Hey guys! I've been weirdly obsessed with Mount Everest videos on TikTok lately and I also got the chance to read The Climber — it was amazing. So yeah, that's why you got that little shoutout in this chapter , Hope you enjoyed it!
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A violent, frantic slapping rhythm pulsed through the bus, cutting through the engine's groan. At the front, a kid was hammering a derbuka, his face slick with sweat. Beside him, another boy, shirt already off, wailed a popular Rai song with glorious, off-key passion.
From the back, Ryan watched the performance. Fifteen years from now, he thought, with enough autotune, this might actually be a hit.
He turned to the window. The world outside—cars, shops, palm trees—slid by in a silent, orderly film.
He looked back inside, and the chaos engulfed him. The bus was a sweltering, shaking box of pure energy, packed wall-to-wall with boys. Shirtless teenagers stood in the aisles, their bodies swaying and bumping together with the vehicle's lurches. Younger kids were crammed three to a seat, wrestling and shoving. The air was thick with the smells of saltwater sunscreen, sweat, and the distinct aroma of hard-boiled eggs, fries, and roasted red pepper that twenty different mothers had packed for their sons. Ryan, feeling a wave of nausea, desperately shoved the stiff window open a few inches.
He turned to Bilal. "This is a Hell's Kitchen episode," he muttered.
internally, his mind provided the voiceover in a spot-on, screaming Gordon Ramsay impression: "IT'S FUCKING RAW! AND IT'S ALL BOYS!"
"Yeah, the smell," Bilal said, nodding. "I didn't bring anything. I'll buy something when I get there."
"Oh, fancy," Ryan said, raising an eyebrow.
"Our AC is down. My mom told me she was not cooking , she was like, 'There is no food at home, buy something.'"
Ryan looked genuinely flabbergasted. "She okay? Did you take her to the hospital?"
Bilal shrugged. "I took the money and ran. What if she changed her mind ? Even if she's possessed, I'm okay with it."
"Oh, you're such a devoted son," Ryan said, his voice dripping with sarcastic admiration.
From the row behind them, Samir leaned forward, his head appearing between their seats. "This is gonna be fun!" he announced, a wide grin on his face.
Ryan didn't even turn around. "Doubt it," he muttered, staring blankly at the chaotic scene in front of him."Fun is a private beach with yellow sand, clear water, and taking a jetski out with a beautiful woman behind you. This bus?" He gestured around. "Not looking promising, my guy.""
Samir's grin faltered. Ryan's words painted a vivid picture in his head—crystal blue water, a screaming jetski, a stunning view... then his eyes focused back on the reality: the packed, noisy bus, the smell of eggs and sweat. "Shit," he groaned, slumping back in his seat. "I can't unsee it now."
Seeing his friend genuinely sulking, Ryan reached back and patted him roughly on the head. "Ah, don't worry. You'll have too much of that in the future.
"This," he said, gesturing at the beautiful, chaotic mess around them, "is what you'll miss… when life gets too serious."
!
He then jerked his thumb toward the boy still wailing at the front of the bus. "Go on, give us a duet. Between the two of you, you might average out to one decent singer."
"I want the future now," Samir mumbled into his seat.
Then, with a sudden burst of energy, Samir launched himself up. He shoved his way through the crowded aisle toward the front, grabbed the derbuka from the stunned kid, and started pounding on it with all his might, shouting the lyrics with a raw, frustrated energy that drowned out everything else.
A slow, proud smirk spread across Ryan's face as he watched the beautiful chaos he had orchestrated.
Bilal stared, dumbfounded, from Ryan to the screaming Samir and back. He smacked Ryan hard on the arm. "You fucker," he said, a mix of awe and annoyance in his voice. "What did you do?"
Ryan didn't take his eyes off his masterpiece. "Art is noise, my friend," he said serenely.
The bus emptied onto a strip of pebbled shore. The air, once thick with the smell of sweat and eggs, was now clean and sharp with salt. And there it was, towering over the small beach—a massive, sun-bleached limestone cliff, its face pockmarked with ledges and cracks, the highest point a good twenty feet above the deep, turquoise water.
While the other guys whooped and immediately started scrambling up the easier, lower rocks, Ryan stood still, his head tilted back, critically analyzing the rock face as if it were a professional ascent.
"Yeah... there's a crack there for a handhold," he murmured to himself, pointing. "If I place my leg just there on that ledge, the traverse looks stable enough..."
Bilal, already halfway up the simple, sloping path, looked back down at him. "Yo, Yuri Gagarin!" he yelled. "The way is from here! You are not climbing Everest!"
Ryan didn't even look up from his inspection. "You idiot," he called back, his voice flat. "That's the guy from space. Everest is Sir Edmund Hillary. Get your impossible human achievements straight."
He gave his perfectly mapped, dangerous route one last look. Yeah, I could do it, he concluded. Then he shrugged, turned his back on the challenge, and started trudging up the easy slope after Bilal. "Eh," he muttered to himself. "Too much effort to be cosplaying Mori Buntarou today."
He reached the flat, sun-warmed summit of the cliff. Instead of joining the frenzy, Ryan sat down at the very edge, letting his legs dangle over the dizzying drop into the deep, clear blue.
For a long moment, he just drank in the view. The endless expanse of the sea, the way the sunlight danced on the waves, the vast, quiet sky. It was peaceful. Majestic, even.
A kid, no older than fifteen, ran past him without a second of hesitation. "Yow!" the kid yelled, launching himself off the edge, his carefree shout trailing behind him until he hit the water with a sharp slap.
"Splash," Ryan said softly to himself. A small, unexpected laugh escaped him.
He watched the rings in the water expand and dissolve.
From below, Bilal's and Samir's voices merged into a single, distant chant: "Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!"
His sneakers—still on—pounded against the sun-baked rock. He didn't break stride. Two steps, three, and then he was airborne, the shouts of his friends swallowed by the wind rushing past his ears. For a single, silent second, there was nothing but the sky above and the sea below, and the perfect, weightless freedom of the fall.
He hit the water with a force that stung his skin, the cold a shocking embrace. He surfaced, gasping, to the sound of Bilal and Samir whooping and splashing him. They all swam back to the rocky shore, hauling themselves out, dripping and breathless.
"Again! Again!" Samir yelled, already scrambling back up the path.
Ryan stood there, water streaming from his clothes and hair, his heavy, waterlogged sneakers squelching with every step. He put his hands on his knees, catching his breath. "I'm not jumping again," he declared. "This journey is too much. The commute from the water back to the top is a deal-breaker."
Samir just laughed and charged past him, heading straight back up the rocks for another jump. As Ryan stood there, wringing water from his shirt, an older guy—maybe seventeen—walked away from his group and approached.
"Yo, Ryan, wait up," he said.
"Karim, what's up?" Ryan replied.
Karim put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, then pulled it back with a laugh. "Oh, you're all wet!" He gestured out at the sea. "The water is so nice today."
Ryan nodded, following his gaze. "True. It's so calm."
"Anyway, man," Karim said, his tone shifting back to the reason he'd approached. "We have this match this weekend, and we're missing some guys. Wanna come and play?"
"Where?" Ryan asked, his voice sharp with sudden interest.
"On our pitch. You know, in the evening. Around five or six."
"You sure?" Ryan asked, a final, almost reflexive moment of doubt.
"Yeah, man," Karim said, his face breaking into a grin.
Ryan nodded, a slow, decisive motion. "Yeah. Sure."
Karim clapped him on the back, this time not minding the wetness. "Perfect! I'll let the guys know." He turned and jogged back to his friends.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Bilal turned to Ryan, his voice low. "Are you sure about this?"
Ryan shrugged, his tone dripping with casual sarcasm. "Yeah. It's just casual, man. No strings attached."
"Just because you're younger," Bilal pressed, "doesn't mean they are not gonna hit you. With the way you play, it's gonna lead to a fight."
Ryan's eyes found Samir, still splashing in the water. He waved a hand to get his attention. When Samir looked over, Ryan brought his fingers and thumb together, opening and closing them like a mouth, then pointed decisively toward the road where the food vendors were set up. We're going to eat. Then he turned back to Bilal.
"You guys love my playing."
Bilal sighed. "Yeah, it's fun. But here, even if they get angry, we can fight. Can you punch a nineteen-year-old?"
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Ryan's face. "I assure you, I can play a whole different way." In his head, a floodgate opened—a tactical menu of styles, roles, and positions he could adopt instead of his usual "Boga Junito."
Just then, Samir finally hauled himself onto the shore, shaking water off like a dog. "Punch who?" he asked, catching the tail end of the conversation.
Ryan didn't miss a beat, his voice flat. "I can punch Ronaldo. Let alone a nineteen-year-old."
The memory flashed, crisp and clear: a Champions League semi-final, the world watching, and a perfectly justified, beautifully executed punch to the shoulder of a diving Cristiano Ronaldo after a blatant cheat in the penalty box.
And I'd do it again.
Samir and Bilal just stared at him, then burst out laughing, thinking it was another one of his impossible jokes.
They found a vendor and bought square slices of pizza, steaming hot from the oven, slathered with a thick, white line of mayonnaise.
Ryan held his slice up, inspecting it critically. "The hygiene is questionable," he declared, his voice full of mock solemnity. Then he took a huge, messy bite, cheese stretching, mayonnaise smearing on his chin. He closed his eyes in bliss. "The taste... divine."
Bilal, squinting at the faded sign above the small shop, burst out laughing. "Bro, the name of this place is literally 'Dirty But Delicious'!"
Ryan took another thoughtful bite, nodding with newfound respect. "Yeah. Damn good marketing. This guy is a multi-talented genius."
He gave the vendor a solemn nod, a warrior acknowledging another warrior.