Chapter 1 Davis Davis lay like a king in his realm as the morning sun sliced through the slats of the plastic window blinds over his bed. Light streamed over his body, casting a morning glow over him and fading onto the crumpled soccer jerseys, half-read comic books, and discarded energy drink cans scattered haphazardly throughout his room. At thirteen, he carried himself with the restless command of something wild and untamed, even in sleep. Splayed across the pillow was his dark brown hair, which he often styled with care, but in this moment, it was a militant halo. He was handsome; his sharp facial features and high cheekbones, dusted with a faint scattering of nearly invisible freckles, enhanced the smirk playing on his lips that bordered on contempt. His brooding eyes held a spark of raging fire. A chiseled body, developed from years of training, was evidence of his athleticism. The silence in the room felt dense, rife with tension lingering beneath the surface. It wasn't peace but, instead, the stillness that came before a catastrophe. Being a soccer prodigy wasn’t a gift. It was a burden. It was a shield raised against the pressure of expectation. This wasn’t arrogance born of ignorance. It was a defense crafted by a boy who'd felt too much, seen too much, and learned too early that kindness was a weapon as potent as hate. The cruelty he sometimes inflicted wasn’t a product of malice. It was a desperate effort to contain the unrest which lived within him. A shrill sound from the digital alarm clock broke the quiet. Its piercing cry demanded consciousness. Davis silenced it with a powerful swat and sat up slowly. The bed sheets clung to his skin like damp parchment. His shirt, plastered to his back as he stretched, gently tugged at his shoulders. He yawned and raised his arms far over his head to start his reluctant body. A faint scent of fabric softener clung to the clothes he wore. It was a strange comfort. It soothed him but tethered him to the world he couldn’t seem to avoid. The day ahead loomed, uncertain. It could be thrilling. It might be disastrous. He didn’t care. His wide eyes already scanned for the fight in it. He was a contradiction, and he knew it. Not proud of it. Not fond of it. Just true. Conflict lived inside him so fully that peace felt dangerous. Losing it meant losing himself. Feeling the pressure of the day, he took a deep breath. Then, planting his arms on the mattress, he lifted himself and stood with the cold floor pressed beneath his bare feet. Every slight shift drew a creak from the wooden boards. Each sound carved the quiet. He dropped to his knees with a thud and bent low until his cheek nearly touched the surface. Beneath his bed stretched a dim, narrow cave. It seemed undisturbed with the flecks of dust clinging to the slats above. For a moment, he stared into the darkness, waiting for his vision to adjust. Holding his breath, he reached in. His arm slid forward. His elbow nudged the floor as his fingers swept across forgotten toys, a single sock, the curled edge of a faded drawing. Something rough touched his knuckles. Burlap. Breath-catching, he pressed forward. His shoulder met the bed frame as he closed his hand around the bag, barely within reach. It was coarse and scratchy, but it felt exactly right. He pulled it from the dark. It sagged in his grip, familiar in shape and weight. Rising, he held the bag against his chest. He stood straight and looked around. The room felt smaller. It felt charged. Retrieving it had changed something. He stepped back and loosened the drawstring. The fabric rasped beneath his fingers as he opened his cache’. One by one, he removed the contents and placed them at the foot of the bed. The hand mirror came first. It was small and oval, framed in smooth, forgettable plastic. He had stolen it from the bathroom months ago. It had hung behind the cabinet door, hidden behind toothpaste and cotton balls. It had remained unseen… until it wasn’t. When his mom asked where it went, he lied. He said he dropped it. The truth was, he waited until the house was empty and took it. He claimed it like it had always belonged to him. Next came the bottle of lotion. It was nondescript, its label curling at the corners. Not long ago, he had taken it from the hallway cabinet and replaced it with an empty one. No one noticed. He didn’t like the scent, but it had become part of the process. It was familiar. It was fixed. A soft, synthetic sweetness clung to the edges of everything. The bottle sat light in his hand. It was almost toy-like, yet its presence was serious. Its original purpose no longer mattered. It belonged to this place now. Last came the razor. He didn’t acquire it from someone else. He had bought it with his own money. Coins and crumpled bills from his soccer bag had been saved over weeks. He walked to the drugstore alone, heart pounding, trying to appear like he belonged. When the cashier asked if he needed help, he shook his head and kept his eyes down. It wasn’t expensive. It felt like it should have been. The handle was polished steel. It was cool in his palm and sharper than it looked. It caught the morning light like a shard of silver. It wasn’t just any tool. It was his. It was sacred. It was honed to the edge of danger.

Its mirrored surface caught his eyes and returned them. They looked hollow. They looked like they were burning. He ran a fingertip along the blade. Cold metal met warm skin. The clash stoked the heat in his chest. He respected it completely. One slip could ruin everything. Even the smallest cut, leaving a stain on his clothing, might expose him. This was a ritual, more than a simple task. It involved setting each piece the same way. He handled them carefully. He followed a specific order. This quiet rite was his personal alchemy. It was born from fear and imagination. For him, it was a final stand for his youth. These objects were talismans. They were instruments in a war against time. They were weapons against the approaching threat of age turning him into something unrecognizable. He moved to the mirror standing in the corner, drawn by its quiet gravity. It was situated exactly where it always had been, an antique passed down from his grandmother, its wooden frame carved in swirling vine patterns. It had become part of the routine now, just as constant as the items he placed at the foot of the bed. The glass caught him mid-step, and for a second, he didn’t move. His reflection stared back at him. The relic mirror had always fascinated him with how it managed to reveal something that felt slightly removed from real life. It felt somewhat removed from him. The image presented wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t a lie either. It was a version he might keep if he fought hard enough. Now, he stood before it, wearing only his sleeping shirt and blue plaid boxers. A shiver rose through his legs as his toes shifted on the grain. His body felt oddly disconnected from the rest of the room, as if the boy in the mirror weren’t really him. Locking onto his reflection, he studied it closely, scanning for signs of the maturity he feared might be creeping in. His face was a collision of features: the angular jawline, the cheekbones that still held a trace of softness, and his dark, restless eyes burning a wisdom he hadn’t quite grown into. He looked into the mirror again. He leaned closer and exhaled. His breath fogged a portion of the glass and stopped. It was there. A faint shadow tracing the space above his lip. It was soft. Uncommitted. Barely there. But it was real. His stomach clenched. It hadn’t been there yesterday. Or maybe it had, and he hadn’t allowed himself to see it. It looked like nothing. It looked like a smudge. But it was enough. It meant something. It was a signal. A line had been crossed. He wanted to erase it. He wanted to rub it out with his thumb. He wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened and would never return. He stood frozen, just staring. The boy in the glass didn’t blink. The image didn’t breathe. He wondered if it was waiting, too. Without breaking eye contact, he reached back toward the bed and picked up the hand mirror. His fingers closed around the plastic edge with practiced care. He lifted it slowly, angling it so it reflected his jawline, then his cheek, then the spot above his lip. That blur of darkness was nearly invisible unless caught in the light just right. But it was definitely there. It was a warning. A faint smell of soap hit him. Nausea crept through his throat. Memories rushed in without consent. His mind flinched, dragging him back to the previous week. The locker room, with its slippery tile floors, the loud clang of locker doors, and the stale, humid air, carrying sweat and confidence in equal parts. The setting had once felt familiar. Now, it felt like it belonged to someone else. He remembered the victory, the shouting, and the laughter that still echoed off the walls. The boys moved through the space like they owned it. Steam rode from their skin. Voices overlapped in teasing and celebration. No one covered up. They stood naked in clusters, leaning on lockers, crowding mirrors, and talking over one another. Their bodies told different stories. Some were still boyish. Others had surged ahead. Every movement carried ease and pride. Ollie was the focus of most of the teasing. His body had developed faster than the others, and not just in the usual ways. The boys had started calling him “The Beast” because of how much further along he was and how much larger he was, compared to everyone else. Ollie took it all in stride, grinning widely as he swayed his hips, making his body move in exaggerated motions, swinging his dick back and forth like a grandfather clock pendulum. “Look at Ollie, man,” Travis said, his voice high with mock awe. “That thing’s like a weapon.” The others roared. Ollie shrugged and stepped in closer to the mirror, his grin widening. He knew exactly what they were looking at. He wasn’t ashamed. He flaunted it. Their jokes weren’t mean. They were spirited. Young men were bonding in an undefined ceremony. They were celebrating their growth like it was a game. Davis watched from the edge. He saw everything. Ollie’s muscle tone. The confident stance. The knowing eyes. What shook him wasn’t the physical difference. It was the way Ollie carried himself. No shame. No hesitation. He had accepted change. He embraced what Davis simply couldn’t. The others followed Ollie’s lead. They pointed. They laughed. They tugged at the hair on their legs, compared trails down their stomachs, and puffed out their chests like actors in a comedy with no script. They teased. They joked. They stood tall, loud, and unbothered. Jacob had stepped forward, too. He was usually quiet. Soft-spoken. But that day, he stood taller and prouder. He also had something to prove. A small patch of light-brown, downy hair under his navel darkened his torso. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He didn’t hide. He didn’t cross his arms. They teased him, but gently. Encouragingly. He laughed along. There was pride in it. Not boastful. Just proud to be seen as becoming one of them. Travis had joined in. He had laughed loudest. Thrown jabs with ease. Played the part. And something in Davis cracked. It wasn’t about modesty. It wasn’t about nudity. It was the comfort they displayed. The seamless transition to belonging. The way they had moved forward was horrifying. Davis hadn’t moved forward. He hadn’t moved at all. He defied it. He stood there with his arms folded and eyes drawn to his feet, locked in place while everyone else ran ahead. The teasing didn’t bother him. It was the voice. Travis’s voice. His tone no longer felt like it belonged to him. It belonged to them. It had shifted. It had changed, too. Davis felt the rift, quiet but sharp. What hurt most wasn’t the laughter. It was the distance. Travis, his best friend for as long as he could remember, no longer needed him the same way. The bond they’d shared seemed to be unraveling day by day. Davis didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t even know if he could. A school bus picking the kid up from across the street screeched to a halt, distracting him. He was back in his room with his mission and his solitary war. The vision of the lockers left him as abruptly as it arrived. Davis paused for a moment and took a confident breath before returning to his reflection. Determined thumbs grasped the waistband of his boxers and slid them down past his hips, gently. The thin fabric floated along his thighs and calves, settling in a pool around his ankles. The cool air on his skin was oddly grounding. He stepped out carefully and used the top of his foot to nudge the plaid fabric aside. It came to rest near the foot of the bed in a soft ripple. He stood now, bare. His heart beat hard as he faced the mirror, his eyes drawn downward, transfixed by the quiet betrayal unfolding in his groin. The specks of emerging quills, stubborn, wiry things, sprouted like tiny invaders, each one infiltrating the territory he thought was still his. They signaled the slow assault on his childhood, a place he defended constantly. Every dark hair felt like a trespass, an incursion he hadn’t agreed to. This wasn’t progress. It was a loss. His reflection stared back like an enemy. Not monstrous, not even frightening, just wrong. A counterfeit version of the boy he knew himself to be, standing on the edge of something colder, duller. Someone he didn’t recognize. Someone he never would become. He turned toward the bed, where the items lay at the foot, just as he’d arranged them. The mirror. The bottle. The razor. He reached first for the lotion. The cap clicked open with a soft pop, and the scent rose immediately, sweet and artificial, a chemical attempt at comfort. He squeezed a small amount into his palm, then began to smooth it over his lower abdomen, methodical in his movements. The cool cream spread evenly, his fingers working in small circles. The sensation was familiar but no less jarring. Like painting over something he wasn’t ready to erase. He wiped his hands carefully on a towel he’d brought over earlier. Then he reached for the razor. It rested there like something ceremonial, something that demanded more than just a motion. He picked it up slowly, wrapping his fingers around the cool handle. It felt heavier than it looked. Or maybe it was just what it meant. He returned to the mirror, the blade in his hand now. He moved slowly, carefully, guiding the blade through the thin layer of lotion. His hands, steady from years of training and control on the soccer pitch, trembled here. Not from fear of cutting himself but from the fear that he wouldn’t. That he’d do it perfectly. That he’d get used to it. He worked in silence, the room still except for the occasional soft scrape of metal against the skin. He avoided looking up. He couldn’t face the reflection just yet, not while he was in the middle of becoming something he didn’t want to be. This wasn’t like taping an ankle or tightening cleats before a match. This wasn’t preparation. This was erasure. Each swipe of the razor felt like a lie, deepening the chasm between who he was and who he pretended to be. When he finished, he wiped the blade with the towel and looked with satisfaction at the smooth, untainted skin he left behind with relief. It was another day of triumph, not loud or celebratory, but something quieter, purer. A hard-won stillness filled his chest, the kind that came from fighting off something bigger than himself, even just for a little while. The tension didn’t vanish, but it softened. Then, he lifted his gaze and faced the mirror. He saw the reflection, honestly showing him what was there and, more notably, what was not. His eyes, twin pools of obsidian, burned with a fierce, unsettling intensity, watching his reflection as if it held the answers he so desperately sought. The war within him was relentless, a battle between defiance and fear, with vulnerability lurking like a predator just beneath the surface. His body, muscular and taut but still carrying the innocence of boyhood, felt like a cruel reminder of what he needed to escape. The boyish curve of his hip, the new lines of muscle that defined his frame, and the unmistakable evidence of growth seemed to mock him. He stood there, transfixed by his reflection, surrounded by the unfamiliarity of it all. “I will never grow up,” he whispered fiercely. The words were a mantra designed to hold back time. His breath fogged up the mirror.