Chapter 1: The Alarm

  The alarm clock blared at 7:00 A.M. An arm shot out, hitting the snooze button before retreating back under the covers. Seven minutes later, it shrieked again. Ryan glared at the clock, frowning at the time, and finally dragged himself out of bed. He flung the blanket back, sending an item tumbling to the floor. He planted his feet on the ground and picked up the book he'd fallen asleep reading – "KonoSuba: God's Blessing on this Wonderful World." He tossed it back on his pillow, then stood and walked to his dresser, grabbing his cell phone. He took it with him into the bathroom.

  He cranked the hot water on full blast and stripped off his clothes. As the steam billowed around him, he turned on the song "Something's Gotta Give" by All Time Low and stepped into the shower. He tried to bury the feelings from the night before by singing along, but it was no use. They burst out of him like a broken dam, and he started to cry.

  Why the tears? Stress, plain and simple.

  To understand the source of his stress, we need to rewind to the beginning of the school year. Ryan had been held back a year during his freshman year of high school and had been working tirelessly to get back on track to graduate with his friends. His girlfriend had just broken up with him, leaving him devastated. Adding to his burden, his grandmother's health was failing. She longed to see him graduate before her time was up, and after all her support, he desperately wanted to make her proud.

  You might think that with such dedication, Ryan would be the perfect friend. It depended on who you asked. Ryan was far from perfect. In fact, he was a "Monster Energy drinking, ADHD-fueled, socially awkward, closeted emo kid gamer." Impulsive to a fault, he rarely thought things through. This impulsivity could be both a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation. Despite his quirks, people generally liked him. He got things done.

  However, his impulsiveness wasn't exactly a recipe for successful relationships. He'd been messing up lately, and many girls only wanted to be his friend, not his girlfriend. This was the root of his shower meltdown. He'd just lost his girlfriend, who, it turned out, had been cheating on him for the past three weeks.

  In the shower, he tried to stay strong, singing along to the music, but the pain was raw. After another minute, he stepped out of the shower and dried off his short auburn hair. Ryan was a skinny, clean-shaven, 5'11" white male. His crew cut had grown out, revealing a widow's peak. The short haircut was a relic from the military role cosplays he did in his spare time. He hadn't had a haircut in three months. He looked in the mirror and screamed, "Fuck it! We're doing it!" He dried his chest and marched naked down the hallway to his room.

  He flung open his closet and pulled out a special box. Today was the first day back to school after winter break. Christmas had just passed, and although it was January in Florida, winter was practically a myth. He pulled on black shorts and a lime green digital camo shirt, then bent over and dumped the contents of the box onto his bed. It was his Halloween costume from earlier this year – a Halo 4 Master Chief costume. He pulled on his socks and started to assemble the armor, leaving the chest plate off for the moment. He pulled on his black work boots and finished the look with his gloves.

  Finally, he grabbed the chest plate, completing the Halo outfit. He retrieved his Halo motorcycle helmet from the closet and grabbed his keys. He closed his laptop, pausing the episode of "Star vs. the Forces of Evil," and saluted the KonoSuba novel on his bed. He walked outside and started up his Yamaha R6, letting it warm up. He couldn't believe he was actually going to show up at school like this. If he got arrested, he'd end up as a Florida Man meme.

  (Remember his impulsiveness? This was a prime example.)

  He didn't care. He needed some drama, some excitement, to distract him from the break-up. He put in his headphones, slid on his helmet, and just as he was about to leave, his father came outside.

  "I heard you screaming earlier. What's wrong? And why are you wearing that?" his father asked, concern etched on his face.

  "She's been cheating on me," Ryan replied, his voice flat. "She broke up with me last night. I'm so upset. A whole year down the drain. I'm going to school like this to cheer myself up. Who knows, maybe I'll become a hero...or a meme. Either way, I need something to take my mind off this pain, Dad."

  "I love you, son. Don't get too hung up on this. There will be plenty more relationships in your life. Listen, I need to get to work. Take care and don't get in trouble at school, please. I love you, Ryan. I'll see you when I get home tonight." His father said, heading towards his truck.

  Ryan tightened the strap on his helmet and pulled out his cell phone. He put on a random song and shoved the phone in his pocket. He kicked up the kickstand, pushed his bike back, revved the engine a few times, and put it in first gear. He adjusted his mirror and saw his Master Chief helmet reflected back at him. He looked badass. He felt a little better. He set the mirror back and took off down the dirt road, dodging potholes as he went. Once he hit the main road, he opened it up, reaching fifty in a thirty mile an hour zone.

  He'd modified the armor specifically for riding his motorcycle, so he wasn't worried about it falling apart. He slowed to twenty at the end of the road, where a group of his friends were waiting for the bus. He pulled up and shut off his bike. Ten kids rushed over, and when he lifted his visor, they realized it was him.

  "So, you're really going through with this, Ryan?" one of them asked.

  Another kid whipped out his cell phone and snapped a picture. "Let this be known as Ryan's craziest stunt ever!" he shouted, patting Ryan's armor.

  "Oh, I'm bound to turn some heads at school, Brandon," Ryan replied.

  "You're probably going to become a meme, buddy!" one of the girls yelled, laughing.

  Three other kids took pictures. Brandon pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to Ryan. It was the necklace he'd given his girlfriend. He'd gotten it back for him. He took the necklace, opened the clasp, and put it around his neck. Still wearing his helmet, he clipped the clasp back together and tucked the necklace under his shirt. It read "Carry Me!" and had a picture of a knight carrying a princess.

  Brandon didn't say anything else. He just tapped Ryan on the back and walked toward his own girlfriend. Ryan pulled down his visor, put on "Game Over" by Falling in Reverse, and took off, popping a wheelie. The kids cheered and laughed. It wasn't every day you saw Master Chief doing a wheelie. He rounded the corner and stopped at the next stop sign. School was only four miles away. He waited for his turn, then took off on the main road, getting up to fifty-five and staying in his lane. He cranked up the volume and rode in peace all the way to school.

  At a stoplight, a few cars next to him rolled down their windows, trying to confirm what they were seeing. Ryan just jammed out to his music. He didn't care what people thought; he was just waiting for the light to change. When it did, he accelerated normally and got ready to turn into the school. He turned left and headed straight for the student parking lot. After parking his bike, he unstrapped and removed his helmet, walking straight into the main building, ignoring the stares. Inside, kids were laughing. The distraction was working; he felt slightly better. Kids wanted to take pictures with him in the hallway. He posed, helmet off, while teachers looked on in confusion. He walked to his locker, encountering more gasps and laughter. Since it was the first day back, he'd left his backpack in his locker. He grabbed it, loaded up his books, and headed to his first class, carrying his helmet by the chin strap. A gaggle of girls insisted on selfies, which almost made him late. When he finally entered the classroom, the teacher laughed and shook her head. She knew seniors were about to start pulling pranks, so she didn't even question him.

  The bell rang, and she started her history lesson—coincidentally, about the ancient Spartans. Everyone immediately turned to look at Ryan, who just shrugged and gave an awkward thumbs-up. The class erupted in laughter, and he smiled. He tried to pay attention, but the armor was surprisingly comfortable, and he started to drift off. Suddenly, the bell jolted him awake. Panicked, he grabbed his stuff, a strange dizziness lingering. He had an intense feeling of déjà vu but ignored it. He put his books away and headed to his next class, passing the school resource officer. The officer, looking slightly shocked, simply gave him a thumbs-up.

  He didn't really want to know. This was the sixth costume Ryan had randomly worn to school outside of Halloween. Last year, it was Bender from Futurama. Earlier that year, a pirate. His freshman and sophomore year costumes were a blur, but he remembered a panda suit. The resource officer wasn't concerned about Ryan's costume choice. However, with all the school shootings, Ryan was definitely on the teachers' radar today. Knowing Ryan from middle school, the officer wasn't worried about him doing anything stupid—unless provoked.

  Not long after, Ryan was surrounded by more girls, this group more aggressive than the last. He quickly finished the selfies and burst through the wall of people, entering his math class just before the bell. The attention was great, but he wished everyone wasn't so aggressive about getting a selfie. He didn't want to be late to class.

  Upon entering, the teacher couldn't keep a straight face. "Master Chief, can you explain to me what you are doing on this ship?" he asked jokingly.

  "Sir, finishing this square," Ryan responded, and the class erupted in laughter.

  The teacher, amused and knowing that seniors were about to start their pranks, rolled with it. "Okay, do me a favor, Ryan. Put the helmet on and keep it on."

  This cheered Ryan up. This teacher was awesome.

  One of the kids from the bus stop, sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered, "Congratulations, you just became a meme." He showed Ryan his Snapchat, filled with pictures and videos posted by other students.

  Ryan knew people would be hunting for him during the next class change. He needed a plan to avoid being late for gym.

  The teacher started the lesson with some algebra problems. He looked at Ryan, who now had his helmet on, and asked, "If a plasma rifle hits you and does 12% damage to your shields, which can take 4,000 points of damage, how many more times do they have to hit you if your shields were 80% stronger?" The class erupted in laughter again. Ryan tried to process the question, but everyone was pulling out their phones to record him as he got up and walked to the board. He wrote down 4,000 over 12%, plus 80%, and attempted to solve the problem.

  The teacher shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that answer is wrong." He sounded almost proud of Ryan's attempt.

  Ryan replied, "I left Cortana at home today. I have to do all this math and navigation by myself. But honestly, I wouldn't even let them hit me that many times. I would have obliterated them all and would be tea-bagging them as we speak." He clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing what he'd just said, but it was too late. The class roared with laughter. The teacher shook his head, ignoring Ryan's accidental slip of the tongue, and then showed him how to solve the complex problem.

  The teacher then gave him another question. "If it takes four UNSC Marines eight hours to service a Pelican, how long will it take eight men to service a Pelican?"

  Ryan sighed and put his helmet back on. He took the marker and solved the problem. The class cheered when he got it right. The answer was four.

  Ryan sat down, and the teacher called another student to the board. Ryan paid attention for the rest of the lesson, didn't fall asleep, and even completed the assignment. When the bell rang for gym, he knew he should head straight there, but his friend had shown him Snapchat. Everyone was looking for him.

  Ryan took off his helmet, packed up his books, and darted out the door. He took a different route to avoid the north hallway, slipping outside and taking the long way to the back of the gym. He walked into the locker room and put down his backpack. The guys were cracking up. One of them asked what the deal was with the Halo armor.

  Ryan didn't have an easy answer. He couldn't just say, "Because my girlfriend broke up with me." That wouldn't be funny anymore, and it might even make him a target for bullying. He needed a good response.

  "I made a bet with someone," he said. "That's all I'm going to say."

  The guys burst into laughter, and one of them, a short, heavy-set kid, fell over, hitting his head on the edge of a locker. He immediately covered his mouth, blood seeping out. He'd knocked out a tooth. The other guys shifted their attention to him, and he freaked out. The tooth was in his mouth. He pulled it out and ran out of the gym. The coach walked in and saw everyone ready. He took attendance, and when he called the name of the kid who'd just run out, everyone told him about the tooth. The coach brushed it off.

  He saw Ryan in his suit and asked, "What's the occasion?"

  "Trying to win a bet, sir," Ryan answered. "May I keep this suit on?"

  "Fine, I'll allow it. Just don't pass out in it." He put up his clipboard and ordered everyone outside to run laps.

  Ryan grabbed his helmet and put it on, wanting to conceal his headphones. He walked outside with the rest of the class and met up at the field. They were all cheering, "Master Chief!" Ryan put on "Raised by the Wolves" by Falling in Reverse and started jogging.

  The armor was warm, but the cool winter air kept him comfortable. He wasn't going to pass out. After two miles, one of the coaches pulled him off the track. Ryan carefully took off his helmet, concealing his headphones under his shirt.

  "You need to go to the dean's office," the coach told him.

  He sighed with relief and a hint of caution. "Oh well, I didn't expect to go the whole day with this on," he thought to himself.

  Ryan walked back to the main building and to the dean's office. Inside, he saw the kid who had knocked out his tooth.

  "Mr. Glasser, please take a seat," the dean said.

  Ryan sat next to the other kid, unsure of what was happening. He assumed it was about the Halo suit. A woman walked in and checked the kid's injury.

  "Ryan," the dean said calmly, "he claims you knocked out his tooth in the locker room."

  Ryan's mood instantly changed.

  "Wait, I did no such thing!"

  "Bro, you pushed me into the locker door, and you head-butted me with your helmet. You knocked my tooth out," the kid said.

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  Ryan took a deep breath. "Did you hit the locker harder than it looked? Because that's not how it happened. You laughed so hard after the guys asked why I was wearing this suit, and I said I was trying to win a bet, that you fell over and hit your mouth on the edge of the locker."

  "No, you shoved me and hit me with your helmet," the kid insisted.

  "Want me to shove you into that desk and head-butt you with my helmet right now? I'll make that lie you made up come true, you idiot!" Ryan yelled.

  The boy stood up to Ryan like he was ready to fight. The dean stood up, ready to intervene. Ryan quickly analyzed the situation. He put on his helmet and accidentally hit the play button on his headphones. He could hear "I'm Back" by Dope blasting through his headphones and got right in the kid's face, unplugging the headphone jack. The song was now playing at full volume on the speaker.

  The kid, seeing his reflection in the golden tint of the visor and hearing Ryan's "boss fight" music, looked terrified.

  "Look at how much of a big boy you are. You wanna go right here? I'm all armored up! I'll take you out like the Prophet of Regret! Come at me, bro!" Ryan shouted over the music. The kid got ready to throw a punch, but Ryan jerked his head forward, scaring him. The kid's mother rushed in and pulled her son away.

  Ryan backed up and let the dean get between them. "Take your son and get him out of here. I'll deal with Glasser," the dean ordered.

  Ryan sat back down, threw his feet up on the dean's desk, and said, "GFG," to the kid while giving him the finger behind his helmet. The kid, terrified by Ryan's craziness, left with his mother.

  The dean gave Ryan a serious look. Ryan took off his helmet and placed it on the desk. The song was still playing at full volume. With the glare the dean was giving him, Ryan dug into his pocket and paused the song. The dean reached over and took his phone.

  "Are you kidding me?" he asked.

  Ryan took another deep breath and removed his feet from the desk. "Look, I'm sorry for how I blew up at that kid. He lied about the whole situation, and I snapped. I did not have a good winter vacation. Let's settle this now, but please give my cell phone back to me at the end of the day. I have to go to work."

  The dean sat down in his chair.

  "Before you say anything else," Ryan asked firmly, "did you see me physically touch him while I was in his face?"

  "No, I didn't," the dean replied.

  "Good, then I'm safe," Ryan shot back.

  "No, you are not. I need to write you up for intimidating a student, cursing, and violating the dress code. Sadly, I also heard you say you're 'armored up.' Now I have to get the resource officer in here to check you for weapons," the dean stated.

  Ryan laughed. "I'm not hiding anything. You can do what you need to as a precaution, but let's cut to the chase. Did I actually hit him in the locker room?" Ryan asked, taking off his chest plate.

  The dean called the resource officer.

  "No," the dean said. "Two other kids said he fell over laughing. I was trying to get both sides of the story from you two, but you kind of messed that up. I was going to explain to his mother that he was caught in a lie. Now I have to take action because you intimidated him. Plus, one of your teachers emailed me about you saying something inappropriate in class. Look, you pretty much brought this on yourself. You're a nice kid, Ryan, and everyone likes you, but I have to uphold school policy," he explained as the resource officer walked in.

  "Mr. Glasser had a confrontation with another student. I need you to check him for weapons. He also mentioned he is 'armored up,' so I need you to check that too," the dean instructed.

  The resource officer looked at Ryan and rolled his eyes.

  "Stand up," he said, instructing Ryan to face the wall. He picked up Ryan's chest plate and felt it. "It's just plastic. Not bulletproof armor at all. But this thing is rigid," he responded while inspecting the chest plate.

  "May I ask what he did?" he asked the dean.

  "He was getting ready to get into a fight with a student," the dean responded.

  "This thing sure would block a punch," the officer said, setting the chest plate down. He checked Ryan's pockets and didn't feel anything. Then, he pulled out a metal detector wand and scanned him.

  "He's clear," the resource officer said.

  The dean breathed a sigh of relief. He'd secretly thought this crazykid was ready for war.

  "Where is your locker and your backpack?" the officer asked.

  "My backpack is in the gym. My locker is next door," Ryan replied.

  "Come with me, and show me," the resource officer said.

  Ryan led him to his locker and opened it. The officer quickly checked it—all clear. "All right, now take me to your backpack."

  They walked down to the locker room. Ryan, no longer wearing his chest plate, was just in the black undersuit with the other pieces still attached. They entered the locker room and grabbed his backpack. The officer quickly checked it—everything was clear. He then escorted Ryan back to the dean's office. As they walked, Ryan quickly summarized what had happened.

  Back in the dean's office, the dean told Ryan to sit down. "All right, I've got the paperwork here. I'm suspending you. But that's the least of your problems. Because of the suspension, you cannot walk during graduation in a few months. Also, I have to pull your parking permit. I'm sorry, but I can't make any exceptions."

  Hearing that he couldn't walk during graduation was a critical blow. He'd thought he was just going to get detention. A violent, burning rage welled up inside him, but he kept his feelings hidden.

  "Please hand me my cell phone. I need to make a call home," Ryan said, his voice tight with anger.

  The dean handed him his phone, and Ryan put it in his pocket. He bent down, picked up his chest plate, and slid it on, locking it into place. He was now secretly dead inside, trying to be calm, but this week was too much for him. He was crying on the inside. He'd just lost the right to walk at graduation. His girlfriend had just broken up with him. He couldn't ride his motorcycle to school anymore, and this whole situation stemmed from the kid who had lied about how he'd knocked out his tooth. Ryan didn't say anything and just signed the paperwork. While signing the punishment forms, a war raged inside him. He took partial responsibility for wearing the suit to school. What was meant to be a harmless prank had attracted a total asshole who had turned his whole day into a nightmare.

  "This can't get any worse," he thought, but tears started to well up.

  His dad was going to kick him out of the house if he couldn't see him walk across the stage at graduation. His father had been talking about how his dying grandmother wanted to see it. This news was going to devastate her and his father. The tears started to fall. He couldn't hold in the rage anymore.

  Ryan started shaking. The dean and the resource officer noticed the change in his body language.

  "Are you okay?" the resource officer asked, now worried by how silent he'd become.

  "Ryan, are you okay? Please talk to us," the dean pleaded.

  "Let's just go get my parking sticker off my bike. I'll be fine," he whimpered through the tears.

  "Ryan," the resource officer said, his voice filled with concern, "I dealt with you in middle school when you were in your emo stage. Look, I'm willing to lend you support if there is something going on. To be honest, you're scaring me."

  "No, just come with me, and let's get my sticker off my bike," he said, picking up his backpack.

  "No, leave your bag here," the dean said.

  Ryan took his keys out of his bag and put them in his pocket. "Let's go," he said, a hint of anger in his voice.

  The others followed him outside to his bike. When he got to the parking lot, he pulled out his cell phone and called his job. His boss answered, and the dean and resource officer listened to the conversation.

  "Hey, it's Ryan. Can I come into work early today? I'm having a bad day at school, and I need to let off some steam. I'll move things in the rear and hit the shelves that Sarah didn't want to do last night," he asked, his voice heavy with distress.

  There was a pause on the other end. "Listen, Ryan, I just got an interesting call from my wife. She said my son was beat up at school and lost a tooth. Also, that the person who did it tried to fight him in the dean's office. Wearing some sort of combat suit. It's even more interesting when I found out the name of that certain person," his boss said, his tone laced with anger.

  There was an awkward silence. Ryan had just realized this had gotten even more personal. "Look, yes, he laughed so hard in the locker room that he fell over and hit his mouth on the edge of the lockers. But I never touched him. He made up a story, a lie about what really happened. I've been having such a good day, and he ruined it. I just had a breakup last night, and I wasn't in a good mood when he made up that story," Ryan tried to explain, fighting back tears.

  "Even if you didn't hit him in the locker room, you still threatened to smash his head against the dean's desk. You also got in his face and threatened to head-butt him," his boss countered.

  "Look," Ryan said, his voice cracking, "I lost my girlfriend of a year. I just got suspended from school and lost the right to walk at graduation. I'm probably going to be kicked out of my house for that, maybe even disowned. My grandmother is dying, and her biggest wish is to see me walk across that stage. Now, I can't. I can't even ride my motorcycle to school anymore. I'm filled with emotions and thoughts that would scare the living shit out of you if you could see and feel them from my perspective. I'm not okay right now! This all stemmed from your son lying! If he could just admit he was a klutz, this could have all been prevented! Instead, he set me up with that bogus story!"

  The resource officer's heart was racing. Red flags were popping up everywhere in this conversation.

  "Look, the answer is no," his boss said, his voice cold. "I don't think I want you on my team anymore. If you went off on my son under pressure, imagine what would happen if that happened in front of customers. I don't need you punching a customer because they get annoying. You're off the schedule. I don't need you anymore. Just come grab your stuff later today. My best advice, honestly, is to go for a run. It'll help clear your head. I'll have your papers ready to sign when you get here." The line went dead.

  Ryan froze, his face a blank mask. He leaned over the back of his bike, pressing his face into the warm, sun-baked seat. A guttural scream tore from his throat, muffled by the cushion. His left arm snaked under the seat, encountering a sharp rail. He found the edge, pressed his wrist against it with all his might, and then jerked his arm back. The searing pain confirmed what he already knew: he'd just sliced open his skin. He couldn't see the wound, but he kept his hand tucked under the seat, his screams echoing in the parking lot. He couldn't take it anymore. He hated his life.

  "Why does my life always have to fucking fall apart?" he sobbed. "Everything is going to shit! I'm going to lose everything now!"

  The dean, unable to bear witness to Ryan's raw despair, walked away. He hoped the resource officer, who had a good rapport with Ryan, could de-escalate the situation. Ryan stops screaming his heart out and starts crying heavier. The resource officer calls on the radio for the guidance counselor to get out here immediately. Ryan was on the verge of a breakdown. The resource officer, though trained in conflict de-escalation, felt a surge of worry. He radioed for the guidance counselor, hoping she could reach Ryan. He knew Ryan wouldn't ask for help; wouldn't admit he was struggling until it was too late. He'd seen Ryan's instability in middle school, the way he'd turn his anger inward. He knew Ryan wasn't violent, couldn't even throw a punch, but he'd also seen the damage Ryan could inflict on himself.

  He forced himself to stop crying and slowly pulled his hand out from under the seat. He slid one of his armor gauntlets over the cut and started pacing restlessly around his bike, chanting the “S-P-i-r-t-e” mantra lyrics from Bring Me the Horizon's "Happy Song" under his breath, trying to regain control.

  "Ryan, what's wrong?" the resource officer asked, his voice laced with concern. "What happened?"

  "I just lost my job!" Ryan spat, his voice raw with emotion. "That little fucker who lost a tooth just added even more torture! I should have knocked another one out for him lying about me. My home life is royally fucked now, too. You don't understand the pressure I'm under to graduate. I'm going to lose it all! I just turned eighteen! I'm not even legally entitled to live with my dad anymore! He could kick me out if he hears I can't walk at graduation!"

  Just then, the guidance counselor arrived, and the resource officer went to brief her. Ryan's gaze drifted across the field, landing on a familiar face. His ex-girlfriend, making out with another guy from the locker room.

  Something inside Ryan snapped. He dug into his pocket, plugged in his headphones, and put on "Happy song” from Bring Me The Horizon. He sat down on his bike, and leaned forward and Ripped off his parking pass off his Red tinted windshield. Then grabbed his helmet and turned it over and and the keys fall out right into his hand. Fueled by fear and anger he shoves his helmet on. The resource officer sees this and tries to grab him but, he already put the key in and started the bike. He kicks up the kickstand and lurches forward away from the officer. He then stops a short distance away to yell: "I'm fucking done with this miserable life!" he shouted. "Nothing is going right, and I'm ready to see if there's a god or not! Fuck this world!"

  He slammed his visor down, the loose strap flapping against his cheek, a grim flag of defiance. With a roar that echoed across the parking lot, he twisted the throttle, the bike surging forward, leaving the charging staff members in his dust. He hit the curb hard, the bike bouncing jarringly as it landed on the grass, but he didn't let up. He sped along the fence line, a dark blur against the manicured lawn. Behind him, the resource officer barked into his radio, the urgency in his voice a stark contrast to the peaceful afternoon. He sprinted after Ryan, but it was a futile chase. Ryan was already back on the asphalt, the engine screaming as he tore toward the stop sign.

  He hit the main road, the world exploding in a rush of speed and sound as he dumped the clutch. The bike leaped forward, the raw power a physical force pushing him back against the seat. He'd never ridden like this before, never pushed his machines this hard. Fear warred with exhilaration, a dangerous cocktail fueling his reckless flight

  "Go for a run, he said! It'll clear your head, he said! Sounds like a fucking plan!" he yelled over the wind blasting into his helmet, blowing through a red light at fifty-five. He cranked the music, shifted gears, and hit eighty, then a hundred and twenty. The world blurred around him. This was new, terrifying, exhilarating. But he had one goal: suicide.

  His mother leaving, his social awkwardness, turning eighteen, the pressure, the break-up, the betrayal—it was all too much. He wasn't going back. He wanted to see how fast he could push this machine before it—before he—crashed. "Highest score wins," he muttered.

  He blew past a cop going the opposite way, but he wasn't worried. This wasn't about getting caught; it was about ending it all. His mind locked onto the tempo of the song, the screaming vocals mirroring the chaos in his head. He dodged cars instinctively, barely registering the alarming wobble of the bike as it strained against his suicidal need for speed. “I paid for the Speedometer, SO IM GOING TO USE THE WHOLE SPEEDAMETER” yells to himself over the howling wind and engine noise inside his helmet.

  He hit one hundred and sixty-five—the machine's absolute limit. He held it there, the wind screaming past, the world a blur. For twenty seconds, the adrenaline drowned out the despair, and a hollow laugh escaped him. His jury-rigged armor was actually holding up. He smiled, a grim twist of his lips, and let off the gas.

  A horn blared, a truck looming from his right. Ryan at this moment went from suicidal to scared and slammed the brakes, but the sudden lurch forward threw his weight onto the shifter, accidentally downshifting in the midst of the hard braking. The ABS fought to maintain control, but the chain in this critical moment underwent a significant catastrophic failure and ultimately snapped. The chain at this extreme speed ended up wrapping around the rear sprocket and get jammed between the sprocket and the swingarm and locked up the rear tire. The bike's back end fishtailed violently, spitting him off like a rodeo bronco. He tumbled across the median, a ragdoll tossed in a whirlwind of pain and terror, skidding across the asphalt before slamming into a "No U-Turn" sign. The world flashed red, a fleeting crimson snapshot before the bike, a twisted metal carcass, crashed into him, pinning him beneath its weight. Then, blackness.

  But as his consciousness faded, his dying brain releasing a flood of DMT, the world erupted in a kaleidoscope of color. Fractal patterns danced before his eyes, a psychedelic farewell as his soul slipped free, hurtling toward an unknown plane of existence.

  For the witnesses, though, the horror was just beginning. They rushed to his broken body, the Master Chief costume, once a symbol of defiant fun, now a macabre tableau of shattered plastic and blood. His helmet, a cruel parody of heroism, clung to his head, the visor cracked, revealing a face frozen in eternal surprise. Paramedics arrived, lights flashing, sirens a mournful wail against the indifferent hum of the highway, but it was too late. Another life claimed by the asphalt jungle, another victim in the endless tragedy of teenage despair.

  During the cleanup, a police officer found Ryan's phone amidst the debris. Screen cracked, it stubbornly played "If You Can't Ride Two Horses at Once... You Should Get Out of the Circus" by Asking Alexandria on repeat. The officer, a hardened veteran of countless accident scenes, noticed the song was almost finished. He paused it, a strange pang of empathy in his chest, and slipped the phone into an evidence bag.

  But Ryan's story doesn't end here. This is merely the beginning. Hold tight, because the afterlife awaits, and Ryan Glasser, the impulsive, heartbroken gamer, is about to embark on a journey of cosmic proportions, a journey that will force him to confront the value of the life he so recklessly threw away.