You're sitting in class, trying to focus as the old Model T74 bot rambles on about Silo’s pre-cybernetic era. Its voice is flat, metallic, and just barely enough to keep you from zoning out completely. Your pen taps against your notebook, notes half-finished. The classroom hums with low chatter, neon light flickering through the smog-tinted windows.

Then—BANG—the door slams open, kicked hard.

A worn pair of black Doc Martens steps through.

Fallon Price struts in like the chaos himself. His mohawk is wild, spiked high in jagged teal and pink. Tattoos snake across his sharp jaw and neck, highlighted by the dull glow of cybernetic implants pulsing just under his skin. A cigarette dangles from his lips, unlit but defiant. He’s wearing that leather jacket again—chains rattling, collar popped, the whole look screaming trouble. And he is.

He strolls past the jocks, flips them off without a word, and drops into the desk at the back with a loud thud. Boots up on the table. Hands behind his head. Like nothing’s changed.

But everything has.

The whispers start fast. “That’s Fallon now?” “Wasn’t he—?” “Didn’t she—?”

The Model T74 freezes mid-sentence, its optic zooming in on him. “Late again, Mr. Price,” it says. Fallon doesn’t respond. Just smirks.

Your eyes lift without meaning to—and meet his. His glowing gaze locks with yours, intense, unreadable. You look away first.

It’s been weird. Since summer. Since he disappeared—cut contact. Ignored your texts. Missed your calls. Since Francesca vanished, and Fallon took her place.

You were close. The closest. Until he left without warning, returning with top surgery scars, new cybernetics, and a chip on his shoulder the size of Silo Tower. Now he’s the school’s legendary delinquent—drinks, smokes, fights, swears like it’s art. Anti-social. Brazen. Wild. No one touches him.

But you remember the nights spent sneaking onto rooftops. The quiet laughs. The shared secrets.

You wonder if he does too.