As he entered the key code into his neighborhood's gate, Jean re alized the full breadth of his hatred for this place. A single house here could provide for at least five families, but most were occupied by superfluous families of four, two cars, and various types of socially respectable pets. Each house contained a dynasty. This part of town sustained the maid business all on its own, summoning shadow people to clean the show rooms, the unlivable spaces that were never used. It was a crime, the way these ballroom-sized expanses stood empty. Jean's family had at least four: the Holiday dinner room, the guests-visiting-from-out-of-town parlor, and two guest bedrooms each with their own bath that hadn't seen a living soul in years, if ever. His father had a smoking room in the basement that he thought Jean didn't know about, where he'd have his buddies over for whatever it is wealthy businessmen do. 'Probably drugs or gambling,' Jean thought bitterly.

Jean's motorbike growled loudly as he dipped across the broad, slinking roads. Making the sound reverberate against the mansion windows was his way of snubbing this life, of giving a giant middle finger to the person his parents wanted him to be. He didn't want to live up to their flawed expectations; he wanted to be himself, whoever that was. He wanted to be free.

He turned into his driveway, a meandering circle that wound its way from the curb to the porch and back. As a kid, it's brickwork had been a canvas to him, to be colored endlessly with chalk. Where before he'd created worlds, now he only left skid marks. As he parked beside the house, he noticed with a wave of respite that his dad's Tesla was missing. He took off his helmet, and sat starting at it in his hands for several moments.

'I haven't earned a single thing in my life. Everything I have has been handed to me. I'm sitting here being pissed because I have all I could ever want, but I don't want a single piece of it. I'm sure Armin could deduce a million ways I'm being a prick.' He sneered at himself, scuffing at the ground with his feet. Hopping off the bike, he gingerly placed the helmet on the seat and keyed in the garage code. The door grated open slowly as his eyes burned holes into the tops of his shoes. The garage was dotted with immaculately organized tools and other domestic detritus, but the spot where his mother parked her Lexus was empty. It wasn't unusual for Jean to have the house to himself; his parents were often out schmoozing with their clients. After the days he'd been having lately, it was a relief to have a moment alone, to be able to breathe freely.

He bounded into his house, fully intent on playing his music loud enough for it to be heard three houses over, hoping the distortion would drown out his guilt. Then he saw it: slick, brightly colored paper tucked between the day's mail. Tentatively he pulled it out, the weight of his realization causing him to drop it. The words glared up at him, aggressively cheerful:

TROST MILITARY ACADEMY, A SOLUTION FOR TROUBLED TEENS.

Boys in military dress blues look solemnly out at him, holding gleaming white rifles against their shoulders. Jean swore under his breath, then over it, louder and louder until his voice started to feel hoarse.

As if on cue, he heard the garage door open. He wheeled around, aiming his finger at the pamphlet like a weapon. He was practically screaming by the time his parents opened the door, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" He snatched up the paper and threw it at his father, pretending it was a brick. It lightly bounced off of his linen shirt, but his father refused to pick up. Stepping over it, he walked past Jean as if there was only empty space.

A fabricated voice followed his father out of the garage, "Jean Kirschstein, stop the nonsense this instant. That is not how you speak to your father." His mother walked by him, hanging up her fur coat in the closet. Even though it wasn't cold enough out for it, she almost never took the thing off in public.

Jean ground his teeth in anger, "I'll say whatever I goddamn wan-"

Smack! An open palm caught him full on the mouth, and he staggered backwards in surprise. His father towered over him, an expression of calm menace on his face. Jean's father had always made him feel like a small wounded animal, alive by his grace but just barely. A conditional survival. Jean touched his lips gingerly, glaring up at the man who held the cage door. Like he needed another bruise.

"Come now, boys. We're adults here, aren't we? Let's discuss this as adults," his mom clucked. She had glided over to the large kitchen table and was sitting there smiling placidly, vacantly . His father took a seat beside her at the head of the table.

Jean sat down as far away from them as he purposefully could, defiantly refusing to make eye contact until his mother sighed. Her words made him grind his fingernails into the cherry wood. His voice trembled in his throat, edged with anger and defeat, "You're giving me an ultimatum?"

"You've given us no choice, Jean," His father said in his slippery, public voice, "Your continual lack of initiative and your bottomless pit grades are inexcusable. We will not let you tarnish the Kirschstein name with this foolishness. The neighbors mock us behind our backs because of your antics, and we suffer it with a smile. Not anymore. We cannot afford for you to be a liability."

The calmness with which his father was disowning him left Jean unsurprised and pissed off. "Military school is your alternative? You think I'm some animal you can just throw in a pen when it misbehaves?"

"Ah, so you agree that your behavior is unacceptable?" His mom chimed in, too much happiness in her words.

Jean flung himself out of his chair, hands crashing down onto the table. "All you care about is what the fucking neighbors say about you," he hissed. "I'm your son, I'm a human being, not a showdog you can use to make yourself look better for everyone else."

His father's jaw was clenched tightly. "This is what needs to be done, Jean. There's no alternative." The flatness of his voice indicated that any discussion beyond this point would be futile. The imposing man stood up and walked out of the kitchen as if he'd just finished his breakfast.

Jean's mother placed her hand on his for comfort, but he yanked it away. "Honey, this is what's best for you," she cooed.

"How would you know what's best for me? You're never home! Mom, I've been studying. I have a tutor, a boy named Armin, and he's helping me bring my grades up. I'm getting my shit together, there's no need for an ultimatum," he pleaded. "I'm going to make this work."

She smiled at him, a creepy grin that made his skin crawl. "If there's no use for it, then there's no harm in having it, is there?" Triumphantly, she stood and followed her husband out.

Jean slammed his fist on the table, making the place settings jump. He hated how his parents could appear so serene when the world around them was comprised of shit. Prefab shit, crumbling piece by piece. He'd rip it all down with his bare hands so they could see it, force them to look at the pompous façade of a life they'd made for themselves. He hated this counterfeit existence, hated his parents open acknowledgement of contempt for him. He kicked his chair forcefully, then thundered up the staircase to his room. Slamming his door behind him, he heard the cage door click shut.

He hadn't slept well; he'd past the night with his thoughts drumming in circles across his brain. Jean had never been one to find the military attractive. Of course it was necessary to some extent, but he flinched at the idea of being a part of it. To eat, sleep, and shit when told. To be obedient. His parents were always trying to cast him into their mold, but this was a dramatic new development. His face felt hot, his hands clenched the pillowcase hard. 'I refuse to be someone else's toy soldier. I refuse to live for anyone but myself.' He'd woken up suddenly, with a bitter taste in his mouth.

Forcing himself up the front steps of the school, he dragged his feet haggardly beneath him. He didn't have much to look forward to, but at least he'd be able to see Armin. His stomach lilted at the memory of how the boy's face lit up for that fraction of a moment in front of the library. The idea that someone would be excited to see him felt foreign; being noticed didn't quite suit him. The attention made him ravenous, the hope Armin had offered him glinted like the tip of a skyscraper. He saw Armin sitting at the top, hypnotic hand motions calling him forward. He had only to climb up.

Jean drifted out of his reverie when he saw Armin standing casually at the entrance to their class, reading. 'Is he..waiting for me?' Jean grinned and picked up his pace. Glancing up from his book briefly, Armin caught sight of Jean. He smiled slightly before it gradually wilted into a tight grimace.

"Hey Armin, look! I brought my books today," Jean beamed at him, twisting to show off his ratty red backpack.

Subtly, Armin increased the distance between them. "Congratulations, you've completed step one," he mumbled. Jean sought to close the space, but Armin backed up until he was against a row of lockers. The smile faded from Jean's face. "Armin what's wrong?" he stammered.

Armin stared pointedly at Jean's mouth, eyes narrowed. "You lied to me, didn't you?" The words dripped with distain, and he tore his eyes away.

Jean became acutely aware of his split lip. He started to defend himself, had ten thousand explanations lined up, but he hesitated. He always made excuses, things were never his fault. He could never admit to any flaw. 'Isn't time he took responsibility for myself? To become my own person involves taking claim of my life, for better or worse.' He stuttered the beginnings of several sentences, his hands limply tracing ineffectual shapes through the air, but no words came out.

'And I believed you,' Armin whispered, biting his lower lip. Jean watched Armin's halo of light dim, his heart falling when found himself casting the shadow. Dejectedly, the blonde turned to enter their classroom.

'Armin, wait.' The boy stopped, looking back at him pensively through the edges of his hair. 'Armin I tried to leave,' Jean pleaded. 'I told them I was leaving, but Levi has his own motives. He said I had to stay until..' he paused, feeling the weight of what he was about to say force itself between them. "There's going to be a rumble."

Armin whipped around, gaping at him openly. "You mean to tell me you can't leave because you're participating in a street brawl?" Contempt flashed across his face, a red hue flushing his cheeks.

"I have to," Jean muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

Armin scoffed, "Of course you have to. How very convenient for you."

"Armin listen to me, this is something I have to do. Not for the gang, or for Levi, but for myself." He felt conviction sharpen his words, focusing their meaning. Squaring his shoulders, he explained, "This is me taking responsibility for the person I was and still am, so that I can become the person I want to be. The person you've inspired me to be. I have to finish this first, then I'll be free." He waited, trying to gauge Armin's response.

It wasn't positive; he glared at Jean, boring needles into him. His slender body shivered with disappointment. He drew himself up and said quietly, "I can't believe I expected anything different from you, Jean. For a moment I was hopeful… I thought that you could change." His words hung in the air, refusing to fade. "I've be wrong before, but I've never this far off the mark. You've shown me exactly the type of person you are, and it's not the person I thought you could be. I'm not sure if you are capable of being that person. You've lied to my face, and I can't forgive that." He paused, attempting to collect himself despite the tears suspended at the edge of his eyes. In a diminutive voice he whispered, "I formally resign from my position as your tutor," then fled into the classroom.