I could have been told that my parents died in a ditch somewhere, that Grand Theft Auto 6, the game, had finally been released, and none of this would help with the fact that it was a Monday, a school Monday, which meant a Monday that sucked even more than a regular shitty Monday.

  The school I went to was a private one that could be reached from my grandparents' house in a ten minute car drive. Less if the driver, usually Claude, the man Grandpa and Mamie had hired years ago to help around the house and drive when they needed it, decided traffic laws were more like suggestions. More if Montreal decided to be Montreal and turned every street into a parking lot masquerading as a road.

  The name of the school was Académie Sainte-Marguerite, and to be honest, I hated it with all of my heart.

  This was the kind of school where children of people with too much money and not enough common sense went. The kind of place where the parking lot looked like a luxury car dealership, where kids whose parents were diplomats and dignitaries and high placed officials in other countries walked around like they owned not just the building but the very air inside it. Kids whose parents were the biggest lawyers and dentists and businessmen and representatives and whatever else professions of the high middle class slash low upper class did to afford the tuition that could probably fund a small country's GDP.

  I didn't hate the classes, the lessons themselves. If anything, they were easy, tedious at worst. I had always been smart enough to ace my grades without truly studying, all of my school years. Maybe it would be different at college, but so far, it wasn't hard. Numbers made sense. Literature made sense. Even the sciences, with their rigid rules and formulas, made a kind of beautiful logical sense that I could appreciate.

  No, what I hated were the others. The people. The students and most of the teachers who acted and walked as if they were the eighth wonders of the world, the best thing ever since the creation of sliced bread.

  They were spoiled. I hated the way they spoke, the way they walked, the way they smiled. That particular brand of confidence that came from never having wanted for anything, never having gone without, never having had to question whether the lights would stay on or the heat would work or whether there would be food in the morning.

  Sure, it could be argued that it was hypocritical on my part when it could be argued that I myself was literally old money. From my mother's side, the woman had acted as if she was royalty for a reason, after all. And from my dad's side, my grandparents had done things in the past that made them receive commendations and trophies and the like. Had worked in finance and medicine and so many other things that made them wealthy enough that they owned real estate not only in Canada but also in other countries. And they were not shy when it came to spending on me.

  The difference, the thing that separated me from every other trust fund kid in this place, was that unlike them, I knew what it was to have nothing. To have everything and lose that everything. To know how harsh, no matter how young you are, life could be.

  This was one of the things my mom had liked to do when she deemed me not grateful enough.

  She would, for a certain period, even though I had been a child, leave and ensure that everything, food, electricity, water, was cut, stopped, so that I would understand how good I had it with her. And if I tried talking to an adult or something like that? Well, it was such a coincidence that not only was her cousin chief in the local police, but that she was also known as someone truly kind and benevolent outside. Your mom? Doing what? You must be joking, kiddo. She's not like that. It's not good to lie, you know. Why are you being such a bad kid? Hey, did you hear? That kind neighbor, she got such a problematic child. God truly gives the greatest challenges to his best soldiers.

  Of course, I knew that it wasn't their fault, that it was a good thing even that none of them went through what I did. But each time they spoke about money as if it was nothing, as if it had no value, each time they complained about petty stupid things like how they hated their mom because, quote unquote, she gave me a Camaro when I wanted a Lamborghini, it made me want to kill someone, to strangle them.

  I hated the way they acted as if I was like them, as if I would laugh and smile at their stupid fucking jokes.

  I hated the fact that they continued talking to me even though I knew that they knew that I didn't want to interact with them, simply because they were interested, their parents were interested in the patronage of my grandparents for things, projects and the like. I was a networking opportunity wrapped in a teenage body.

  I hated all of it, and if it was only up to me, I wouldn't go. But this school had been the one my grandparents had gone to in their youth, where they had met each other, the one they had wanted me to go to. And while I knew they would respect my wishes if I said I didn't want to go anymore, I didn't want to disappoint them, make them sad about it.

  So here I was.

  Monday had meant physical exercise first thing in the morning, which I had been excused from due to a note from the doctor. Because I truly didn't feel better than I had Saturday morning. If anything, I felt worse. Exhaustion had settled into my bones like sediment, like I was slowly turning into something heavier than human, denser, harder to move. I truly hoped that it was just exhaustion like what the doctor had said.

  After gym came French class, then English. I sat in the back during French, near the window, watching snow fall in that lazy way it did when there was no wind to give it purpose. Madame Rousseau droned on about subjunctive tenses and the finer points of Molière, her voice a steady monotone that could have been used as a sleep aid. Around me, my classmates took dutiful notes or pretended to, their pens moving across paper in a pantomime of engagement.

  Through the window, I could see the courtyard below. Stone pathways cutting through white snow. A few bare trees, their branches black against the gray sky, reaching upward like hands. The scene had a stillness to it, a frozen quality, as if someone had pressed pause on the world and forgotten to resume it. A lone figure crossed the courtyard, bundled in a dark coat, their face obscured by a scarf, moving with purpose toward the administrative building. The only sign of life in an otherwise lifeless landscape.

  English was better, if only because Mr. Peterson actually seemed to care about what he was teaching. He had us discussing Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby specifically, and the conversation had turned toward the concept of the American Dream and its corruption. Someone, élodie Beaulieu, daughter of some tech CEO, argued that Gatsby was admirable for his persistence. I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out that obsession and persistence weren't the same thing, that Gatsby's dream was rotten from the start because it was built on a fantasy, on a version of Daisy that never truly existed.

  But I didn't say anything. I rarely did. I took my notes, I answered when called upon, I performed the role of engaged student well enough to satisfy, and I kept my actual thoughts to myself.

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  After what felt like an eternity of mathematics, where we worked through calculus problems that clicked into place with enough ease, it was finally time for the last class of the day.

  Philosophy.

  The philosophy teacher, Mr. Daneau, was a rotund man, always dressed in dapper suits, three piece affairs with pocket watches and shined shoes that spoke of a man who took pride in his appearance. You could feel the enthusiasm for his subject each time he taught, the way his eyes would light up when someone made an interesting point, the way he'd pace the front of the room, gesturing wildly as he explained Kant or Sartre or whoever we were discussing that week. He was my favorite professor, simply because the man didn't take himself as seriously as the other teachers and the students. He had a self deprecating humor, a willingness to admit when he didn't know something, a genuine curiosity that felt rare in this place.

  But because it was a Monday and all Mondays were cursed abominations, creations of Satan himself, Mr. Daneau was apparently sick. And due to that, he would be replaced this week, at least, by someone else. Someone I didn't know and who would probably, knowing my luck, be as shitty to listen to and as full of hot air as the other teachers.

  This is what I had thought until the man entered the room.

  A hush fell in the classroom, conversations cutting off mid sentence, the scrape of chairs and rustle of papers going silent as he stepped through the doorway.

  The man who entered didn't look like a teacher. Didn't look like a philosophy teacher, certainly.

  He looked like the kind of guy you would expect to be the face of a boyband or a K-pop group. The kind you see in Vogue magazines, in high fashion editorials where the models look more like sculptures than people. He was tall, probably six foot two or three, with a build that was slim but suggested a wiriness underneath, like tensile strength wrapped in an elegant package. His skin was pale, almost luminous in the fluorescent lighting of the classroom, the kind of complexion that looked airbrushed, poreless, unreal.

  His hair was what caught attention first. Silver white, not the gray of age but a pure chromatic white that fell to just above his shoulders in perfectly straight sheets. Not styled, exactly, but falling in a way that seemed too perfect to be natural, parting slightly off center to frame a face that was all angles and sharp planes. High cheekbones that could cut glass. A jawline that looked carved. A straight nose, aristocratic, the kind you see on Greek statues. Thin lips, perfectly shaped, the cupid's bow pronounced.

  But it was his eyes that made you look twice. They were light, so light they appeared almost colorless in certain angles. Pale gray, maybe, or a very washed out blue, the iris barely distinguishable from the white of the sclera. They had a quality to them, a flatness, like looking at a photograph of eyes rather than actual eyes. Beautiful, undeniably, but in a way that felt removed, distant, as if he was looking at you from very far away even when he was standing right in front of you.

  He wore a black turtleneck, expensive looking, the fabric clinging in a way that suggested quality, and dark slacks. Simple. Elegant. The kind of outfit that cost more than it appeared to because of the cut, the material, the way it draped. A watch on his left wrist, minimal, silver faced. No other jewelry. No wedding ring. No accessories.

  He moved to the front of the classroom with a grace that seemed practiced, economical, each step measured. Set his leather messenger bag, also black, also expensive looking, on Mr. Daneau's desk. Turned to face us.

  The silence held.

  "Good afternoon," he said, and his voice was smooth, cultured, with an accent I couldn't quite place. French, but not Québécois. European French, maybe, but even that didn't seem quite right. Too neutral. Too perfect. Like someone who'd learned to speak without regional tells. "My name is Adrien Beaumont. I'll be substituting for Mr. Daneau while he recovers. I understand you've been discussing existentialism. Camus, specifically."

  Someone in the front, Julien Marchand, raised his hand slightly. "Are you related to Dr. Beaumont? The doctor?"

  A smile, small, polite, revealing teeth that were perfectly white, perfectly straight. "No relation."

  He began to write on the board, his handwriting immaculate, each letter formed with precision. The topic for today: The Absurd and the Question of Suicide.

  Around me, I could hear the shift in energy. The way people sat up straighter, paid attention not because of the material but because of him. The girls especially, but not exclusively. élodie was practically vibrating in her seat. Even some of the guys looked interested, in that way people get when encountering someone exceptionally attractive, a kind of fascinated attention that borders on staring.

  I understood it. Objectively, he was beautiful. Magazine beautiful. The kind of beautiful that didn't seem real, that seemed constructed, too perfect to exist in the mundane reality of a Monday afternoon philosophy class in Montreal.

  But that wasn't what made me pay attention to the man.

  I didn't know why, but looking at him, I felt something akin to wrongness. Like looking at a picture or a painting and seeing something that shouldn't be there. Not obvious. Not glaring. But present. A dissonance. Like when you see a photograph and something in it is subtly off, the perspective wrong, or a shadow falling in a way that doesn't match the light source, and your brain catches it before you consciously understand what you're seeing.

  It was in the way he moved, maybe. Too smooth. Too controlled. Like every gesture was premeditated, calculated, performed rather than natural. It was in his eyes, the flatness of them, the way they didn't quite seem to focus on anything even when he was looking directly at someone. It was in his smile, which reached his mouth but didn't touch the rest of his face, didn't create the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that genuine smiles produce.

  It was in the air around him, some quality I couldn't name, a sense of displacement, like he didn't quite fit into the space he occupied. Like he was a photograph pasted onto reality, two dimensional pretending to be three dimensional.

  He began to lecture, his voice steady, discussing Camus's essay "The Myth of Sisyphus," the question of whether life was worth living in the face of absurdity. He spoke well, eloquently, saying all the right things, making all the right points. His knowledge of the subject was evident. He engaged the class, asked questions, fielded responses with patience and thoughtful consideration.

  Everything about him screamed competent, professional, engaging teacher.

  And yet.

  I found myself watching him the way you watch something you don't trust. The way you watch a stray dog that's acting friendly, looking for signs of aggression. The way you watch ice you're not sure will hold your weight, anticipating the crack.

  He caught me staring at one point. His pale eyes met mine across the classroom, held for a moment. That small smile appeared again. Then he looked away, continued his lecture, moved on to another student's raised hand.

  But in that brief moment of eye contact, I felt it more strongly. That sense of wrongness. Of something fundamental being off.

  Around me, the class continued. élodie answered a question about the absurd hero. Julien made a joke that got polite laughter. Someone's phone buzzed and was quickly silenced. The radiator by the window clanked and hissed. Outside, snow continued to fall, the sky darkening as afternoon moved toward evening.

  Normal. Everything was normal.

  Except him.

  Except the man at the front of the room, standing in front of the blackboard where he'd written about suicide and meaning and the question of whether existence itself was worth the effort, looking like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine and into our classroom by mistake.

  I didn't know why, couldn't articulate it, couldn't point to any one specific thing that justified the feeling crawling up my spine like cold fingers.

  But the man before me felt wrong.

  Fundamentally, essentially, undeniably wrong.

  And I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else in the room, captivated by his appearance, charmed by his eloquence, distracted by the novelty of an attractive substitute teacher, couldn't feel it.

  Or maybe I was the one who was wrong. Maybe exhaustion was making me paranoid, making me see things that weren't there, project malevolence onto a perfectly normal substitute teacher who just happened to be unreasonably attractive.

  Maybe.

  But I didn't think so.

  The lecture continued. I took notes mechanically, my hand moving across paper while my mind worked on a different problem entirely, trying to identify what it was I was sensing, trying to put words to an instinct that lived below language.

  Outside, the light continued to fade. The snow continued to fall. And at the front of the room, Adrien Beaumont continued to teach, his voice smooth and steady, his movements precise, his pale eyes occasionally sweeping across the classroom like a spotlight searching for something in the dark.

  Wrong.

  The word echoed in my head, insistent, undeniable.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.