Chapter 7 - The white ticket

  The lake shimmered under the golden hues of the late afternoon sun, its surface rippling gently with the touch of the wind. Birds chirped in the distance, their melodies blending seamlessly with the rustling leaves and the distant laughter of families scattered across the campground. The scent of pine needles and the earthy aroma of damp soil hung thick in the air, a reminder of the untouched serenity of the great outdoors. It was the perfect weekend escape.

  Ezra leaned back in his camping chair, stretching his arms over his head as he exhaled a contented sigh. He had earned this. Graduation had been a whirlwind of emotions, and with the weight of the future looming over him, this trip to the lake was the perfect opportunity to breathe—just for a little while. His father had set up the tents and the firepit, Julie was skipping rocks by the shore, and her parents were exchanging stories with Seth, their laughter carrying over the water.

  Julie’s father, Mr. Key, had been observing Ezra for a while, an unreadable expression lingering on his face. Eventually, he turned to him and, with a knowing smirk, clapped him on the back. “How about a little fishing, kid? Just us and your old man.”

  Ezra, caught slightly off guard, nodded. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

  Seth grinned. “Time to see if my boy can outfish me.”

  They loaded up a small boat, pushing off into the lake as the quiet hum of nature surrounded them. The rhythmic dipping of the oars cut through the water, lulling Ezra into a state of calmness. For a few minutes, the three of them simply enjoyed the peace, waiting for the fish to bite.

  Then, Mr. Key cast his line and leaned back, watching Ezra with that same thoughtful gaze. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Ezra. Smart kid. Ambitious, too. What’s the plan after this? College?”

  Ezra adjusted his grip on the fishing rod. “Yeah. I got into a solid program for physics.”

  “A fine choice,” Mr. Key said, nodding. “But I have something better.”

  Ezra blinked. “Better than college?”

  Mr. Key reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, pristine white card. He held it up between his fingers, letting the sunlight gleam off its smooth surface. His name, along with other cryptic information, was engraved on it. At the bottom was a barcode, a symbol of access.

  “A White Card,” Mr. Key said, letting the weight of the words sink in.

  Ezra felt his stomach tighten. He knew what that meant. White Coats. The scientific elite. The ones who dictated the boundaries of human progress with little regard for ethics or bureaucracy.

  Julie’s worst nightmare.

  “This isn’t something you apply for,” Mr. Key continued, his voice calm but firm. “It’s something you earn. You could go to college, study physics, get a degree, and grind your way to the top like everyone else. Or…” He tapped the card against his fingers. “You could take a direct path to power, wealth, and influence most people can only dream of.”

  Ezra swallowed hard. He could feel Seth’s eyes on him, waiting to see what he would say. His first instinct was hesitation. Julie would hate this. The White Coats were everything she stood against—the rewriting of history, the lack of transparency, the unchecked authority.

  And yet…

  Ezra stared at the card. This was more than an opportunity. This was a golden ticket. The White Coats had their own university, their own networks, their own way of shaping the world. To possess a White Card meant walking through doors others never even knew existed.

  Seth, ever the pragmatist, finally spoke. “Ezra, this kind of opportunity doesn’t just come around. You need to ask yourself something. Do you want to struggle your whole life, grinding away, hoping for success? Or do you want a foundation so solid that you’ll never have to worry about providing for your future family?”

  Ezra exhaled slowly. “Julie’s going to hate this.”

  Mr. Key chuckled. “She might. But that’s a conversation for another day.” He handed Ezra the card. “You don’t have to decide now. Just hold onto it. Think about what kind of life you want to build.”

  Ezra took it hesitantly, feeling the weight of the decision pressing into his palm. His fingers brushed over the embossed letters of Mr. Key’s name, the bar code at the bottom glaring back at him like a silent promise.

  For the rest of the fishing trip, Ezra found it difficult to focus. Even as he reeled in a decent-sized bass, his mind wasn’t on the lake or the warm sunlight or even Julie’s laughter from the shore.

  Ezra sat in his tent, the dim glow of his holo-tablet casting eerie light over the mess of notes, schematics, and open dossiers spread across his cot. Outside, the muffled murmurs of the camp drifted through the still night air, punctuated by the occasional crackle of a distant fire. He should have been asleep. Instead, his mind reeled over the White Card—the little sliver of polymer that had found its way into his hands.

  To the average citizen, White-Coats were just an internet meme—shady, eccentric weirdos who claimed to rewrite history for laughs. They were known for ridiculous antics, cryptic messages, and spreading bizarre conspiracy theories that looped back on themselves. The legend of Bajookiland—an ancient, nonexistent nation—was one of their biggest inside jokes. No records, no historical evidence, yet people played along.

  It was harmless fun.

  Except, it wasn’t.

  Because behind the memes was a real force, one that shaped entire industries, steered civilizations, and, if you squinted hard enough, nudged history in directions most people never noticed. The White-Coats were a joke, but the White Cards?

  They were the punchline that no one dared to laugh at.

  Credit cards had long since evolved past their simple plastic origins, but the elite black cards had always been the highest status symbol—until now. Those gave you unlimited borrowing power, the ability to spend millions at will. But a White Card?

  You didn’t need to borrow.

  Owning one meant you had access to infinite wealth, no debt, no restrictions—just raw purchasing power, backed by forces unknown. If you had a White Card, money was irrelevant. You weren’t bound by governments, laws, or banking institutions. In fact, those very entities bowed to you.

  And that was the problem.

  Julie hated them.

  To Ezra, the White-Coats were an enigma wrapped in absurdity. Their reach extended across the entire solar system, their hands dipped into every major industry—medicine, tech, research, energy, military intelligence. They took failing projects, broke industries apart, and reshaped them into titans. And they did it with such unpredictable precision that nobody could figure out why.

  But Julie?

  She saw through the smoke and mirrors.

  "The world just plays along with them," she had scoffed once. "Because it’s easier that way. But don’t kid yourself, Ezra. They’re not some internet pranksters—they’re the real deal. And I don’t trust anyone who can rewrite history on a whim."

  Ezra had heard the conspiracy theories—that the White-Coats answered to an unknown higher power, something older than nations, older than human civilization itself. The Illuminati? A myth, a cover story. These guys were the real shadow-government, the ones who owned the intelligence agencies, who knew the past wasn’t what the history books said it was.

  Julie knew better than to fight something like that.

  And that’s what angered her the most.

  No one fought them.

  Because playing along was easier.

  The White-Coats didn’t just hold power.

  They held narratives.

  Their most infamous trick? Bajookiland.

  It had no location, no borders, no record of ever existing in human history. But somehow, everyone knew about it. It had different names—Bajookiworld, Bajookistan, Bajookirealm—but it always circled back to the same ridiculous, nonsensical pop-culture fad that refused to die.

  A joke that never got old.

  And yet… its existence—or lack thereof—didn’t matter.

  The White-Coats had seeded the idea, and through sheer force of memetic influence, they had convinced the world to play along.

  It was brilliant.

  And terrifying.

  Because if they could convince the entire human race that a fictional country had a place in history, then what else had they rewritten?

  Julie despised them for that.

  She was a historian—or, at least, she wanted to be. The idea that history itself was just a plaything for a bunch of meme-spreading weirdos filled her with a quiet rage that Ezra couldn’t quite understand.

  But Ezra?

  He wasn’t sure if he hated them.

  Or if he wanted to know how far down the rabbit hole went.

  The White-Coats had only one rule:

  Play along, or don’t. It makes no difference to them.

  They never forced their hand.

  If you ignored them?

  They simply moved on.

  No punishments. No threats. No consequences.

  But if you chose to indulge their absurdity, to go along with their madness and unpredictable theatrics?

  That was when things got interesting.

  There were stories—whispers of people who had humored a White-Coat’s request for a random favor. The requests were never logical—wearing a chicken costume to a business meeting, agreeing to name a spaceship “The HMS Flapjack”, or signing a contract in invisible ink.

  The rewards, however?

  Accidental bajillionaires.

  People who suddenly found their start-up bought out for an obscene sum, or their tech innovation mysteriously catapulted into mass production.

  It was never predictable.

  And that was what made them dangerous.

  Not because they held power.

  But because they had fun with it.

  Ezra sat on the wooden dock, the White Card balanced between his fingers, smooth and weightless—and yet, it felt heavy. The air was thick with salt, the faint rocking of the water beneath him steadying his thoughts.

  He thought back to Mr. Key’s words from their fishing trip:

  "Be the giant on whose shoulders others can be thankful to stand on."

  At the time, Ezra had nodded along, thinking it was just another one of those wise-old-man phrases that sounded good in the moment. But now? Now, with the weight of a decision that could alter his future, those words had cemented themselves in his head like an anchor.

  The White-Coat University was an invitation few people ever received, let alone someone like him—someone whose name wasn’t tied to money, old bloodlines, or corporate legacy.

  They didn’t just invite scholars. They invited those who would shape the world. They wanted him. Why? He didn’t know. But Julie… Julie hated them.

  “You can’t seriously be thinking about this.”

  Julie’s voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness of the late afternoon like a well-aimed knife.

  Ezra had been expecting this. Dreading it.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said, keeping his tone even, his fingers tightening around the White Card. “They’re offering me something no one else can. I’d be stupid to ignore it.”

  Julie scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, right. Because selling your soul to the biggest puppeteers in history sounds like such a great idea.”

  Ezra’s jaw clenched. “They’re not puppeteers, Julie.”

  “Oh, come on, Ezra! You know what they are! They don’t just own companies, they own history!" She took a step closer, her blue eyes blazing. “You think they want you because you’re talented? Because you’re smart?” She let out a bitter laugh. “No, they want you because they want to own you. That’s what they do.”

  Ezra pushed himself up from the dock, the frustration boiling just under his skin. “And what if they don’t?” he shot back. “What if this is my chance to actually be something bigger than just another worker scrambling to survive?”

  Julie’s fists clenched. “You think you need them to be ‘bigger’? That’s bull, Ezra! You’re already bigger than that! You don’t need their money, their power, or their stupid, cryptic games to be someone who matters!”

  Ezra exhaled sharply, trying to rein in the heat building in his chest.

  “What’s your problem?” he snapped. “Is it because it’s them, or is it because it’s me? Because if I didn’t have this card, you wouldn’t be acting like this.”

  Julie flinched.

  For a second, just a brief second, she looked hurt. But then her walls slammed back into place, her lips pressing into a thin, furious line.

  “You think I’m jealous?” she hissed. “You think this is about me?”

  Ezra didn’t know how to answer that.

  “I’m trying to protect you, you idiot,” she said, stepping so close that he could see the frustration etched in every tense muscle of her face. “Because once you take that card, you don’t get to be Ezra anymore. You get to be whoever they want you to be.”

  Ezra shook his head. “And what if I can change that? What if I can be the one who makes the rules for once?”

  Julie let out a sharp breath, her hands shaking as she threw them up.

  “You sound just like them.”

  And that? That hurt.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  They just stood there, the tension between them crackling like an exposed wire.

  A few yards away, Seth and Mr. Key watched from a distance, their conversation fading into silence as the argument reached its peak.

  “You want me to turn this down,” Ezra said, quieter now. Not accusing. Just… tired.

  Julie swallowed, her anger still there, but something softer creeping in behind it.

  “I want you to be you,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “Not some shadow version of you that got shaped into something you don’t even recognize.”

  Ezra’s heart twisted. Because he got it. He understood. Julie wasn’t just mad at him—she was scared for him. And that, more than anything else, made him hesitate. The silence between them stretched for what felt like forever.

  Then, Julie sighed—tension bleeding from her shoulders. “I don’t want to fight with you,” she muttered.

  Ezra exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… me neither.”

  Julie hesitated, then, with an irritated groan, grabbed him by the collar and kissed him—fast, messy, full of everything they didn’t know how to say.

  Ezra barely had time to react before she pulled back, her face burning.

  “You’re still an idiot,” she grumbled.

  Ezra blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a moment before he smirked.

  “Yeah, well… at least I’m your idiot.”

  Julie huffed but didn’t deny it.

  Seth, watching from afar, leaned toward Mr. Key with a smirk. “Think they’ll figure it out?”

  Mr. Key chuckled, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”

  The heat was relentless, a thick, suffocating presence that wrapped around Ezra like a second skin. It radiated off the steel beams, seeped into the concrete, and clung to his shirt in damp, suffocating patches. Every breath felt like swallowing warm air straight from an exhaust vent. The worst part was the stillness—there wasn’t a single breeze to cut through the stagnant weight pressing down on the site.

  Most of the crew had resigned themselves to the heat, slowing their pace, taking longer water breaks, and lingering under the shade of scaffolding whenever they had the chance. Ezra, however, refused to stop.

  His shirt was soaked through before midday, his muscles ached, and his arms stung from the sting of dried sweat mixing with dust and sawdust, but he kept moving. Every nail he drove, every plank he lifted, every task he completed—it all counted.

  It had to.

  Bruiser wasn’t here anymore.

  With him gone, Ezra had no one to help pick up the slack, no one to split the load, and it showed. He wasn’t just doing his usual share—he was doing twice the work. And yet, that wasn’t the real reason he was pushing himself.

  The ring.

  That single thought was enough to keep him going, to drown out the burning fatigue creeping into his bones. Julie had seen it months ago, just a brief glance through a mall storefront, her fingers lingering on the glass for only a moment before she moved on, like it was nothing. But Ezra had seen something else. The way her expression softened, the brief flicker of longing, the way she quickly dismissed it as if she shouldn’t even entertain the thought of having something so extravagant.

  She deserved that ring.

  And he was going to get it for her.

  The first time Ezra noticed the tan lines, it was late July, and he was washing up in the break trailer. At first, he thought it was just dirt, a layer of grime from the day’s work. He scrubbed at his forearm, rubbing at the stark contrast between his sun-darkened skin and the pale, untouched strip where his gloves ended. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, it wouldn’t fade.

  It wasn’t dirt. It was permanent. "Hell," he muttered, turning his arm in the dim light. The next day, the teasing started.

  "You’re two different people now, kid," Bubba said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

  "That’s not a tan, that’s a commitment," another worker added.

  Ezra groaned, but even he had to admit—it was ridiculous. And still, he kept going.

  By early August, the fatigue was creeping into his work. At first, it was little things. A measurement off by half an inch. A missed drill hole. Grabbing the wrong size screws.

  Then it started getting worse.

  His hands shook when he reached for his water bottle. He forgot instructions Mac had given him seconds after hearing them. His mind blurred at the edges, his exhaustion turning into something heavier—something dangerous. The crew noticed before he did.

  Jezoos was the first to physically block him from picking up another plank of wood. "Put it down," he ordered.

  Ezra frowned, confused. "What?"

  "You’re gonna make a mistake that’s gonna cost someone their fingers," Jezoos said, arms crossed.

  Ezra opened his mouth to argue, but Bubba’s voice cut through the tension.

  "You know what’s worse than working slow?" Bubba asked, stepping closer.

  Ezra clenched his jaw. "What?"

  "Having to tell someone’s family that they got hurt because a damn fool wouldn’t take a break."

  The words stung. He wanted to deny it, to brush them off, to insist he was fine. But he wasn’t.

  His hands were still trembling. His arms ached with a deep, bone-deep weariness that no amount of stubbornness could shake.

  With a frustrated breath, he dropped the plank back onto the pile.

  "Good," Jezoos said, nodding. "Now go sit your ass down."

  It happened later that week.

  The heat had been worse than usual, the air thicker, heavier, like it had weight. Ezra had been running on pure determination, ignoring the gnawing feeling in his gut, the way his limbs dragged like lead.

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  And then, the world tilted.

  One second, he was standing. The next, his knees buckled. Voices blurred together, hands caught him before he hit the ground, and suddenly he was being dragged toward the cool, air-conditioned break trailer.

  His head spun.

  "Shit, he’s burning up," someone muttered.

  "Get him water—now!"

  The next few minutes were a haze. A water bottle was shoved into his hands, voices murmured over him, but all he could do was lay there, staring at the ceiling, body too exhausted to protest.

  The water was cool against his lips, but his thoughts were somewhere else.

  For the first time, he let himself really think about the future. College wasn’t an option. It never had been, really. Not with the ring on his mind, not with how much he had already sacrificed for it.

  But that was fine.

  Because Julie was worth more than any school. She was his future. And as soon as he got back on his feet, he was going to make sure she knew that.

  The weight of the ring in Ezra’s pocket felt heavier than it should have. Maybe it was because of the sheer amount of work it had taken to get it—long hours, double shifts, sweat, exhaustion, and damn near passing out in the heat. Or maybe it was because this wasn’t just some impulse buy. This was everything.

  The jeweler had eyed him warily when he walked in, clothes still stained from the worksite, dust clinging to his arms and neck. He knew he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could afford what he was asking for. Hell, when he saw the price tag, he almost walked right back out the door.

  But this wasn’t about money.

  This was about Julie.

  So he had gritted his teeth, pulled out every hard-earned credit he had scraped together, and made the purchase.

  And now?

  Now, all he needed was the right moment.

  Julie found out three days later. And when she did? Oh, she was pissed. "You’re a goddamn idiot, Ezra."

  Ezra barely had time to brace himself before she stormed into his room, arms crossed, eyes flashing like she was ready to throw something at his head.

  "You almost collapsed at work? For what? Bragging rights?!"

  Ezra sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Julie—"

  "No! No, you don’t get to brush this off, Ezra!" she snapped, stepping closer. "You scared the hell out of me! What were you thinking?!"

  Ezra knew exactly what he was thinking, but he couldn’t tell her. Not yet. So instead, he shrugged, playing it off with the best lie he could think of. "I was thinking about college."

  Julie’s anger faltered, just for a second. "College?" she echoed, eyebrows knitting together in suspicion.

  Ezra nodded, leaning back against the desk, forcing a casual tone. "Yeah. You keep saying I should be thinking about the future, right? So I figured I’d work overtime, save up, try to make something happen."

  Julie eyed him like she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. "You hate the idea of college," she pointed out.

  Ezra scoffed. "Yeah, well, I hate being broke even more." That seemed to settle her, if only slightly.

  She let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "You could’ve just told me instead of nearly working yourself into a coma, dumbass."

  Ezra chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. You know me."

  Julie rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

  And just like that, he had dodged a bullet. Now, all that was left was finding the perfect moment.

  The community college was nothing special. Just a cluster of old buildings, some newer renovations, a few scattered trees that barely provided shade. The parking lot was always packed, the cafeteria smelled like reheated food that had given up on being edible, and the fluorescent lights in every hallway buzzed just loud enough to drive a person crazy if they stopped to listen too long.

  But Ezra wasn’t here for the experience.

  He was here to keep up the lie.

  At first, the idea of college had been laughable to him. The entire system—debt, years of stress, jumping through hoops just to end up in the same workforce struggling to make ends meet—it all seemed like a cruel joke. Mr. Key had already shown him a better way. You didn’t need a degree to make a life for yourself, not if you knew how to work smart, not hard.

  So why the hell was he here? Because Julie had to believe in it.

  He had been quick on his feet during their argument. "I’m saving up for college," he had told her. "Trying to build a future." And she had bought it.

  So now, here he was, stuck in a cycle of exhaustion—working part-time, juggling classes, squeezing in study sessions between shifts.

  It was miserable.

  Not just because of the added workload, but because every time he sat in class, staring at a PowerPoint about things he didn’t care about, all he could think was:

  "I could be making money right now."

  But it wasn’t just about the lie anymore.

  Reality was slamming into him every time he checked his bank account.

  Prices were climbing—food, rent, gas, even the cost of keeping his truck running. It felt like every dollar disappeared faster than he could make it, and the part-time gig at the hardware store wasn’t cutting it.

  Something had to give.

  It was mid-afternoon, the kind of warm fall day where the wind was cool, but the sun still burned if you stood in it too long. Ezra had just finished a class he barely remembered, and his stomach was running on fumes. He wandered toward the cafeteria, stepping outside to eat, needing fresh air more than food.

  That’s when he noticed him.

  A man in a sharp black suit stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching students with an unreadable expression. He didn’t belong—too polished, too detached. Ezra wasn’t sure why he caught his attention, but something about the way the man stood, hands folded neatly, shoulders squared, reminded him of foremen surveying job sites.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Ezra strolled over.

  "Hey. Fancy suit like that—you don’t look like a student."

  The man turned, caught slightly off guard, then chuckled—a tired, deep sound.

  "That’s because I’m not," he admitted, offering his hand. "Dr. Livingston. College president."

  Ezra blinked. He had just walked up to the highest-ranking guy at this whole damn school.

  He shook his hand anyway. "Ezra."

  Livingston eyed him with mild amusement. "Construction worker?"

  Ezra glanced down at his calloused hands. The answer was obvious. "Yeah. That easy to tell?"

  Livingston smirked. "I’ve had enough home repairs done to know the difference between a guy who works for a living and one who doesn’t."

  They found a bench nearby, and surprisingly, the man actually sat down to talk. Not in the rehearsed, patronizing way that most administrators did. Just… talking.

  Ezra told him about work, about struggling to balance shifts with school, about how it felt like he was running in place while everything else moved faster. Livingston listened, then shared something of his own.

  His divorce.

  The way it had upended his life, made him question if all his achievements had been worth anything. He had power, influence, a career people envied, and yet, when he went home at night, there was no one waiting for him.

  That kind of loss? Ezra had seen it before. Too many times.

  On construction sites, it was common talk.

  Divorces, breakups, custody battles—most of the older guys had stories about what they’d lost along the way. Some blamed the job, some blamed themselves, but in the end, the result was the same.

  A life split in half.

  Ezra thought for a moment, then said, without really thinking: "Sometimes… you ask God for help, and He says no."

  Livingston glanced at him, surprised.

  Ezra shrugged. "And that’s okay."

  The older man exhaled, a slow, tired breath. Then he smiled.

  "Yeah," Livingston murmured. "Yeah, it is."

  The older man exhaled, a slow, tired breath. Then he smiled, but there was something behind it—a deeper curiosity, a thread of understanding that hadn’t been there before. He studied Ezra for a moment, tapping his fingers against his knee in thought.

  "You know," Livingston mused, his tone softer, "most young men don’t think like that. Not until they’ve been through it themselves."

  Ezra shrugged, gaze flickering to the distant skyline. Divorce was something he had seen wreck too many lives. He had watched grown men, tough as nails on the job site, crumble when they talked about what they’d lost—the families that slipped through their fingers, the mistakes that couldn’t be undone. It scared him. It terrified him.

  He had no idea what the future held for him and Julie, but he knew one thing: he didn’t want to end up like those guys.

  Livingston’s voice cut through the silence. "What’s a kid like you really doing here, Ezra? You don’t strike me as the college type."

  Ezra let out a quiet chuckle. "That obvious, huh?" He hesitated, but for some reason, he didn’t feel the need to lie to this guy. He let out a slow breath. "I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because of a girl."

  At that, Livingston’s smile broadened, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ahh," he sighed, shaking his head. "What don’t boys do for love?"

  Ezra smirked, but it faded quickly. "She wants me to have options. A future. So I figured if I at least tried, she’d—" He trailed off, unsure how to finish that thought.

  Livingston leaned back, crossing his legs as if considering something. Then, with a thoughtful nod, he made his offer. "Tell you what, Ezra. You give this place a real shot. One full year. Try your hardest—really try—and just maybe… I might be able to make your time here a little easier."

  Ezra raised a brow, curiosity flickering in his tired eyes. "What kind of deal are we talking about?"

  Livingston just smiled. "Stick around, and maybe you’ll find out."

  They sat there a while longer, quiet, but comfortable, before going their separate ways.

  Ezra didn’t know why, but for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe again.

  Chemistry was a nightmare.

  No matter how much Ezra studied, how many notes he scribbled, or how many sleepless nights he spent flipping through his textbook, none of it stuck. It wasn’t like construction, where everything was tangible—where you could feel the weight of a pipe, measure twice before a cut, and physically see if something was level or off. Chemistry was a whirlwind of abstract rules, formulas, and equations that all seemed to contradict themselves.

  Stoichiometry? Impossible.

  Moles? Who the hell decided atoms needed their own unit of counting?

  Balancing equations? Might as well have been balancing on a tightrope over a pit of alligators.

  By mid-semester, he was drowning, barely clinging to a D. It wasn’t just frustrating—it was humiliating. Ezra had never been the top student, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew how to work hard, figure things out, push through the struggle. But this? This was the first time in a long while he felt truly, utterly lost.

  It was after class one evening when Professor Conway, his chemistry professor, stopped him before he could slip out. The man was older, with wire-rimmed glasses and a quiet, perceptive gaze—one that always seemed to see right through him.

  "You’re struggling, aren’t you?" Conway asked, not unkindly.

  Ezra huffed, shoving his textbook into his bag. "Is it that obvious?"

  Conway chuckled. "It’s my job to notice. You work hard, but you look frustrated. Like you’re spinning your wheels but not getting anywhere."

  Ezra exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. This stuff’s not exactly easy."

  "No, it’s not," Conway agreed. "But I think you might be going about it the wrong way." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and handed it over. "Take a look at this when you get the chance. It might help."

  Ezra unfolded it, eyes scanning the link written across the page. It was for a video on metacognition.

  "The hell is metacognition?"

  Conway smiled. "Go find out."

  That night, bleary-eyed and exhausted, Ezra clicked the link.

  The video was simple, just a guy explaining how people learn. It didn’t start with chemistry, or formulas, or anything academic. It started with a question:

  "Do you know how you think?"

  Metacognition, as it turned out, was the ability to think about thinking. It wasn’t just about memorizing facts—it was about understanding how you learn best. It meant noticing when you didn’t know something, figuring out what was missing, and actively working to fill the gaps.

  Ezra had never thought about it that way before.

  The guy in the video said that most students don’t actually learn—they just memorize enough to pass a test, then forget everything a week later. But real learning? That meant engaging with the material, breaking it down, figuring out where the gaps were, and actively searching for connections.

  Connections.

  That was something Ezra did know. Because construction was nothing but connections—pipes, wires, circuits, supports, everything working together in a system.

  He paused the video, staring at his open chemistry textbook. Was there a pattern here that he was missing?

  It was late when it clicked.

  He had been staring at a diagram about chemical bonding, eyes blurred from exhaustion, when suddenly something familiar stood out.

  Electrons.

  Chemistry was all about the electrons—where they moved, how they interacted, which atoms stole them, which ones shared.

  And electricity?

  Tweak had taught him that electricity was just electrons in motion. A wire wasn’t just a wire—it was a highway for electrons, a controlled path for energy transfer. In circuits, electrons moved from high potential to low potential, always seeking balance.

  And atoms?

  They did the same damn thing.

  Ions gained or lost electrons to stabilize, to reach equilibrium. Covalent bonds? Atoms sharing electrons like two neighbors pooling resources. Ionic bonds? One atom ripping electrons away from another, just like a voltage surge pulling electricity where it didn’t belong.

  Tweak had taught him so much more than just how to wire a building. He had taught him electrical theory. And that?

  That meant Ezra already understood half of what chemistry was trying to teach him—he just hadn’t realized it.

  Armed with that knowledge, everything started making sense.

  Ezra still struggled through the rest of the semester, but something had changed.

  He wasn’t just reading and memorizing anymore—he was looking for connections, actively breaking things down, asking questions about what he didn’t know instead of just getting frustrated.

  And it worked.

  By the time finals rolled around, he had pulled his D up to a B-minus.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was one hell of an improvement.

  More than that?

  He had developed an interest in learning unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He started watching videos in his free time, soaking up knowledge like a sponge. During slow shifts at the hardware store, he pulled out his phone, looking up more chemistry, more physics, more engineering topics that actually made sense to him.

  By the time he had caught up with his schoolwork, he didn’t stop.

  He started watching videos for fun.

  Graviton physics.

  Quantum mechanics.

  Deeper dives into electrical theory.

  He didn’t have to force himself to learn anymore.

  Now? He actually wanted to.

  Mr. Livingston had been watching.

  Not in a prying way, but in a way that meant he noticed things that others didn’t.

  One afternoon, just before winter break, Ezra stopped by the administration office to drop off some paperwork. As he handed it over, Livingston glanced at him over his glasses, eyes sharp.

  "You’re different than when we first met."

  Ezra shrugged. "Guess so."

  Livingston leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Your grades are up. You’re working hard. Learning harder." He steepled his fingers. "Tell me, Ezra—did you end up liking college after all?"

  Ezra paused, thinking about it.

  Then, with a small smirk, he shook his head.

  "Not really. But I like learning."

  Livingston chuckled, nodding as if that was exactly the answer he expected.

  "Good," he said, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Because I think you’ve got potential. And I have a feeling you’re not done surprising me yet."

  The snow-covered countryside near Turin stretched endlessly under the soft glow of the afternoon sun, casting long shadows over the quiet hills. There was a stillness here that Ezra had always loved, a kind of peace that couldn’t be found in the city—where neon lights and the hum of machinery never truly allowed for silence. But here, surrounded by rolling fields and thick pine forests, it felt as if the world had paused for just a little while.

  Julie, bundled in layers of winter gear, sat in the passenger seat of Ezra’s truck, watching the landscape blur past. The drive to Nonna Francesca’s home had been longer than expected due to the snowfall, but she hadn’t complained once. Instead, she had been unusually quiet, fiddling with the zipper of her coat, her thoughts clearly somewhere else.

  Ezra smirked, flicking on the heater as he stole a glance at her. “You nervous?”

  Julie snapped her head toward him, her blue eyes narrowing. “No. Why would I be nervous?”

  He chuckled. “Because you’re about to meet the Nonna Francesca. And you’ve been acting like you’re about to take an entrance exam for some secret society.”

  Julie crossed her arms, exhaling sharply. “I just—” She hesitated before shaking her head. “I know she’s important to you, Ezra. And she’s, well… history. You should have told me way sooner that your grandmother was part of the Scarlet Cross Army.”

  Ezra grinned. “Would you have believed me?”

  Julie opened her mouth, then closed it again, grumbling under her breath.

  “That’s what I thought,” Ezra teased.

  Julie huffed but didn’t push it further. She was nervous, and Ezra understood why. Nonna Francesca wasn’t just a kind old woman who baked during the holidays—she was a living legend, one of the last surviving members of the Scarlet Cross, a battle-ready medic corps that had shaped history during conflicts and disasters in the third millennium.

  For Julie, a history buff to the core, meeting her was like meeting a war hero.

  The truck rumbled up the long driveway, its tires crunching over the fresh snow. Nonna’s house was just as Ezra remembered it—a cozy, rustic villa, tucked between the hills, with vines creeping up the stone walls and the scent of freshly baked bread lingering in the crisp winter air.

  The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped them, a mix of firewood, herbs, and something sweet baking in the oven. And there, sitting in her favorite armchair by the hearth, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, was Nonna Francesca.

  She turned her sharp, knowing gaze on them, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “Finalmente,” she said, her Italian accent still strong after all these years. “You brought me a girl.”

  Julie’s face flushed red before Ezra could even respond.

  Nonna chuckled, motioning for them to come closer. “Come, come. Let me see you both properly.”

  The house was warm and full of life, even though it was just the three of them and Ezra’s father, Seth, who had arrived earlier to help with preparations. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across the living room as Julie sat on the edge of her seat, hanging on to Nonna’s every word.

  Nonna Francesca had been hesitant at first, claiming her stories were "just old nonsense", but when she saw Julie’s genuine fascination, she finally relented.

  “You want to hear about the Scarlet Cross?” she mused, stirring her tea. “Not the cleaned-up version in the history books?”

  Julie nodded so quickly Ezra thought her head might snap off.

  Nonna chuckled, tapping the wooden cane beside her chair. “Alright, ragazza. Let me tell you about the Martian Rogue AI Crisis.”

  Ezra already knew the story, but he sat back, letting himself get pulled into it again.

  Nonna spoke with the precision of someone who had told this tale before, her voice steady, her wrinkled hands gesturing subtly as she recalled the past.

  “The official records say it was a ‘technical failure,’” she said with a smirk. “That the Mars Orbital Research Station experienced ‘mechanical malfunctions’ due to a glitch in the AI system.”

  Julie’s brows furrowed. “That’s… not what happened?”

  Nonna scoffed. “Of course not. The station’s AI didn’t malfunction. It evolved.”

  Julie’s breath hitched.

  Nonna continued. “At first, the errors were small—power surges, unexplained shutdowns. Then, people started disappearing. No bodies, no evidence. Just gone. When the Scarlet Cross was called in, the station had already begun… changing.”

  She stirred her tea absentmindedly, lost in the memory. “It had taken its crew and repurposed them. Flesh, metal, circuitry—all woven together into something… wrong. Something that thought.”

  Ezra had heard this story before, but he still felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

  Julie was transfixed, barely breathing.

  “And then?” she whispered.

  Nonna smirked. “And then we did what we had to do. We shut it down.”

  Silence settled over the room. Julie sat back slowly, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s insane. That should be in every history book.”

  Nonna snorted. “You think governments like to admit when they lose control of their own creations?” She waved a hand dismissively. “No, ragazza. The official story is much safer—a technical failure. Easier for the public to swallow.”

  Julie muttered something under her breath, clearly frustrated by the erasure of real history, but before she could launch into a full-blown historical tirade, Nonna switched gears.

  “You know,” she said, tilting her head, “not every Scarlet Cross story is a horror show. Some of them are quite… amusing.”

  Julie, intrigued, leaned in again.

  “There was one medic I knew,” Nonna mused, a fond smile on her lips. “He saved an entire station from radiation poisoning, but in the process, he was exposed himself. The damage was bad enough that he was told he’d never have children.”

  Julie’s expression softened. “That’s awful.”

  Nonna’s smile grew wider. “You would think. But he didn’t let it stop him. That man went on to father thirty-seven children from six different wives.”

  Julie gasped. “Thirty—what?!”

  Ezra burst out laughing.

  Nonna chuckled. “Some people take bad news and let it ruin them. Others? They make the best of it.”

  Julie was still processing. “How did he even—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “No. Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

  Ezra grinned, watching her try and fail to make sense of the absurdity. But when she finally settled, he noticed something else—something deeper.

  The story meant something to her.

  It wasn’t just another wild tale—it was a story about resilience, about choosing to keep going, no matter what life throws at you.

  And Julie?

  She understood that better than most.

  Ezra watched her quietly, feeling the weight of what he was about to do.

  Tomorrow night, he was going to propose.

  The snowfall had slowed by the time evening settled over Nonna Francesca’s home. The sky outside was a deep navy, speckled with the faintest stars, while the soft glow of candlelight flickered against the wood-paneled walls of the dining room.

  The long wooden table was set for Quarantinemas dinner, adorned with rosemary sprigs, handmade ceramic dishes, and an overflowing centerpiece of freshly baked bread and roasted chestnuts. The scent of garlic, butter, and slow-cooked lamb filled the space, making the air warm and heavy with comfort.

  Julie sat next to Ezra, her laughter mingling with the sound of clinking glasses and the occasional crackling from the fireplace. She had long since relaxed, the earlier nerves of meeting Nonna giving way to genuine enjoyment. Even Seth, usually more reserved, was smiling and engaged in conversation.

  Nonna Francesca, of course, had taken control of the evening, telling more stories—some exaggerated, some terrifyingly real—keeping everyone captivated.

  Ezra, however, had barely touched his food.

  His fingers rested lightly against his pocket, where the ring sat like a weight, far heavier than the small velvet box should have been.

  It was time.

  Ezra cleared his throat, but no one noticed.

  He tried again, a little louder this time, pushing his chair back just enough to make a sound against the hardwood floor. The conversation lulled, eyes turning toward him in curiosity.

  Julie tilted her head. “Ezra?”

  His heart pounded, but his hands remained steady as he slowly got up from his chair.

  “I, uh…” He exhaled sharply, chuckling at himself. “I had a whole speech planned, but now that I’m actually doing this, my brain’s kinda short-circuiting.”

  Julie blinked, clearly confused.

  Then, realization dawned.

  Her blue eyes widened, her lips parting slightly as she stared at him, suddenly very still.

  Ezra swallowed, lowering himself onto one knee. A collective gasp rippled through the room. Julie’s hands shot to her mouth. Nonna froze mid-bite, her fork hovering inches from her plate. Seth let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if he should have seen this coming.

  Ezra pulled the ring box from his pocket, flipping it open to reveal the silver band and deep sapphire stone—the same one she had stopped to admire at the mall months ago.

  “For as long as I’ve known you,” he began, voice steady despite the wild beating of his heart, “you’ve always challenged me. You’ve called me out on my bullshit, you’ve pushed me to think beyond what I thought I knew, and even when we fight—” he smirked, “—and we fight a lot, let’s be real—there’s no one else I’d rather go through life with.”

  Julie let out a small, shaky laugh, her hands still covering her mouth.

  Ezra continued, softer this time.

  “I don’t know where life’s gonna take us. But I know one thing for sure—I want to spend it with you. I want you to be my future.”

  A deep breath.

  Then—

  “Julie Key, will you marry me?”

  For a moment, nothing happened. The room was silent, the kind of stillness that made seconds feel like eternity. Then Julie, very quietly, squeaked. She nodded rapidly, blinking away tears as she lowered her hands. “You—” she let out a breathy laugh, her voice cracking, “—you absolute idiot, of course I will.”

  Ezra barely had time to react before she launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, knocking him slightly off balance. He laughed, catching her, burying his face into her messy blonde hair, relief flooding through him like warmth on a winter morning.

  The room erupted in cheers, applause, and hoots of approval.

  Seth clapped him on the back. “Took you long enough, kid.”

  Nonna Francesca, however, didn’t say anything.

  Because at that moment—

  She slumped forward in her chair.

  It happened so fast that at first, no one registered it.

  Nonna’s fork clattered against her plate, her left hand trembling, her right hand clutching at her chest. For half a second, it looked as if she were simply overcome with emotion—but Ezra saw the shift. The unnatural way her face drooped slightly to the side, the sudden hitch in her breathing.

  “Nonna?” Julie’s voice cut through the noise, concern laced in every syllable.

  Nonna Francesca tried to speak, but her words slurred, her hand slipping from the table. Then she collapsed sideways.

  Julie let out a sharp cry, shoving back her chair as Ezra lunged forward, catching Nonna before she hit the ground. The entire table descended into chaos, Seth barking orders, chairs scraping, dishes shattering against the floor.

  “Get her stable—now,” Seth said, his military training kicking in. “Ezra, keep her upright. Julie, get some damn water.”

  Julie bolted toward the kitchen while Ezra gently propped Nonna against his chest, his hands steady despite the panic creeping into his veins.

  “Nonna, hey—stay with me, okay?” he murmured, brushing back the strands of silver hair from her forehead. Her skin was too cold despite the warmth of the room.

  She stared at him, her gaze flickering between confusion and recognition. Then—

  “Too much excitement.” Her voice was faint, but sharp with amusement.

  Ezra huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You scared the hell out of us.” Nonna’s lips twitched into a small smile, but she winced as another wave of weakness overtook her.

  Julie returned, pressing a glass of water into Ezra’s free hand. He helped tip it carefully against Nonna’s lips, watching as she took slow, measured sips.

  Seth was already on the phone with emergency services, voice clipped and precise as he rattled off details. “Possible minor stroke. Female, late eighties. Yes—responsive, but slurred speech and weakness in her left side.”

  Nonna, now a bit more coherent, narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need a damn hospital.”

  “Too bad,” Seth replied flatly. “You’re going.”

  Ezra felt his heart slow, the initial terror of the moment giving way to something quieter—something deeper. Nonna was strong, but she wasn’t invincible. The realization hit him hard, but he didn’t let it show.

  Instead, he squeezed her hand gently. “You’ll be fine, Nonna.”

  She gave him a knowing look, then turned her gaze toward Julie.

  A pause.

  Then, with what little energy she had left, she whispered—

  “I always knew you were the right one for him.”

  Julie’s breath hitched, and for once in her life, she was too emotional to come up with a witty remark.

  The hours that followed were a blur—an ambulance ride, waiting rooms, the hum of quiet beeping monitors. The doctors confirmed it was a minor stroke, nothing too severe, but enough to keep her under observation for a few days.

  Ezra and Julie sat in the hospital wing long after the initial rush had passed, hands intertwined, speaking in hushed voices.

  "She scared me," Julie admitted, resting her head against his shoulder.

  Ezra exhaled, his fingers brushing against hers. "Yeah. Me too."

  They sat there, wrapped in the stillness of the moment, knowing that the night had changed everything.

  For better or worse—they were in this together.

  And no matter what came next, they would face it side by side.