Chapter Text
6:00 A.M.
The alarm clock blared in sharp, rhythmic beeps across the dim room. But for once, it wasn’t slapped into silence by a groggy hand and shoved off for five more precious minutes.
Sonic was already up.
He stood in front of his full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his red school blazer with the kind of quick efficiency that suggested he’d been awake longer than the clock claimed. His reflection stared back at him—quills a little messy, collar sharp, expression unusually focused. With a final tug at the hem, he nodded to himself, flashing a half-smirk.
“Lookin’ good,” he muttered under his breath before pivoting on his heel.
His room, as usual, was organized chaos. Socks tossed near the bed, school bag half-zipped and sitting where he dropped it last night. He scooped it up, shoved the socks on without much precision—heel twisted, but who cared—and made for the door in a blur of movement.
He practically skated across the wooden floor, using the hallway wall to propel himself forward. His momentum carried him right to the stairway railing—and without hesitation, he swung his leg over and slid down.
“Woah—!” His balance wobbled at the end, one foot almost missing the landing, but he caught himself just in time.
The house was already stirring. The scent of buttered toast and bacon drifted in from the kitchen, and faint clatter echoed as someone shuffled around.
Once Sonic landed in the living room with a soft thud, he was greeted by the usual controlled chaos of a weekday morning.
Tails was already halfway through his breakfast, eyes bouncing between the screen of his tablet and the news playing low on the television. Knuckles stood by the stove, spatula in hand, flipping strips of bacon like it was a sport.
Tails glanced up—and blinked in visible surprise. “Sonic? Aren’t you usually still in bed by now?”
“Yeah, bud! But, uh—” Sonic trailed off mid-sentence, making a sharp turn toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.
He swiped a freshly toasted slice of buttered bread served on the table before the steam had even cleared. “Ahh—hot!” he winced, fanning the toast dramatically and then taking a bite anyway. The crunch echoed through the room.
He poured himself a glass of water, drained it in one breath, then set the cup down with a quiet clink.
Knuckles raised an eyebrow without turning away from the stove. “You in a rush?”
“Kinda,” Sonic muttered through another hasty mouthful, now snagging a strip of bacon off the plate before Knuckles could slide it to the table.
Knuckles sighed, but didn’t protest. “Always gotta make some kind of grand entrance, huh?”
Sonic smirked, grabbing a second glass of water. “Please. I don’t need an entrance for them to love me.”
Knuckles snorted under his breath. “Sure thing, Mr. Cocky.”
“Hey, I’m not cocky,” Sonic replied, already halfway across the room, grabbing his bag from the side of the couch as he spoke. “I’m just—confident.”
He dropped to the floor near the door and began yanking on his shoes with reckless speed, laces short and tangled.
Tails looked over, grinning. “You kinda are, though.”
Sonic looked up with a lopsided smile, not missing a beat. “I’m confident,” he repeated with mock pride, then stood tall as if he’d just won a debate.
“Welp, I’m out!” he said, waving a quick goodbye and pushing the front door open with the heel of his palm.
“Bye, Sonic!” Tails called after him as the door swung shut with a soft thud behind him.
Sonic jogged briskly down the quiet sidewalk, the early morning air still cool against his skin. His footsteps echoed faintly off the empty pavement as he reached the bike rack near the curb. Without breaking stride, he crouched and unlocked the chain from his bicycle, tossing it carelessly into the basket up front.
With one quick hop, he was on the seat and already pedaling. The breeze rushed past him, ruffling his quills and blazer sleeves, carrying with it the soft scent of dew-soaked leaves and distant bakery bread. His eyelids fluttered for a second as he inhaled deeply. Mornings like this? They weren’t so bad.
6:15 A.M.
A familiar sign flickered up ahead—a convenience store tucked between a dry cleaner and an old closed-down florist. He pulled into the lot, tires crunching softly against scattered gravel, and parked his bike near the front. The moment he stepped inside, the icy cool of the air conditioner swept over him like a wave.
Inside, it was quiet, save for the soft mechanical hum of refrigerators and the faint sound of a news broadcast playing from a tiny mounted TV in the corner. A couple of workers chatted near the coffee machines, their voices low and tired.
Sonic made his way down the narrow aisle, shoes squeaking slightly on the freshly mopped tiles. His eyes scanned the fridge lined with dairy drinks—plain milk, banana, chocolate—
There.
A familiar soft pink label caught his eye.
Strawberry milk.
His grin stretched wide. Without hesitation, he yanked open the fridge door and plucked not one—but two cartons off the shelf, the cold clinking lightly in his grip. He stared at them in his hands for a moment, proud like he’d just secured a rare treasure.
“Bet Shadow’s gonna love this,” he murmured under his breath with a small smirk, more to himself than anyone else.
He walked up to the counter, tapping the side of his shoes while waiting in line. Once he paid and the drinks were bagged, he stepped back into the outside warmth, a slight contrast from the chilly interior.
The brown paper bag crinkled gently as he placed it into his bike basket, making sure it wouldn’t tip over during the ride. With one final glance toward the store, he hopped back on his bike and began pedaling down the road again—his thoughts already drifting ahead to school, and a certain someone he was quietly hoping would smile.
6:30 A.M
Thirty minutes until class started. The school grounds were mostly quiet. The sun was still soft in the sky, its light bleeding gently through the trees that lined the front gates, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Sonic rolled in on his bike and hopped off with ease, quickly parking it by the side entrance and locking it. One glance around confirmed what he hoped for—no crowd. No fan club. No group of girls screaming his name. Not yet, anyway.
Perfect.
He grabbed the paper bag containing the cartons of milk and made a beeline for the lockers, weaving through columns of clean tile and bulletin boards covered in club posters. His pace slowed when he reached a specific section of the hallway—one far less populated.
One particular locker stood out. Not because it looked different, but because of who it belonged to.
Sonic glanced over his shoulder once. Then again. The coast was clear.
He crouched, setting his bag on the floor. From the front pocket, he pulled out a small blue notepad—edges bent, slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in a rush. He flicked it open, uncapped his pen, and scribbled a few words down with quick, messy strokes. His handwriting? Barely legible.
A top student with the penmanship of a kid learning cursive. That’s Sonic The Hedgehog to you.
Still, it got the point across. Probably.
He peeled the note from the pad, opened the paper bag, and took out a single carton of strawberry milk. Carefully, he taped the note onto it using clear tape, though he struggled for a few seconds—eventually having to bite off a small piece to make it stick just right. For a moment, he just stared at it—then proudly stood as he opened the locker door as quietly as possible. The hinges didn’t squeak. Of course it didn’t. Shadow’s locker was as spotless and well-maintained as everything else about him.
Sonic raised a brow, almost impressed.
He placed the carton on the middle shelf like it was breakable—delicate, important, intentional. Then, just as quickly, he shut the locker, palm lingering on the cold metal for a second longer than necessary.
The second carton of strawberry milk remained in the paper bag. He took it out and shoved it into his backpack, then crumpled the paper bag and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.
No one had seen him. He was sure of it.
With that, Sonic spun on his heel and hurried toward his classroom, avoiding the hallways where he knew students would start piling in. He didn’t have time for compliments or confessions or to sign someone’s uniform again. Not today.
Today, he had other plans.
6:46 A.M.
There were only a few minutes left until class officially started. The classroom was already half full—shoes scraping lightly against tile, soft murmurs bouncing off the walls, the occasional laughter from a group in the back.
Sonic sat at his desk, one leg bouncing restlessly under the table. His elbow leaned against the edge, fingers drumming in a slow, inconsistent rhythm. His eyes weren’t on the teacher’s desk or the board. Not on the chattering students around him either.
They kept drifting toward the back of the room—two rows behind, by the window.
Still empty.
His gaze flicked to the wall-mounted clock. 6:46 A.M.
Just a few minutes left.
He leaned back in his chair, brow creased slightly. Shadow’s never this late.
It wasn’t like he was counting the minutes or anything. It wasn’t like he noticed the exact moment that seat got filled every morning, or how the air seemed to shift when Shadow walked into a room.
No. Definitely not.
He sighed quietly through his nose and looked forward again, feigning indifference.
But still, his fingers kept drumming. Just a little faster now.
6:15 A.M.
“Shadow?”
A quiet murmur cut through the soft morning haze.
“Shaaaadow.”
No response.
The only movement from the bed was the sluggish rustling of blankets being yanked over a figure, followed by silence.
Maria stood in the doorway, blinking in faint confusion. That was odd. Shadow never overslept—not on school days. He was usually up before her, dressed and tucked into his morning routine like clockwork. She tilted her head slightly, a finger resting at her chin in mild concern.
Only 45 minutes left until class.
She didn’t like pushing him, but she knew how seriously Shadow took his schedule—how much school mattered to him. With a gentle sigh, she padded over to the bed, leaning down slightly to nudge the mound beneath the blanket.
“Shadow,” she called softly, “You’re gonna be late.”
A groan stirred beneath the covers. Then finally, the blanket slipped down just enough to reveal a pair of sleepy red eyes and a mess of quills flattened awkwardly on one side.
“Good morning,” Maria greeted, her smile warm and familiar as she crossed her arms and stood upright. “Go wash up, okay? You’ve only got a little time left, so I packed your breakfast for you instead.”
Shadow blinked slowly, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes before sitting up with visible reluctance. “What time is it?”
“Already 6:15”
That snapped him awake.
He jolted upright, feet swinging off the bed and landing with a soft thud on the wooden floor. He should’ve been up twenty five minutes ago. His brows furrowed, still half-lost in the fog of sleep.
Maria laughed quietly at his reaction, stepping back toward the door. “Did you have a nice dream, at least?”
He paused, her question catching him off guard.
His mind drifted—flashes of a vibrant blue blur, a grin too confident for its own good, a voice he could already hear in his head. Loud. Persistent. Infuriatingly... charming.
Shadow’s face scrunched, and he looked away.
“Not really,” he muttered under his breath.
Maria glanced over her shoulder with a grin she tried to hide. She knew well when Shadow actually had nightmares, and this one definitely isn’t. “Well, whatever it was, don’t let it follow you around today.”
Then she slipped out, shutting the door with a soft click.
Shadow sat still for a moment, eyes distant, lips pressed into a faint line.
And then, as if wiping the memory clean, he shook his head once, sharp and decisive. The dream was just a dream. Nothing more.
He rose to his feet and headed toward the bathroom, already peeling off the remnants of sleep.
Today was just another school day.
Or so he told himself.
6:39 A.M.
Shadow adjusted the navy-blue necktie with precision, standing stiff in front of the full-length mirror that leaned against the corner of his room. The knot sat a bit too tightly on the first try—he redid it, letting out a quiet breath of frustration. The ticking wall clock above his bed caught his attention, and he groaned at the time.
6:39.
He was cutting it far too close.
He should’ve been out the door five minutes ago, but he’d gotten caught up in the details—again.
His routine wasn’t fast, and it never had been. Mornings were sacred. Slow and methodical. Self-care was something Shadow took seriously—not out of vanity, but necessity. It grounded him.
He had already brushed his teeth and combed through his quills until they sat smooth and symmetrical. A subtle lavender-scented perfume lingered softly on his collar, layered gently atop the same lavender tone from his freshly washed uniform. The crisp polo had been steamed the night before. His face was freshly washed, moisturized, and dabbed with toner that Maria had gently forced onto him a few months ago—and which he now kept and loved it.
This was why he woke up early. Not just for punctuality, but for himself.
But today… he overslept, and now everything felt rushed.
He grabbed his bag from the bedside and slung it over his shoulder. The soft thuds of his feet, clad in freshly washed white socks, echoed against the wooden stairs as he descended—only to be met halfway down by a familiar presence.
Maria stood there with a lunchbox already in hand, waiting with a patient smile. “Here’s your breakfast.”
He didn’t have to say anything. She could read his whole morning in his face—his discontent with the lost time, the stiffness in his shoulders.
Still, she offered the container with both hands. Shadow took it and murmured, “Thank you.”
Then, before stepping past her, he paused—just long enough to give her a warm hug. It was brief, but full of silent appreciation.
“You’ll make it,” Maria said quietly, like a promise.
Shadow nodded and quickly sat down near the door to put on his shoes. Once finished, he stood up and gave her one last glance before pushing the front door open.
The outside air was brisk and clean. Overhead, a pale wash of morning light peeked from the edge of the rooftops, casting a soft glow along the quiet street.
He glanced at his watch.
Thirteen minutes left.
His house was a fifteen minute walk from the school, and on a normal day, he’d take his time and ride a bus. But not today.
This time, he ran. Waiting for a bus will take another few minutes, so running was the only possible choice.
Shoes tapping rhythmically against the pavement, bag bouncing against his back, Shadow cut through the still-sleepy neighborhood with purpose.
He didn’t like running late.
And even more than that… he didn’t like feeling unprepared.
6:57 A.M.
Shadow finally reached the school gate with a pant and a quiet, frustrated groan. His breathing came fast, shoulders rising and falling beneath the weight of his bag. His legs burned from the sudden running. This early in the morning, he was already wearing himself down—and he hated that.
He slowed to a brisk walk, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. He was meticulous about these things—sweat, disarray, the feel of his collar clinging to the back of his neck. That kind of discomfort lingered on him all day.
Originally, he meant to stop by his locker to grab the textbook for his fourth-period class. But with barely minutes left before the bell, he decided against it. That subject wasn’t until after break anyway. He’d retrieve the book later.
Instead, he cut straight toward his classroom.
He didn’t run—technically. Running in the hallways was against the school’s code, and even now, he clung to the last sliver of order in his morning.
6:59 A.M.
He pushed open the door to the classroom just a breath before the bell blared overhead. The noise startled a few heads to turn toward him, but Shadow didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.
He didn’t need the attention right now.
With his chest still rising and falling steadily, he moved to his seat without pause. His shoes tapped the floor softly, and he lowered himself into his chair, exhaling through his nose.
His body ached from the rush, and his mood soured further the second he felt the dampness sticking beneath his collar. That’s what bothered him most—feeling clammy, flushed. It made his skin itch, his muscles tense.
Shadow leaned forward slightly, elbow on the desk as he pressed two fingers to his temple, breathing deeply to pull himself back together. His expression remained calm, unreadable, but his fingers drummed once against the desk—an impatient habit he couldn’t kick.
With practiced ease, he reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook—the worn one he used for practically everything: class notes, sketches, fleeting thoughts. He flipped it open to a clean page and uncapped his pen just as the teacher began writing the first line of the lesson on the board.
No time to waste. No time to look around.
Especially not two rows forward, where he refused to glance.
Not yet.
Break time arrived with a soft chime of the school bell. The teacher barely finished dismissing the class before a wave of chairs screeched back across the floor, students already halfway out the door. Conversations spilled into the hallway, quick and eager—everyone hungry, loud, free.
The classroom emptied fast. Footsteps thudded, laughter echoed, the door swung closed with a light clack behind the last student rushing to the cafeteria.
And just like that, it was quiet again.
Two hedgehogs remained.
Sonic leaned back slightly in his seat, glancing over his shoulder. Two rows behind, Shadow sat hunched over his desk, one hand supporting his head as the other scribbled with quiet urgency across a lined notebook, occasionally taking a bite from his packed food that seemed to be a bagel. His brow was furrowed, shoulders stiff—like the tension hadn’t left since morning.
Sonic studied him for a moment. The way his quill tips twitched slightly. The way his pen dug deeper than necessary into the page. The way his breathing didn’t quite settle.
He looked exhausted.
With a small exhale, Sonic reached into his bag. Fingers curled around the familiar coolness of the strawberry milk carton—the second one he’d kept from this morning.
He stood up and took his time walking over. Each step soft, measured. No teasing grin this time, no flashy entrance.
Just a quiet offering.
Shadow didn’t lift his head. His pen moved fast, erratic. The frustration in him was palpable. Oversleeping had thrown his whole morning out of balance, and he hated that. Being late, being off. He was used to control. Routine. Structure.
Now, it felt like the day was dragging him around by the collar.
He didn’t even hear Sonic approach—not until the shadow fell across his desk.
“You okay?”
Shadow’s eyes lifted at the voice, sharp and red but dulled with exhaustion. Of course. Sonic.
He was already seated next to him—close, but with just enough space to keep it casual. Like always.
Shadow blinked once, slow. Then, without a word, he dropped his gaze back down to his notebook.
“You’re here to bother me again?” he muttered, pen continuing to scratch across the page.
Sonic tilted his head slightly, his voice gentler than usual. “Am I bothering you?”
A brief pause. Shadow didn’t answer right away, and for a second, it seemed like he might not. But then, with a quiet breath through his nose, he replied flatly, “Your presence alone is bothering me.”
There was no bite in his tone—just tired truth.
Sonic didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll his eyes or crack a grin. He’d heard worse. From the same guy. He let the words pass, unbothered, then a soft thud as he placed the strawberry milk on Shadow’s desk, right beside his lunch box.
“Here,” Sonic said.
Just that.
Shadow glanced at it. No reaction at first—just a long look. His fingers twitched, then he picked it up and popped the lid open with a bit more force than necessary. He took a long sip, nearly downing half the carton in one go.
Everything today had gone off-track. Oversleeping. Rushing. The heat, the noise, the sudden silence. And now, strawberry milk.
Of all things, it was this that softened the edge.
He wouldn’t thank Sonic. That would’ve been a disaster—Sonic would wear the smug look for a week, and Shadow’s patience was already on thin ice. So instead, he gave a small nod. Barely there.
Then went back to his notebook. This time, the pen moved slower. Smoother. Less like a weapon.
Sonic leaned back a little, watching quietly. His smile wasn’t wide—it was soft, subdued, private. Meant for no one else but himself.
He stayed like that for a while. Watching Shadow’s hand move across the paper. Listening to the subtle drag of pen against the page. Noticing how his shoulders had eased, even just slightly.
Something about being near Shadow, in moments like this, was… calm.
Weirdly calm.
But Sonic didn’t want to dig into that too much. Not now.
So instead, he stayed where he was, and let the quiet moment breathe. Because lately, these moments weren’t about rivalry anymore. Not like before.
And maybe that was the part he liked most.
Twenty minutes had passed since the last word was exchanged, the classroom now steeped in a kind of stillness that wasn’t awkward—just quiet. Peaceful.
Shadow glanced at his wristwatch to check the time, letting out a soft sigh. He carefully closed his lunch box and placed it back into his bag. Then, he stood from his chair, the legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor.
Time to grab the textbook he didn’t have the chance to get earlier.
He turned toward the door when Sonic’s voice broke through, casual but curious.
“Where you heading?”
“Locker,” Shadow replied flatly, not even sparing him a glance as he pushed the door open and stepped out. The hallway was mostly quiet now, emptied of most students who had either rushed to the cafeteria or found their favorite corners of the campus to lounge in.
Shadow’s footsteps echoed faintly as he descended the stairs, hands tucked into his pockets. The light through the windows painted long, slanted shadows along the corridor floor—shifting hues of gold and grey. Despite the sun’s warmth outside, the school interior carried that crisp chill of polished concrete and morning air.
When he finally reached the rows of lockers, the silence stretched even longer. He stepped up to his own and carefully opened it without much thought.
But when the contents inside his locker came into view, he stilled.
Inside, neatly placed on the middle shelf, was another carton of strawberry milk.
Attached to it was a small curled-up piece of blue notepad paper, stuck on with the help of clear tape. The handwriting was uneven—practically scribbled.
Shadow stared for a moment. Then reached in slowly, fingers brushing over the cool carton before tugging the note free.
He unfolded it. The writing was short.
Shadow,
Brought another strawberry
milk for you to save later!
That was it. No name. No signature. But the color of the paper, the unfiltered handwriting, the simplicity of it—it didn’t take a genius.
Shadow exhaled through his nose.
The penmanship was almost offensive. Like someone who stopped caring about neatness in the second grade and never looked back.
He pressed a thumb over the words once, lingering, then refolded the note and slid it carefully into the inside pocket of his blazer. He didn’t know why he kept it.
He just did.
He stared at the milk for another second before grabbing it and placing it under his arm. Then, finally remembering why he’d come here in the first place, he reached for the textbook and closed the locker with a soft click.
The hallway was still empty as he started walking back—textbook in one hand, the carton of strawberry milk in the other.
Break would end in a few minutes, but for the first time since the morning started, Shadow didn’t feel quite as drained anymore.
When Shadow stepped back into the classroom, the mood had already shifted. Students were trickling in, the volume rising with chatter and the scrape of chairs on linoleum. The quiet moment from earlier was gone—replaced by the usual bustle of his classmates returning from break.
He had half a mind to walk over and ask someone if the second carton of strawberry milk had been poisoned. It would’ve been a snide remark—his way of putting up a wall, of not giving any room to be read too easily.
But the timing wasn’t right.
Too many ears. Too many eyes.
So instead, he walked past Sonic without a word. No glance, no acknowledgment. Just a brush of presence as he made his way to his seat by the back, near the window—the one he always claimed. The sunlight filtered in there differently. Softer. Quieter.
He sat down heavily, the cool metal of the chair grounding him for a moment.
The two cartons of strawberry milk sat on his desk like evidence. One nearly empty, the other untouched. He stared at them in silence.
With a sigh, he picked up the first—what was left of it—and finished the last few sips. Then, without ceremony, he placed both cartons inside his bag, tucking them away like he could forget them.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
He flicked his eyes toward Sonic’s desk. The other hedgehog had returned as well, but his gaze was firmly focused downward—on his notebook, maybe. Or pretending to be.
Shadow’s jaw tightened.
Why do I even bother?
The thought echoed in his head, bitter and sharp. His fingers curled into loose fists atop his desk, nails faintly digging into his palm. There was no real reason to feel like this—frustrated, unsure, tangled in a silence he didn’t quite know how to escape.
He shut his eyes for a second. Just trying to shake something off. As if willing his thoughts to fall back into place.
Don’t be fooled by cartons of strawberry milk, idiot.
He told himself this in the quietest corner of his mind. But the words didn’t hit as hard as he wanted them to. And the warmth sitting in his blazer pocket said otherwise.
As always, the hours slipped by like they meant nothing. Classes came and went—blurred pages, tired hands, the hum of restless students all bleeding into one long stretch of routine. Late afternoon eventually settled in, casting slanted sunlight through the windows like a quiet signal that the day was done.
Most days, this time would find Shadow half-listening to Rouge’s dramatic recaps—her latest gossip and unsolicited opinions. But not today.
Instead, he was here. In the library.
The quiet helped. Gave him room to breathe. He’d already texted Rouge, told her he’d meet her at the café soon. He just wanted to do a quick review—skim over the lesson from earlier before it left his memory for good.
The library was nearly empty, just the faint creak of wooden chairs and the occasional rustle of pages turning. A clock ticked somewhere in the back. Shadow had found a table tucked near the window, the light soft and low, just how he liked it. No chaos. No interruptions. Just the scratch of his pen as he flipped open his favorite notebook—worn, creased, filled with more than just lecture notes.
It was quiet.
Perfect.
Until, of course, it wasn’t.
Because fate—or something far more annoying—clearly hated him.
A blur of cobalt and that all-too-familiar voice broke the silence.
“Shadow! Mind if I sit here?” Sonic asked, in what could only be described as an energetic whisper. A contradiction in itself.
Shadow looked up just long enough to throw a dry eye roll in his direction before lowering his gaze and returning to his notes.
“Guess that’s a yes,” Sonic muttered to himself as he dropped his bag beside the chair and sat down like he owned the place.
He placed an open can of soda between them—too close for comfort—and set a book down with an audible thud before cracking it open.
Shadow’s eye twitched.
He glanced at the can. Open. Condensation forming at the edges. Sitting way too close to his notebook. “You should move that.”
Sonic barely looked up. “Oh, this? Nah, it’s fine. It’s not gonna spill.”
Shadow stared at him. Then at the can. Then back at him.
He wanted to argue. He really did. But the weight of the day was already pulling at his shoulders, and arguing with Sonic was its own kind of exhausting.
So he huffed. A short, annoyed exhale through his nose. And went back to writing—though a little more forcefully now.
The soda can sat there, bold as ever, like it was daring him to snap.
The silence barely lasted five more minutes.
Sonic had settled, flipping through the pages of his book, when it happened.
A small miscalculation. A flick of his hand. The open can of soda tipped.
And then everything unraveled.
The fizzing liquid spilled fast, pooling across the table like it had been waiting for the chance. It spread under Sonic’s palm and straight into Shadow’s notebook. The pages absorbed it instantly—ink smearing, paper crinkling, everything tainted with a sticky, sugary mess.
Sonic froze.
“Shadow, I—”
But he barely got the words out.
Shadow stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. His expression had gone cold—no, colder than cold. It was fury frozen still.
He stared at the notebook in disbelief, chest rising and falling as if trying to keep something in check. The soda continued to bleed across the pages, spreading across the last things he’d written. Thoughts. Notes. Doodles. Fragments of his day, his mind. His quiet.
Gone.
He raked a hand through his quills, exhaling through gritted teeth. Then, with a sharp movement, he turned to Sonic.
Before Sonic could fully register what was happening, Shadow grabbed a handful of his blazer’s collar and yanked him forward—not violently, but firm enough to make his breath catch.
Sonic’s hands quickly reached for Shadow’s, trying to ease the grip. His brows furrowed, breath unsteady. Panic twisted in his chest as guilt settled heavy behind his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to—”
But the words died as Shadow leaned in, his grip tightening, his brows low and voice cold enough to bite.
“I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.”
It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t need to be. The quiet intensity was enough to make Sonic feel like the walls were closing in.
Then Shadow let go, a shove pushing Sonic back into his chair hard enough that the legs scraped and his balance tilted. He caught himself, barely, the air leaving his lungs in a short breath as he watched Shadow throw his bag over his shoulder.
Shadow didn’t even glance back at the notebook.
He just walked out.
Sonic sat there, stunned, watching the flicker of Shadow’s retreating silhouette disappear between the bookshelves and out through the door.
The soda still lingered on the table. The air felt thicker now, like the tension hadn’t fully left.
Sonic lowered his eyes to the notebook, its pages curled and ruined with patches of blue ink running in blurred trails. His throat felt tight.
“I’m sorry, Shadow…” he whispered, barely audible.
He reached out, carefully closing the cover—his fingers brushing over the soaked spine. Even in its ruined state, Sonic could feel the weight of it. Not just physically. This notebook meant something to him.
And now it was ruined because of him.
He slid the notebook toward himself. If there was anything left he could do—anything at all to fix it—he had to try.
He wasn’t just going to let this be the end.
Shadow stormed out through the school gates, the soles of his shoes striking hard against the pavement with every step. Frustration bubbled up with each movement, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He barely noticed the golden hue of dusk falling over the schoolyard, or the breeze brushing through the trees. His mind was elsewhere—spiraling, steaming.
By the time he reached the café just around the corner, the sky had already begun to turn orange. He shoved the glass door open with more force than necessary, the small bell above it giving a sharp jingle that earned a few startled glances from nearby customers.
He didn’t care.
Not about the people. Not about the noise. Not about the mess he probably looked like.
His eyes immediately landed on their usual table by the window. Rouge was already there, her fingers wrapped tightly around a half-finished drink. She was staring at him before he even got close—her brow furrowed, lips parted, eyes scanning him with worry.
He didn’t say a word as he slid into the seat across from her. His hands curled into fists on the table, and he dropped his head forward with a quiet thud, exhaling like the day had wrung him dry.
“Shadow, I— What even happened?” Rouge’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hum of the café like a blade. She leaned forward, concern flaring behind her lashes. “You look like you got hit by a bus. Then backed over. Twice!” She held up two fingers across his face.
Shadow didn’t respond at first. His fingers dug into his palms as he slowly lifted his head, pressing his temple into one hand like he was trying to keep the world from spinning.
“Can I tell you something?” he muttered, voice low and uneven.
Rouge nodded immediately. “Anything—yes. If it explains why you look like you’re about to start flipping tables.”
Shadow let out a breath through his nose and sat back slightly, though his shoulders remained tense.
“I’m just so…” he began, trailing off in a frustrated groan. “I’m so sick of that pestering blue hedgehog.”
Shadow jabbed a finger onto the table like he was marking the crime scene. “Ever since he walked into this godforsaken school, it’s like everything got worse.”
“I was just living my life,” he continued, gesturing vaguely. “Quiet. Peaceful. No drama. Then he shows up with that smug, shit-eating grin like he owns the place. And out of nowhere, he starts competing with me, irritating me, inserting himself into every corner of my day.”
He folded his arms with a dramatic huff, eyes sharp. “He’s made it his mission to personally ruin my life.”
Rouge blinked again, trying to keep up. “What did he do this time?”
“At break, he gave me a strawberry milk,” Shadow snapped, then faltered, like he realized how ridiculous it sounded. “Asked me if I was okay.”
Rouge’s brows knit together. “That’s… sweet?”
“No. No, it’s manipulation.”
He leaned forward, voice tightening. “Then I go downstairs to grab my textbook, and guess what I find in my locker? Another strawberry milk. With a note. A note, Rouge.”
His expression softened for a moment—just barely—as he added, “I actually thought for a second that—” But he cut himself off, shaking his head and dragging his hands down his face in frustration.
“And just when I finally get to the library—my one safe space—he shows up again. With a soda can. Opened.”
“Five minutes in, and he knocks it over. Right onto my notebook.”
“The one with—?”
“The one with everything. My lessons. My sketches. My writing. My thoughts.” He was nearly growling now, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “It’s ruined. The ink bled through. The pages stuck together. It’s gone.”
He slumped back, exasperated, like the damage was irreversible—and not just to the notebook.
“He ruined yesterday, and now he’s taken today too.”
He ran a hand through his quills again, letting the irritation settle into something heavier, quieter.
Then, under his breath—barely audible, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—he added, “Can’t believe I even dreamt about him this morning. That’s why I was late.”
Rouge stared at him, stunned into silence. Her cup had stopped halfway to her mouth. For a second, she just blinked, mouth open slightly like she was still processing what she just heard.
Shadow didn’t meet her gaze. He was too busy staring out the window, expression unreadable. The sun was dipping behind the buildings, casting a gold tint over the sidewalk. His reflection barely registered in the glass.
Rouge finally set her drink down gently, eyes still on him.
“…You dreamt about him?”
Shadow said nothing.
She raised an eyebrow. Slowly. “Uh-huh.”
Shadow let his head drop onto the table with a quiet, miserable groan.
“Anyway, first—breathe,” Rouge said, lifting a hand gently in front of her like a traffic officer trying to de-escalate a five-car pile-up. “Calm down, Shadow.”
Her voice, though calm, carried a firmness that didn’t allow room for argument. She inhaled slowly and made a dramatic point of exhaling with control, nodding toward him to follow her lead.
Shadow, still coiled up with frustration, stared at her blankly before finally letting out a shaky breath. Then another.
“In,” she guided softly, “and out.”
He did. Not gracefully, not completely relaxed—but enough to loosen his shoulders and pull the storm back just slightly.
Rouge offered a small, careful smile. “There. Much better?”
He nodded, slow and reluctant. His eyes met hers only briefly before he adjusted his posture, resting his back against his chair and letting his arms fall to his lap instead of the table edge he had nearly clawed through.
Rouge leaned in, lacing her fingers together in front of her like they were about to negotiate a ceasefire.
“Alright,” she said, her tone soft but serious. “There’s obviously a lot going on here.”
Shadow didn’t respond, but his eyes flickered toward her—watchful, waiting.
“But what do you want to do about all of it?”
Her voice lowered to a near-whisper, less like a friend offering advice and more like someone asking how far he was willing to go.
Shadow didn’t answer immediately. He glanced off to the side, jaw tight, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. His fingers twitched slightly, tapping against his thigh.
Then, with a scoff, he muttered, “I want him to stop whatever bullshit he’s pulling.”
The words came out through clenched teeth, and his eyes rolled with practiced annoyance.
Rouge tilted her head. “Okay, fair. But let me ask you something.”
She gave him a long look.
“Do you hate him?”
That caught him off guard. Shadow blinked slowly, as if the question had taken a moment to fully register. He didn’t answer right away, and when he finally did, his voice was lower. More tired than angry.
“I didn’t even think about him before. Couldn’t care less.” He shrugged faintly, frowning. “But lately… he’s everywhere. Always doing something. And it’s really getting to me.”
Rouge hummed thoughtfully, tapping a single finger against her chin. She looked around the café once, scanning for any listening ears—then leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, her eyes sharper now. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, just subtle enough to be dangerous.
“I think…” she murmured, voice dropping as if she were about to reveal classified intel, “I’ve got a solution to your little problem.”
Shadow raised an eyebrow. Slowly. He said nothing, but his expression said enough: he was listening.
“And what exactly is it?” Shadow asked, his voice flat. Unimpressed. His arms folded, brows drawn low, but his foot tapped beneath the table—an involuntary twitch betraying his curiosity.
Rouge leaned back in her chair, adjusting her posture like she’d just stepped into her own personal boardroom. Her gaze sharpened. The café light reflected in her eyes, calm but calculating.
“Let’s make a bet,” she said smoothly, confidence blooming in her voice.
Shadow raised an eyebrow.
“Three hundred bucks.”
That got his attention. His expression shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly—but enough. His foot stopped tapping.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
“I’m not kidding.” Her tone turned firm, grounded. No hint of teasing. Just solid steel wrapped in silk. “Three hundred dollars. If you can get Blue to hate you.”
Shadow blinked. He looked like he was still waiting for the punchline.
“Not annoyed, not mildly irritated,” Rouge continued, lifting her fingers one by one. “I mean loathe you. Detest you. Completely hate you. In ten weeks. That’s two and a half months of you doing whatever it takes to drive him away.”
She paused deliberately, watching his face for any flicker of emotion. When he opened his mouth, she cut in before he could form a thought.
“If you manage it,” she said with a smirk, “he’ll leave you alone for good. Just like you want, right?”
Shadow stared at her, his brows furrowing further, the weight of her offer settling in. He leaned forward slightly, almost confused.
“You really think it’d take me that long?”
Rouge gave a soft laugh, casual and knowing. She took another sip of her drink, letting the moment hang before answering.
“Come on, Shadow. We both know it’s not that simple.” Her voice dipped a little, thoughtful. “Sonic’s got that golden heart in him. You could humiliate him, trip him, dropkick his locker, and he’d still flash that stupid grin and ask if you’re okay.”
Shadow scoffed. “I could make him hate me in a week.”
“Then great,” she said sweetly, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. “Easiest three hundred bucks you’ll ever make. Unless…” Her lips curled. “You’re scared?” She said with a tilt of her head.
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not scared.”
Rouge leaned closer, locking eyes with him now, voice low, coaxing—almost challenging. “Then prove it.”
She drummed her fingers against the table, her words deliberate.
“Make the golden boy loathe your guts. Make him wish he’d never met you. Make him cry in front of his little cheer squad and tell everyone how horrible you are.”
Shadow exhaled through his nose. “That’s the bet?”
“Not quite.” She raised a finger, expression shifting from smug to sharp.
“If he falls for you instead…” Her eyes glittered, and her grin widened like a trap closing. “You owe me three hundred.”
Shadow froze.
He stared at her like she’d just asked him to build a rocket. “Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I make him fall in love with me?”
“That’s the catch,” Rouge replied, swirling what remained of her drink. “You’re not trying to. All you have to do is make him hate you. Break his stupid, sunshine heart. Simple.”
She tilted her head.
“Unless, of course…” she added with a knowing gleam, “he’s impossible to hate. Even for you.”
Shadow didn’t respond. He looked away, jaw tight, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder and out the café window where dusk had finally settled. The sky was darker now. Bluer. Quieter.
Every single day, without fail, that damn grin greeted him.
Always bright. Always loud. Always there—like some kind of cosmic punishment.
Shadow didn’t know what was worse: the way Sonic carried himself with that effortless confidence, or the way the entire school seemed to revolve around him. That obnoxious laugh that echoed down hallways. The way he talked like he owned the air. The ridiculous title: Golden Heartthrob—as if that wasn’t the most insufferable thing he’d ever heard.
He was reckless, showy, too good at everything without even trying. He made teachers melt and students grin. People followed him like gravity.
And somehow—somehow—he always found a way to talk to him.
As if they were equals. As if they were friends.
As if Sonic saw something in him worth understanding.
And Shadow hated that.
He hated the way Sonic looked at him like there was more to see. He hated the stupid strawberry milk on his desk. The soda in the library. The question, “Are you okay?” whispered like it meant something.
Maybe Rouge was right. If he made Sonic hate him—truly, genuinely loathe him—then maybe that relentless attention would finally vanish. Sonic would stop looking at him like that. Stop trying.
And then, maybe, Shadow could finally have what he used to enjoy so easily: quiet. Control. Distance.
Peace.
His fingers tapped against the edge of the table. Once. Twice. A slow rhythm in the low hum of the café, just beneath the murmur of conversation and the clink of coffee cups. A thought sharpened inside him. An edge.
Then a smirk ghosted over his lips.
Small. Dangerous.
“Alright,” he said finally, voice low, smooth, laced with something sharp. “Deal.”
Rouge leaned back in her chair with crossed arms, clearly satisfied, like a chess player who just watched their opponent move a pawn exactly where she wanted it.
“Mmm. I’m telling you, Shadow…” she murmured, almost sing-song, a flicker of thrill in her tone, “I’ve got instincts for these things.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. She was already enjoying herself too much.
Ten weeks.
It was plenty. Maybe even too generous.
Shadow’s mind had already begun moving ahead—calculating, preparing. He could see it clearly: the look on Sonic’s face when it finally broke through to him that Shadow wasn’t like how he thought he would be. Wasn’t interested. Wasn’t someone worth reaching for.
He pictured the moment Sonic would walk away for good.
The quiet that would follow.
He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes flickered.
This wasn’t going to be difficult.
And so, with one final glance out the café window where the sky was now washed in navy and the streetlights hummed to life—
Let the loathing begin.