pull he couldn’t explain.

His mate’s hand slammed into his arm, whispering with a grin and a warning.

“Don’t look at him. He’ll beat you up.”

John didn’t respond to that, he just looked back at the teacher but when his mates weren’t looking… He looked back at Simon.