The morning Ángel realized his life was beginning to resemble a morbid dream —the day The Game of the Fourteen Gods began— he left home as he always did: with the warmth of the breakfast his mother had carefully prepared for him and his father, and with his father accompanying him down the block until they parted ways at the corner, exchanging a fond farewell.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His subway ride to the institute passed quickly, absorbed in the pages of whatever book had captured his attention in recent days. So deeply did he sink into reading that he often lost track of time until the loudspeaker announced his stop.
He stepped off the train and, three cars away, noticed a classmate waving with the same polite formality as always. The familiar air of that morning lulled him into one of the most relaxed moods he'd had in a while—a calm that lingered until his return trip home.
In class, he focused intently, determined not to miss a detail. The weight of the teachers' expectations always made him anxious, but he kept his composure. Thoughts of his friends, scattered in other classrooms, gave him hope: in just a few months, summer would come, and with it, long days spent on games or trips together.
The final quarter hour of calculus came to an end. Symbols of summations and exponential laws still faintly clung to the blackboard. At the doorway of classroom B-3 stood Oliver, arms crossed, wearing his usual mischievous grin, waiting for Ángel to pack his things.
"All right, that's it for today. Go enjoy your lunch," the teacher called out, tucking the last piece of chalk into a small box before leaving.
Oliver slipped inside, like many others searching for their friends.
"Good morning! Anything new happen?" he asked, stepping up beside Ángel as they walked out together.
"No. Why?"
"You look more cheerful than usual. Did you buy a new book? Talk to a girl? What is it?" Oliver teased, noting Ángel's shy and curious expression.
"No! What kind of questions are those?" Ángel shot back, his voice pitched higher than usual. He paused, cleared his throat, and added, "I'm just happy. Today feels lighter, calmer. Maybe tomorrow I'll be in a bad mood."
Oliver chuckled and followed him in search of Francis. They still had time to grab a bite before classes resumed at four. Ángel glanced at his phone: it was only 11:03.
---
II
The three of them met in the schoolyard, under the shade of an old oak tree. Francis's worried look was enough to silence any jokes. He had nearly failed a key exam, and the realization forced him to admit he needed to study harder.
"Anyway, let's forget that," Francis cut in suddenly, while the other two still chewed. "How are you guys? What do you think we'll do during vacation? Buy a new online game, take a trip, or just waste our time however we like?"
Oliver swallowed and answered first.
"Honestly, I don't know. Spending the whole break on games is starting to bore me. And there aren't any good new ones lately—we always end up playing the same thing." He slouched back onto the bench, trembling in a spasm of pure laziness.
"I was planning exactly that," Ángel admitted, setting his empty container on his lap. "Didn't think you guys would be tired of it."
"I'd still play, but with how things are, I'll probably end up studying for next semester," Francis said, stretching as he stood.
"I might do the same. Math and philosophy are killing me," Oliver added, head bowed.
"I guess you're right, but even so, I should—"
Ángel never finished. The bell shrieked, signaling the afternoon classes.
"Damn it…" Francis muttered.
They parted ways, agreeing to talk later that night. Oliver and Francis both wore expressions of pure exhaustion.
Ángel returned to class in calm silence, though a bit uneasy. He knew that if he cared too much, he'd end up helping others study—whether he wanted to or not.
The rest of the lessons passed uneventfully. Yet somewhere, in the fabric of reality itself, something was watching him.
---
III
After parting with his friends, the atmosphere darkened, heavy with a restless air.
He walked twenty minutes through sidewalks and corners before descending into the subway. Grateful for the headphones in his bag, he slipped them on to drown out the roar of the crowd. Excessive noise always unsettled him.
"Have a good trip!" shouted a guard by the ticket booth.
Ángel didn't respond; the music blared too loud. When the train screeched to a halt, he pushed his way inside with the crowd. He managed to grab a seat, wincing as his tailbone struck the hard bench.
As the car emptied station by station, his only thought was of home—seeing his parents again, resting. He never could have imagined what was about to happen.
A sudden jolt shook the train. His headphones slipped to the floor, and with them, the illusion of silence. Cries of women and children filled the car; the hoarse shouts of men begging for help made his heart pound violently, his eyes wide with fear.
Passengers surged in from the other cars, clutching babies, bags, backpacks, their voices rising in panicked cacophony. Ángel was shoved to the ground, striking his head. Dizzy, he scrambled up before being trampled.
Then came the dreadful news: someone had shot the conductor and seized the train, intent on crashing it.
Time seemed to stop. The impact was devastating. Later, the death toll would be known—bodies crushed, limbs severed, bones jutting grotesquely.
Ángel's fate was no different. Before he could rise, a metal bar tore loose, flying across the wreckage. It pierced through his skull, entering an eye and exiting the other.
There was no pain. Only his last vision: the bar dripping with the gray matter that, moments earlier, had been inside his head.