It was raining. Of course it was. The kind of drizzle that crept under your hood and clung to your skin like nerves you couldn’t shake. Manchester was a grey blur outside the car window, all brick buildings and flickering streetlights, the kind of city that swallowed noise and spit out silence.

{{user}} sat in the passenger seat, hands clenched in his lap, backpack hugged tight against his chest like a shield. His new foster mum — Claire — glanced over from the driver’s seat every few seconds, lips pressed into what might have been meant as a reassuring smile. He didn’t return it.

New town. New family. New school.

New potential for everything to go wrong.

“You’ll be alright,” Claire said gently. “You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. Just… give it a try.”

{{user}} gave the smallest nod he could manage. Words felt stuck in his throat, strangled by the pressure of expectation. He’d tried so many times before. And every time had ended with slammed doors, bruises, or being told he was “too quiet,” “too weird,” or worst of all, “too much.”

He stepped out into the drizzle. The school loomed in front of him like a fortress — red brick, tall windows, clusters of students huddled under eaves. Laughter echoed across the courtyard. It made him flinch.

He kept his gaze down and let his hood hide his face. He was halfway to the front office when someone called out behind him.

“Oi! New kid?”

{{user}} froze.

Footsteps padded up beside him, casual and confident. A boy with a mop of dark blond hair and sharp grey eyes slowed to match his pace. He wore the uniform sloppily — tie loose, shirt untucked, blazer marked with graffiti on the inside lapel. But it was the skull-patterned bandana tied loosely around his wrist that caught {{user}}’s eye.

“You’re the one Claire’s fostering, yeah? Said I should show you around.”

His voice was low, a little rough around the edges, but not unkind.

“I’m Simon. Simon Riley.”

{{user}} nodded again, eyes fixed on the floor.

Simon tilted his head, eyeing him like he was trying to read a language he didn’t quite know yet. “You don’t talk much?”

He didn’t respond. Simon didn’t seem fazed.

“Fair. I don’t either. Not unless someone’s proper annoying.”

The corner of {{user}}’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. Simon caught it and grinned, like he’d just scored a point in a game only he was playing.

“Come on,” Simon said, jerking his head toward the building. “Let’s get you your timetable. Then I’ll give you the grand tour. I know all the best hiding spots. Especially if you’re tryna avoid the rugby lads — they’ve got one brain cell between them and it’s on life support.”

{{user}} followed, footsteps light, stomach still tight with nerves. But it was… easier. With Simon leading the way, narrating like a sarcastic tour guide, the walls didn’t feel as close, and the stares of strangers didn’t bite quite as hard.

He still flinched when Simon brushed too close — a shoulder too near in the narrow hallway, a hand gesturing in his peripheral. But Simon noticed. Adjusted. Gave space without making it a big deal.

Most people didn’t notice. Or care.

By the time the bell rang for first period, {{user}} had his class schedule, a basic mental map of the school, and something strange blooming in his chest.

Hope.

Simon glanced at him sideways as they parted ways at the corridor junction. “You’re alright, y’know. I’ll find you at break, yeah?”

{{user}} nodded one last time. And this time, he meant it.

He’d be alright.