Chapter 1: Welcome to Neptune
Neptune, California
As a melting pot nation, America had always drawn people from every corner of the world. And if America was the melting pot, then Los Angeles was the flame underneath it — a living, breathing cross-section of humanity packed into one sprawling city.
People from every background, every ethnicity, every walk of life had carved out their own corners here. Communities formed out of necessity, neighbors looking out for neighbors. But where there were communities, there were boundaries. And where there were boundaries, there was conflict.
Gang violence. Racial tension. It was woven into the fabric of the city like graffiti on a freeway overpass — always there if you knew where to look. At night, the distant crack of gunfire was practically background noise, as routine as traffic on the 405.
But Simon had grown up with all of it. It didn't faze him anymore.
Simon Lewis — eighteen years old, sharp-eyed, and carrying a secret that would've gotten him locked up in a psych ward if he ever breathed a word of it.
He wasn't from here. Not originally. Not from this world, anyway.
In his previous life, he'd been a writer — the struggling, ramen-eating, deadline-missing kind. Spent years hunched over a keyboard cranking out stories that maybe a few hundred people bothered to read. It wasn't glamorous, but it was his. Then one night, a particularly unhinged reader tracked him down and made sure it was very much his last night.
He woke up here. Different body, different life, same restless mind.
You roll with it, Simon had decided early on. Or you don't. But you're here either way.
It was September 1st — first day back — and Simon was up before his alarm.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running a hand through his brown hair, adjusting the black-framed glasses sitting on his nose. The reflection that stared back at him was, objectively speaking, unfairly good-looking. Tall, athletic build, blue eyes that somehow managed to look both intelligent and a little dangerous. The glasses helped dial it back to approachable.
Without them, Simon had learned, walking into a crowded hallway became an ordeal. Girls stopping mid-sentence. Locker doors swinging open unattended. It was a whole thing.
He put on a plain gray t-shirt, dark jeans, and his beat-up Nikes, then headed to the kitchen.
Since he was living alone, breakfast was simple: two eggs scrambled with a strip of bacon folded into a toasted hoagie roll, and a mug of coffee — black, no sugar. He ate standing at the counter, rinsed his dishes, and took one long look down the hallway toward his parents' bedroom.
The door was closed. It was always closed these days.
Simon's parents worked on the Deepwater Horizon — a deep-sea drilling rig anchored out in the Gulf of Mexico, hundreds of miles from shore. The work paid well, but it swallowed time whole. Since Simon had turned sixteen, they mostly made it home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, maybe the Fourth of July if the schedule was kind.
The Fourth had come and gone two months ago. Christmas was still four months out.
He grabbed his backpack, locked the front door behind him, and stepped into the California morning.
Parked at the curb was his car — a red Ford F-150 pickup that had lived several full lives before landing in Simon's possession. The exact number of previous owners was unclear. The exact year of manufacture was a matter of some debate. What was not debatable was that it ran on stubbornness and prayer.
Simon climbed in, tossed his bag onto the passenger seat, and turned the key.
The engine shuddered once — then nothing.
"Come on—"
He tried again. Same result.
"Damn it."
He climbed back out and popped the hood.
"You know what you need?" A low, unhurried voice came from the neighboring driveway. "New spark plugs."
"Nah." A second voice, lighter, clearly enjoying this. "What he needs is a new car. That thing's older than my grandmother's Bible."
Simon glanced over. Standing next to a sleek, modified Dodge Charger were his two closest neighbors: Dominic Toretto — broad-shouldered, bald as a cue ball, arms crossed like he was posing for a statue — and beside him, Letty Ortiz, dark-eyed, smirking, wearing a tank top with grease already on her forearm at 7 AM.
Simon pulled out the spark plug, cleaned it off on his shirt, and screwed it back in.
"Dom." He snapped the hood shut and wiped his hands. "Race tonight?"
He nodded toward the Charger.
Dom gave a slight nod. "Yeah."
"I'm running."
Dom studied him for a moment, then the corner of his mouth pulled up — barely. "We'll be there."
"Appreciate it."
"Go get 'em, kid," Letty called after him, grinning.
Simon glanced at his phone. "Late. We'll talk tonight."
He gave them a wave, climbed back into the truck — which, on this second attempt, started like it had never done anything wrong — and pulled out of the driveway.
Twenty minutes later, Simon pulled into the parking lot of Neptune High.
Neptune was a strange little town, and Neptune High was a perfect reflection of it. No middle class. You were either a 09er — the wealthy kids from the hills, living off trust funds and their parents' country club memberships — or you were everyone else. The two groups coexisted the way oil and water coexist: technically in the same container, completely separate.
Simon had always been somewhere in between, which meant both sides were occasionally suspicious of him. He'd learned to live with that too.
He locked the truck and headed toward the entrance — then noticed the cluster of students gathered near the flagpole, phones out, buzzing with barely-concealed excitement. The kind of crowd that forms when something goes wrong and everyone wants to watch.
Simon pushed through to the front.
A Black kid — maybe sixteen, seventeen — was duct-taped to the flagpole. No shirt. Just standing there, jaw set, looking like he'd already decided how he was going to process this later.
Simon recognized the handiwork immediately. He didn't need to see a name tag.
He shook his head, pulled out his Swiss Army knife, and stepped forward.
"Move it," he said to the student who was currently trying to get a selfie with the kid. The student looked at Simon, decided quickly that this wasn't worth the argument, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Simon crouched and started working on the duct tape. A second later, someone appeared on the other side doing the same thing — small blade, efficient, no hesitation.
He didn't need to look up.
"You didn't have to come over here, Veronica."
Veronica Mars stood across from him, blonde hair pulled back, expression unreadable in the way that meant she was reading everything. Former sheriff's daughter. Amateur private investigator. The only ex-girlfriend Simon had ever had who made him feel like the less perceptive person in the conversation.
She didn't respond to his comment. Instead she looked at the kid and said, "You're new?"
The kid gave a small, tight nod.
Simon looked up at him and smiled. "Then welcome to Neptune High."
The kid let out a slow breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances.
The warning bell rang.
"I'll take him to get a change of clothes," Simon said, already straightening up. "You go ahead."
Veronica glanced between them for a moment — processing, cataloguing, filing it away for later the way she always did — then turned back to the crowd. "Alright, everyone. Show's over. Let's go, Buccaneers."
The crowd dispersed. Veronica walked with them toward the front doors without looking back.
Simon led the kid to the truck and dug a spare t-shirt and gym shorts from the bag he kept behind the seat. Old habit.
When the kid was changed, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Wallace. Wallace Fennel. I don't know how to thank you, man."
Simon shook it. "Simon Lewis. And don't mention it." He glanced toward the school. "Just maybe don't park next to the flagpole tomorrow."
Wallace looked at him. "That's your advice? That's your advice."
"Neptune advice," Simon said, and started walking. "You'll get used to it."
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