Prologue: Gravity of Northern Star

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

"Forget luxury. Calculating the lifespan of a star? Now that's elite."

If anyone tells you a name holds destiny, punch them in the face. Seriously.

Because Kyle 'Zee' Han De La Cruz Martinez? That's not destiny. That's a historical document that takes three lines to write on an exam paper.

"Kyle Zee Han De La Cruz Martinez!"

Roaring sounds echoed from the downstairs kitchen—fueled by Aunt Maria's lungs and a frying pan.

"If you don't get your long-ass, multi-border passport of a body down here in three seconds, I am feeding your astronomy books to the neighbor's bulldog!"

"I'm up! I'm functional! I am a contributing member of society!"

Kyle scrambled out of bed—but not before his hands reached for the battered headphones on his pillow. He clamped them on, tapped his phone, and let The 1985's "You & Me Together Song" blast his brain into consciousness.

He navigated the narrow clearing between half-soldered circuit boards, stacked Astrophysics Journals, and a vintage Newtonian telescope that had colonized forty percent of his bedroom floor. Calling it a "bedroom" was a legal stretch. It was a mad scientist's garage compressed into a terraced house on Didsbury Road, Heaton Mersey.

The only constant companion through the clutter was the low murmur of his monitor—the B.A.S.E. podcast he'd left running overnight. A staticky voice was still dissecting Capella's irregular pulsations, as if the universe itself was trying to tell him something he couldn't quite hear. Outside, the usual Stockport drizzle tapped against the window, mixing with the distant smell of chip oil.

Chaos, as it happened, had witnesses.”

He shared the house with his aunt and grandmother—the two women who raised him on absolute love, severe threats, and traditional stews.

But love didn't get him dressed.

Navy St. Jude's trousers were the only part of the uniform he couldn't bypass. For the upper half, his oversized black hoodie went over the white shirt, rumpled collar poking out in cheerful defiance.

He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. Porcelain skin from his chaotic heritage. Lips too pink. Eyes that crinkled into crescent moons whenever he was planning something stupid. Which was often.

"Oh, look at you, puppy," Kyle muttered, adjusting his messy hair and clubmaster glasses. "The pride of the scholarship board. The boy whose name takes three lines."

That was the bane of his existence. Every substitute teacher did the same routine. The pause. The squint. The theatrical throat-clear. By the third syllable, the back row was already firing: "Hey Martinez, did your parents just point at an atlas?"

"Idiots," Kyle muttered, hoisting his backpack—heavy as a scooter, crammed with every science textbook he owned.

"—Open wide the gates of heaven. I ride upon the dark clouds—"

"Yeah, yeah. Very poetic." Kyle slapped the monitor off, slung the bag over his shoulder, and checked his watch. The smartwatch display read 7:31 AM — 22nd September, 2037.

St. Jude's International High Academic, Wilmslow, locked its gates at 8:15. Stockport station was twelve minutes away. The Northern train ran every twenty minutes and took eight. From Wilmslow station to the gates was another eight-minute walk.

Total: twenty-eight minutes. Perfectly manageable for a person who was already awake.

Kyle was neither of those things.

He stared at the watch. The watch stared back.

"...Mathematical impossibility."

He bolted downstairs, snatched toast from Aunt Maria's hand, kissed his grandmother's, and dove into the cold Stockport air.

The 7:33 train was already a ghost. The 7:53 would land him at Wilmslow at 8:01—leaving fourteen minutes for an eight-minute walk, assuming no red lights, no crowds, no acts of God.

A thin, humiliating, purely theoretical margin.

Kyle bit into his toast and ran.

Heaton Mersey blurred past in wet brick and gray sky. He cut through the ginnel behind the shops—shaving ninety seconds at the cost of disturbing two stray cats with strong opinions. He vaulted a low wall, clipped his knee on a crate, hit the pavement in a graceless roll, and was back up before the embarrassment could settle.

The 7:53 was made. Just barely—sliding through the doors as they hissed shut, lungs burning, hair a disaster, toast somehow still intact.

Eight minutes later, he stepped off at Wilmslow. 8:02 AM. Thirteen minutes left. Technically possible.

He broke into a sprint.

With its clean streets, independent boutiques, and artisan coffee shops selling flat whites at soul-wincing prices, Wilmslow exuded pure affluence—a fact emphasized by the high-end autonomous pod that slid silently past Kyle.

"What a sovereign day!"

He cut through Grove Street, rounded the corner at 8:13, panting like a dying engine, and the grand courtyard of St. Jude's came into view.

Three steps from the pedestrian gate, a hand shot out—blocking his path.

Skidding to a halt, Kyle found a prefect in a crisp white blazer blocking his way. Silver badge gleaming, clipboard already raised.

"Hoodie. Off."

A blink. "It's cold."

"Regulations. Blazer or shirt only. No outerwear beyond the gates."

His mouth opened to argue—then caught the prefect's gaze flicking toward the head of security, who was already watching from the drop-off zone.

"...Fine."

The hoodie came off with theatrical defeat, the rumpled white shirt underneath breathing its first daylight. A satisfied nod from the prefect, a step aside.

Kyle walked through.

And immediately—with the prefect already scanning for his next victim—the hoodie went right back over his head.

"Regulations," he muttered under his breath, grinning. "What regulations? I make the rules here."

He checked his watch. 8:07 AM.

"Nah, mate—still got time."

Off again.

The sun shone over the sprawling campus. Students chatted in clusters. Couples held hands near the ornamental garden. Professors crossed with stacks of books. Polished shoes. Crisp uniforms. The quiet hum of a school that had never needed to advertise.

Near the drop-off zone, the atmosphere shifted.

A hush rippled through the crowd.

Into the drop-off zone rolled a sleek black electric sedan—tinted windows like polished obsidian. The door clicked open.

Yve Wang stepped out.

Same Year 10 as Kyle. But that was where the similarities ended. He'd arrived that autumn on a scholarship. She'd been here since Year 7—as permanent as the oak-panelled walls of the main hall.

Her background alone set her apart.

Claire Nicholson, her mother, was an Academy Award-winning actress. Her father, a world-renowned classical musician and traditional poet from one of Hong Kong's most established families. The tabloids called her "the heiress who refuses to pose." Yve called them irrelevant.

But her lineage was only part of the picture. What truly commanded attention was the way she carried herself.

She wore the tailored white St. Jude's blazer, a navy midi skirt that moved like it had been cut for her, and oversized dark sunglasses that sealed away piercing green eyes. Her blonde hair caught the morning breeze and fell behind her like spilled silk.

Her posture was rigid, cold, self-contained.

To the casual observer, she was the untouchable heiress. But beneath that flawless surface, her mind cycled through chemical structures and medical terminology she'd been reviewing since six that morning.

Yve had Mosaic Down Syndrome—a genetic variation that touched only a fraction of her cells. Her mind was intact, sharper than most. But the way she moved through the world was different. Most people never noticed. Those who did never understood.

She had built precision out of necessity. The rigid routines. The clinical detachment. The economy of words. None of it was coldness. It was architecture.

Socializing wasn't why she'd come to St. Jude's. She was here to dismantle the academic curve, build a medical portfolio, and secure a place at the highest-ranking university on the planet.

"Good morning, Miss Wang," the security chief nodded.

A microscopic nod in return. Words were currency; she didn't spend them on pleasantries.

Five steps into the courtyard.

Then the universe disregarded its own rules.

Sreeeech!

Kyle came barreling through the side gate—hoodie askew, backpack slipping, face flushed from desperate cardio. He arrested his momentum a few feet from Yve's path, took a rattling gulp of air, and looked up.

There she was. The untouchable girl from the news.

Most people would have backed away. But Kyle's survival instinct had been replaced by unfiltered confidence. He tore open a piece of bubblegum, popped it in his mouth, and chewed with slow, unbothered rhythm.

"Well, hello there. Proper diva, aren't ya?"

Yve froze.

The entire courtyard froze with her. Somewhere in the background, a younger student dropped his iPad.

People spoke to Yve in hushed tones—or avoided her entirely. No one—absolutely no one—addressed her like a cheap pop star on a street corner.

Her sunglasses tilted down.

And there he was. The same breed of idiot boy that existed in every school. Hoodie over unbuttoned shirt. Navy trousers dusted at the knees. Bubblegum between his teeth. Crescent moon eyes locked onto hers with lazy confidence that suggested they were already old friends.

The smirk on his porcelain face was practically requesting a physical response.

Across the top rim of her sunglasses, Yve observed him. Green eyes at liquid nitrogen temperature. A single-second analysis: elevated heart rate, mild perspiration, questionable wardrobe, and a psychological profile indicating a severe absence of self-preservation instinct.

"Do you require neurological evaluation?" Her voice was low, flat, a scalpel. "Because that is the only logical explanation for your verbal output."

Kyle didn't blink. His smirk widened.

"Ouch. Illogical. But nah, my brain's at ninety-four percent capacity, baddie." He leaned in. "I've had my eyes on you since I transferred."

He flashed his best charming smile, completely misreading the room.

"The name's Kyle. But you can call me—"

Yve didn't wait. She snapped her sunglasses back into place, turned, and walked away as if he were a stray particle of dust.

The silence that followed had weight.

In the dead quiet, Kyle blew a massive pink bubble. It collapsed against his nose with a loud, pathetic pop.

Then the dam broke.

"Oh, did you see that?" an older student laughed. "The scholarship kid thought he had a chance!"

"'Hello there, proper diva'? What is this, a 90s sitcom?"

"Aw, but rumor has it that girl already has a fiancé."

"Martinez, go back to the lab! You're leaking idiot juice!"

Kyle's hand dropped. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish smile replacing the smirk. He wasn't mad. If you spent your life being the weird kid who talked to stars and built radios from garbage, you developed skin thicker than tank armor.

"Tough crowd," he muttered. "But hey, she spoke to me. Net positive."

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

St. Jude's ran on a Set System—academic streaming for every subject. Set 1 for the prodigies. The middle sets for the competent. The bottom sets for the optimistic.

Kyle had been placed in Set 1 for every core subject since the start of term—a placement that had earned him the quiet resentment of old-money students who felt he'd stolen their seats.

He ducked into Tutor Group as the bell rang. Roll call passed. Then the bell sent everyone migrating again.

Professor Langford's cleared throat meant begin today's suffering. Additional Mathematics: matrix transformations and complex numbers—equations complex enough to make a teenager contemplate career alternatives.

Kyle wasn't watching the board. Under his desk, hidden beneath his exercise book, he'd cracked open a university text on topology. The curriculum content was automatic. Half his mind was already elsewhere.

"It's actually really easy, you bunch of mongrels," he muttered.

Crinkle.

Snap.

A pink explosion between his teeth. Several heads turned with the synchronized wariness of prey detecting movement.

"Oops. My bad."

In Chemistry, his scholarship scores again dictated his placement. He spent the two-hour block hand-drawing atomic structures while the rest used modelling software. Kyle preferred manual work. It kept his hands occupied and his mind anchored.

From across the lecture hall, he caught a glimpse of Yve in the front row. A lone girl sat beside her—the only soul brave enough to claim an adjacent seat.The rest of the row was a complete dead zone. 

Her freezing aura kept everyone at bay, while the terrifyingly dense notes on her desk, looking like a postgraduate medical dissertation, scared off the rest.

"Damn," Kyle muttered under his breath. "Absolutely ice queen, no? Bet she's got like... one best mate. Tops."

She didn't glance back. She moved through the room like a ghost running on a perfect algorithm.

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

By lunch, Kyle had reached his threshold for human interaction. The whispers about his morning performance were still in circulation. The dining hall was a social minefield.

So he did what he always did when the world got too loud.

He went up.

The rooftop door to the old science building was supposed to be locked. But a locked door was just a suggestion written in metal. Thirty seconds with a piece of copper wire, and the electronic tumbler gave a cooperative click.

Heavy door groaned open. Cool, clean Manchester air washed over him.

Kyle stepped onto the wide, flat rooftop. Stone balustrade on all sides. The modern courtyard below. The low, gray Cheshire skyline stretching out. The wind washed away the smell of floor polish and well-funded teenage arrogance.

He dropped his backpack near a concrete ventilation unit, sat with his back against the balustrade, legs stretched out, sky open above him. He pulled out his notebook—battered, spiral-bound, dense with telescope coordinates, circuit diagrams, and late-night proofs.

"Now, let's see," Kyle murmured. "If I want to increase lens magnification without distorting the spectrum..."

For ten minutes, the world was right. No mockery. No long names. Just him, the paper, and the laws of physics—patient, consistent, indifferent to social hierarchy.

From here, he could see the whole school. Tiny figures moving like ants in an expensive glass farm.

His gaze drifted to a familiar white blazer near the greenhouse. Yve. She hadn't gone to the dining hall either. She was crouched beside a botanical research bed, medical kit beside her, movements precise and deliberate. Even from the roof, her focus was sharp. Entirely alone.

"A girl like a frozen star," Kyle murmured, twirling his pencil. "Bright as hell. But you get too close..." He blew a slow breath. "...and you're ice before you know it."

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let the Cheshire sun settle over his face. For a moment, he felt like he might belong somewhere.

Then the sky tore itself apart.

BOOM!!!

"BLOODY SIRIUS?!"

The sound slammed through the air—a physical pressure that hit his chest like a closed fist. The concrete shuddered. His eyes snapped open. His pencil rolled off the edge and vanished into the abyss below.

Down in the courtyard, the peaceful atmosphere collapsed. Screams—raw and immediate—cut through the air. Students scattered like a deck of cards thrown against the wind.

Kyle lunged to his feet, gripping the balustrade.

A massive plume of thick, oily black smoke boiled up from downtown, barely half a mile away. The explosion had originated near the high-tech research facility owned by Caelum Industries—one of St. Jude's primary corporate sponsors.

But it wasn't just smoke.

Through the churning clouds, something else shimmered—a localized distortion in the air, colder than heat haze. Crimson sparks arced through the sky. And beneath everything ran a low, rhythmic thrumming that Kyle felt more in his back teeth than his ears.

"That's... not a gas leak." His eyes were wide. His mind was already running calculations. Energy output. Distortion radius. Frequency of arcing. "That's a localized electromagnetic rupture. What the hell are they building over there?"

Lockdown sirens whooped across the campus. Security staff shouted through megaphones, directing students to reinforced bunkers.

Kyle's gaze swept the courtyard for one specific white blazer.

Yve was still near the greenhouse. She hadn't run. Her medical kit was on the ground, both hands gripping her bag strap, her head turned toward the smoke with intense calculation rather than panic. But she was directly in the path of a stampede.

"I need to get down there."

He took one step.

A sound stopped him.

Not a scream. Not a siren.

A low, dry, rhythmic rattle—the kind that didn't belong on a rooftop, four floors above the ground.

Sssssssss...

Kyle froze. Every muscle locked. Cold sweat broke along his collarbone—the specific way the brain processed danger before the conscious mind caught up. Slowly, with the agonizing deliberation of someone looking at a loaded gun, he turned his head toward the ventilation unit.

Emerging from a narrow gap between brickwork and metal housing was a shadow.

Not a shadow. A snake.

Four feet long. Its body was split cleanly in two-one half matte black, the other pristine white. The black side absorbed daylight instead of reflecting it, like a tear in the visible world. Down its spine, a sharp line split behind the head into two wing-shaped markings.

Its eyes were the worst part.

Not the flat, glassy slits of a reptile. Large, luminous, glowing with an intense milky-white light—the cold light of something that should not exist in any field guide.

This snake didn't move the way snakes moved. No side-to-side drift. No casual reptilian grace. It tracked Kyle with mechanical precision, its entire body oriented toward him like a sensor locking on.

"H-hey there, buddy..."

Retreating was useless, but the feet moved on instinct anyway.

Clack.

Rubber soles met the edge of the balustrade. No more room.

"...I don't know how you got up here, but you're definitely not from around here."

A scythe-shaped head darted forward, its flared neck mimicking a wolf's jaw.

Panic drowned out all logic. Rationality demanded flight, yet those ancient, milky eyes held a crushing weight that paralyzed the body.

Tension accumulated rapidly as the snake coiled its massive body like a compressed spring.

Black smoke engulfed the Manchester sky, carrying the faint wail of sirens.

But none of the noise penetrated this forgotten rooftop.

Stranded before a nightmare, an idiot boy with the impossible name stood paralyzed, entirely unaware his old life had just expired.

Hidden within the haze, a cloaked silhouette watched without making a sound.

Shadows fractured.

Whoosh!

The snake struck.