the school day passes surprisingly quickly After class I began looking for Ambrose so we can hangout as I promise

  I spot him surrounded as usual "Hey, Ambrose, ready to go?" I asked, as I was approaching the group he replied, "Yeah, let's go."

  Just as we started to leave, a girl from the group stepped forward to stop us. "Aw, you're leaving so soon? At least introduce him! We've been dying to know more about the infamous Hitori who keeps rejecting you."

  Another guy in the crowd chimed in, "Yeah, why don't we all hang out together? It would be so fun!"I already have a headache of thinking what will happen if I said yes.

  I looked at the group and responded “I apologize but I will have to decline. " Then I turned to Ambrose and said " Let's go, Ambrose." Ambrose said a quick goodbye to his friends, and we began to walk away.

  I didn't take him to a five-star restaurant or a private club. If Ambrose wanted to see the real me, he was going to have to deal with my reality. I drove to a cramped, hole-in-the-wall arcade downtown. It was loud, smelled faintly of popcorn and ozone, and the neon lights flickered in a way that would probably give a Thornveil a headache.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ambrose stood at the entrance, looking at a sticky air-hockey table like it was a cursed artifact.

  "What is... this?" he asked, poking a dusty arcade cabinet.

  "It’s called fun, Ambrose," I said, handing a ten-dollar bill to the bored attendant for a cup of tokens. "No masks, no investors, and nobody here knows who your father is. If you trip and fall here, people will just laugh at you instead of calling a lawyer."

  Ambrose blinked, then a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. "Challenge accepted. What’s the most difficult game in this dungeon?"

  I pointed to a rhythmic dancing machine in the corner. "That one. But don't cry when you lose."

  For the next two hours, the "Thornveil Prince" disappeared. He was terrible at first—his movements were too stiff, too "trained"—but he was a fast learner. By the third round, he was keeping up with the high-speed prompts, his face flushed and sweat dampening his blonde hair. People weren't staring at him because he was rich; they were staring because he was actually having a good time.

  "I’m starving," Ambrose gasped after finally beating my high score on a shooting game. "Tell me this place has food that isn't made of plastic."

  "Follow me," I muttered, feeling a strange, unfamiliar lightness in my chest.