John's face hadn't changed. Still had that smug, glassy-eyed deadness like nothing in the world could touch him. Like he was proud of how little he cared.
I didn't even mean to say it. It just came out of me, sharp and raw.
"What the f**k do you want?"
-----
It was the first year of high school.
I still don't know why he picked me.
Maybe because I was quiet. Maybe because I didn't try to fight back. Maybe because he knew I was alone.
But he made it a routine.
First time was in the boys' bathroom. I was just washing my hands after class. He and two of his friends walked in laughing, blocking the door.
Then he grabbed the back of my head and shoved it in the toilet. Not once. Three times.
The water was freezing. My nose stung. My mouth filled with whatever the hell was in there. They flushed. I gasped. They laughed. I didn't even try to scream.
"Let's see if that pretty face can swim," John said.
Next time—football field.
I was walking home, books clutched to my chest. He pointed at me like I was a joke and shouted, "Goalpost's here, boys!"
I ran. I f**king ran.
But not fast enough.
They tackled me from behind like animals. The football slammed into my stomach. My books flew. My back hit the ground so hard I couldn't breathe.
They high-fived.
I cried in silence when I got home. I never told anyone.
Worst of all—science class.
I dropped my pen. He picked it up.
"Wanna write something?" he asked, smiling.
Then he stabbed it into my palm.
Straight through the skin, between the bones. No hesitation.
Blood soaked the desk. My fingers twitched. I didn't cry. Just stared at the red dripping from my hand like it wasn't mine.
The teacher didn't notice. No one said anything. Everyone saw. No one cared.
No . One . Cared.
"Whadya say?" John asked, tilting his head like he didn't hear me.
My fists were clenched so tight my nails were digging into my palms.
I stared him in the eye.
"I said… what the f**k do you want."
And that's all it took.
His foot slammed into my stomach. My body folded. White-hot pain shot through my ribs—same ribs that hadn't fully healed. My knees hit concrete. Then the punches came. One to the jaw. Another to the temple. A third to the gut. My body just took it.
I dropped. Face scraping the pavement. Jaw burning.
Behind me, I heard a soda can crack open.
Isac.
And Sunny? He didn't say a word. Didn't move.
They just stood there—watching.
They wanted me to fight back.
"Watch your f**king tone," John muttered.
He crouched down, grabbed my shirt, pulled my face close like he was about to whisper something slick.
But I wasn't listening.
My hand slid into my pocket.
Felt it.
The pen. The one I used in my last exam.
I didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
I jammed it into his left calf.
John screamed—a raw, ugly sound.
He staggered back. Fell. Blood spread fast around the pen sticking out of his leg.
I stood. Breathing hard. Every inch of me hurt, but I didn't care anymore.
One kick to his leg—he yelped.
Second kick—he collapsed fully, clutching his knee.
Third—he screamed like a child.
Isac taught me this. Low kicks. Fast. Accurate. Cripple them.
And it worked.
But my hands were still shaking.
I looked down and saw it—a brick. Sitting by the side of the road like it was waiting for me.
I picked it up.
And everything inside me snapped.
I wasn't in the present anymore.
I was back in the bathroom. Drenched. Humiliated.
I was on the field, coughing in the dirt.
I was in that f**king classroom, bleeding all over my notes, while the whole room sat quiet like I was invisible.
I raised the brick. My arms trembled.
John's eyes were wide now. Real fear.
And for one second, I loved that.
I screamed—not words. Just fury.
I was about to bring the brick down on his face—
But a hand grabbed my wrist.
Isac.
I didn't even hear him approach.
He didn't yell. Didn't pull.
He just said:
"Don't do this. Not here."
His voice wasn't emotional. It was ice. Calm. Sharp.
Final.
My arms dropped.
The brick slipped from my hand and hit the ground with a hard clunk.
I blinked.
The world came back in pieces.
A couple people had stopped nearby. Some were filming. One was backing away slowly. Sirens far off in the distance. Maybe real. Maybe not.
John was on the ground. Crying. Shaking. Blood on his sock. He wasn't dangerous anymore.
I spat near his feet and turned away.
The walk to the convenience store felt like floating.
They didn't say anything. I didn't ask.
They sat me down on the old bench outside. The one Sunny used to lean on during breaks. My chest still hurt. My arms were trembling from adrenaline. There was dried blood on my hands.
Sunny handed me a bottle of water. Didn't speak.
Lehya stepped outside. Her face changed instantly when she saw me.
"Oh my god—what happened?!"
I didn't reply.
She ran back in and came out with bandages, gauze, antiseptic.
"Daniel, hold still—"
"I'm fine," I muttered.
"You're bleeding."
"I said I'm fine."
She reached for my cheek. I pushed her hand away.
I stood. My legs were stiff. My side screamed with every breath.
But I looked at all of them—Sunny, Isac, Lehya—and all I felt was…
tired.
No rage. No victory.
Just this deep, sick exhaustion like my soul needed a nap.
I turned away.
"Leave me alone right now."
No screaming. No breaking voice. Just truth.
And I walked.
And they let me.
----
The sky had turned grey by the time I left.
Not rainy. Just… quiet. Like the world had nothing left to say.
I walked alone. My footsteps felt heavier than usual, like my shoes were waterlogged with guilt. My hands were still trembling a little—not from the pain. That had faded into something dull and floaty.
It was the brick I kept seeing.
Not John. Not the blood.
Just that moment I almost dropped it.
Or didn't.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. Every few seconds, my brain would whisper:
You went too far.
Then the next second:
No, you didn't go far enough.
It looped like that. Over and over. I hated it.
By the time I reached home, the sky had darkened completely.
I pushed the door open. Pheno rushed over like I'd been gone for five years.
"Hey, gremlin," I muttered, trying not to wince when he jumped up at my leg.
He tilted his head, sniffed my bruised hand, then sneezed. Right in my face.
"Bro—seriously?"
He gave me that dumb little look—tongue out, tail wagging. No thoughts. Just vibes.
God, I needed that.
I knelt down and hugged him, forehead pressed to his fur. He smelled like dust and floor and… safety. The kind of safety that didn't need explanations.
"I almost killed someone today," I whispered.
Pheno licked my nose.
No judgment. No drama.
"Right," I muttered. "You're not my therapist."
He followed me to my room anyway, leaped on the bed like he paid rent.
I didn't eat dinner.
Didn't shower.
Just collapsed.
The Next Morning
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains like it had beef with me.
I groaned, rolled over, felt every bruise in stereo.
Finals were over. Two days ago, I was cramming equations into my skull with energy drinks and silent screaming.
And now?
New term. Third year.
"Yay," I muttered flatly.
I got ready slowly. Uniform, bag, shoes. All of it felt tighter than usual, like my skin didn't quite fit.
The walk to school felt weirdly normal, considering yesterday. No one pointed. No one whispered. The world had moved on without me.
I checked the class list outside the hallway.
3-C. Same class as Isac.
Of course.
I walked in early. The windows were open, and the morning breeze made the curtains dance like ghosts. I picked a desk near the middle. Not front. Not back.
I sat down and dropped my bag like a corpse.
Isac entered a few minutes later, silently slid into the seat next to mine like he was always meant to be there. He didn't say "yo." He didn't even glance at me.
And honestly? That was better than any apology.
One by one, the other students filed in. Chatter, backpacks, dragging chairs. Someone yawned like a lion.
Then the teacher entered.
"Settle down. We've got a new student joining us today."
My head turned slightly.
The teacher gestured toward the door. "Come in."
And there he was.
White hair. That half-smirk.
Sunny. Wearing the school uniform like it personally offended him.
A few girls in the back gasped audibly.
The teacher motioned to the seats. "There's a free spot in the second row—"
Sunny ignored him.
He walked straight toward me. Stopped beside my desk.
"I'm sitting here," he said, pointing to Isac's chair.
Isac didn't move. Didn't blink.
"I ain't moving."
Sunny squinted. "Why?"
Isac: "Because I was here first."
They stared at each other like two cats on opposite sides of a glass door.
Finally, Sunny sighed and dropped into the seat behind me like he was settling for prison food.
I twisted in my seat to look at him. He was already pulling out gum from his bag like this was totally normal.
I blinked.
"Wait—how?? When?? Where did you transfer?!"
Sunny smirked. "Yes."
"Bro—what does that even mean?!"
He just winked and leaned back in his seat, arms folded.
I turned back around, stunned.
What the hell was going on anymore?