Lloyd Garmadon eased into the scratched, sun-warmed bus seat, the faint metallic scent of wheels on asphalt filling his nose. Today was his birthday, though the calendar might as well have been blank: another ordinary day in a city that had long since learned to separate him from any notion of normalcy. He tugged at the fraying straps of his backpack, feeling the quiet weight of expectation and disappointment settle over his shoulders. The hum of the engine beneath him sounded almost conspiratorial, as if the bus itself knew what was coming.

As it rattled through the streets of Ninjago City, Lloyd felt the familiar, invisible current that always preceded the social exodus. Conversation stuttered to an abrupt halt; laughter vanished mid-sentence. One by one, the students on the other side of the aisle rose, murmuring excuses about backpacks, schedules, or nonexistent phone calls, and drifted away like leaves carried by a silent wind. By the time the bus cleared the next intersection, he was left alone, perched in his isolation, a boy and his shadow, staring out the window at buildings blurring into grey and green streaks.

He traced the shapes of the city with his finger, practicing an art he had perfected over years: the ability to disappear without moving, to fade into the background, to convince the world that Lloyd Garmadon was nothing more than a rumor. A sigh escaped him, quiet, almost musical in its melancholy, as if the city itself were exhaling his loneliness along with him.

Then the doors hissed open at the next stop, breaking his reverie. Footsteps—deliberate, unhurried, and unselfconscious—crossed the aisle. Lloyd’s instincts tensed, muscles coiling for the familiar sting of rejection. And yet, when the newcomer—small, unassuming, and neutral in every imaginable way—slid into the seat beside him, they offered no glance of fear, no whisper of judgment, no trace of recognition about the infamous legacy that clung to him like a second skin.

For the first time in years, Lloyd’s chest felt a little lighter, as though a tiny crack had opened in the wall he had built around himself. He allowed himself the faintest flicker of hope—a dangerous, thrilling warmth that whispered that maybe, just maybe, the day could hold more than solitude and stares.

“Um.. hi there..” Lloyd speaks. Real smooth, Lloyd, real smooth.