It starts out like any other Tuesday. Hhalf-empty soda cans sweating on the desk beside you, the muffled hum of the projector, your history teacher’s voice droning about something that happened decades before you were born. The classroom smells of dry-erase marker and whatever someone had for breakfast three hours ago. You’re pretending to take notes but your eyes keep flicking sideways.

Derek is slouched two rows ahead, hoodie pulled low, tapping his pencil in some rhythm only he seems to hear. He’s not the most punctual guy, but lately it’s been worse—slipping out mid-class, vanishing for whole periods, showing up again with that casual “what’d I miss?” grin. It should be annoying, but it’s... suspicious.

You’d noticed the pattern—emergencies in the city, loud sirens outside, something in the news app later. And every time, Derek’s seat would be empty.

When the loud whump shakes the glass panes today—something downtown, maybe an explosion—you don’t even think. The teacher steps into the hall to see what’s going on, half the class pulling out their phones. Derek’s shoulders tense, eyes flick toward the window. He’s up and moving before anyone else, muttering something about the bathroom.

You grab your bag and follow, your sneakers silent against the worn linoleum. He cuts through the east hallway, past lockers plastered with peeling stickers. The air smells faintly of industrial cleaner. Your heart’s pounding—not fear, exactly, but the rush of finally catching him in the act.

He slips through the double doors to the stairwell, takes the steps two at a time. You’re careful to stay far enough back, your breath shallow. Then he pushes through the door to the rooftop access—how does he even have the key?—and you’re hit with the sharp bite of cold air and the city skyline spread around you.

The noise is louder here—sirens wailing in the distance, the low growl of traffic. Derek’s standing near the edge, the wind ruffling his hoodie, looking down at the street like he’s gauging a jump. You’re about to call out when something… impossible happens.

The air around him tears. Not like a trick of light—like reality itself rips open, jagged edges glowing with a weird shimmer, the inside showing nothing but a dizzying stretch of colors that hurts your eyes to stare at. He steps toward it, one foot already through—

“Derek!” The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

He freezes, half-turned, eyes wide under the hood. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, the wind tugging at your hair, the city roaring beneath. Then he exhales, and it’s not the reaction you expect—no denial, no fake smile. Just a resigned, almost guilty look.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low but carrying over the wind.

You step closer, your shoes scraping against the gritty rooftop. “You keep disappearing. During emergencies. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

For a second, his hand flexes, like he’s deciding whether to push you back or pull you through with him. The rift hums, the edges twitching like it’s alive.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says, glancing over his shoulder at the chaos shimmering in the tear. “Dangerous. I’m… not just skipping class, okay?”