The plan for Devin Trask was unfolding perfectly.
By Wednesday morning, the screenshots had spread beyond the school—whispers of predatory messages, academic fraud, and locker room "jokes" taken too far. Coaches pulled him from the team. Teachers began eyeing him like he was a liability instead of a legacy.
But I didn't savor it.
Not like before.
This one wasn't personal.
This was for Mira.
For every quiet girl who walked these halls, pretending not to hear the laughter trailing behind them. For every student who learned to shrink themselves to survive.
This wasn't vengeance.
It was cleansing.
I left class early that day.
My body buzzed—part instinct, part discipline. The deeper I tapped into my training, the more I felt the world without looking. Footsteps. Air pressure. The way tension wrapped itself around silence before it snapped.
That's when I heard it.
A hallway.
East wing. Third floor.
Where teachers rarely passed after lunch.
Two boys had a younger student cornered.
A freshman, maybe.
Skinny. Books on the floor. Glasses cracked at the bridge.
One of the older boys pushed him against the locker with a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. The other was recording it on his phone.
"Say it," the taller one growled.
"I… I'm sorry—"
"No, the line. Say the line."
"I'm… a useless waste. I deserve it."
They laughed.
The taller one raised a hand to slap him.
That's when I moved.
I didn't run.
I didn't shout.
I walked up—calm, quiet.
They didn't notice me until I was five feet away.
When they did, the one with the phone stepped back.
"Hey, Mercer. Chill. We're just messin' around."
I stared at the freshman.
Then at the one still holding his shirt.
My voice was even.
"Let him go."
They glanced at each other.
Then laughed.
"You serious, freak?"
I didn't answer.
Just stepped forward.
The first one swung.
It was clumsy. Fear disguised as bravado.
I caught his wrist. Twisted. Elbowed him in the ribs.
He dropped.
The second one hesitated. Then lunged.
I sidestepped. Let him stumble. Planted a heel in the back of his knee.
He fell hard.
I didn't follow through.
Didn't need to.
They'd already broken.
The freshman slid to the floor, breathing fast.
"You okay?" I asked.
He nodded. Then cried.
I didn't try to comfort him. Didn't know how.
But I crouched and handed him his books.
"You don't owe them anything."
He wiped his eyes. "Why'd you help?"
I stood slowly.
"Because no one helped me."
They would remember this.
Not because I hit them.
But because I didn't have to.
Because they saw in my eyes what would've happened if I'd kept going.
Later that day, Mira found me near the vending machines.
"I heard what happened."
"Wasn't part of the plan."
"I know."
She watched me for a long moment.
"Thank you."
I looked away.
"I didn't do it for them."
"I know that, too."
That night, Ryker made me meditate with my hands in buckets of cold water.
"It slows the blood," he said. "Makes the pain louder. Teaches you where your edges are."
I closed my eyes and listened to my breath.
But I couldn't shake the image of that freshman, trembling against the locker.
That had been me, once.
That had been Cale.
I was still a weapon.
But maybe…
Just maybe…
I didn't have to be a blade only meant to kill.