Content Warning
This chapter contains depictions of extreme bullying, physical violence, sexual assault and sexualized humiliation, abuse of authority, and psychological trauma. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
I started going to the library every day after school.
It became a habit, my sanctuary in those weeks—a refuge of cracked spines and the particular silence that only exists among books. I stayed later each evening, chasing equations and formulas like they were lifelines back to the scholarship that had become my sole path forward.
That night, I lost track of time entirely. When the old school librarian finally appeared at my table, keys jangling from her wrist, I startled at the darkness pressing against the windows.
"I trust you to lock up when you're done," she said, looking tired but kind. She pressed the heavy keys into my palm, metal still warm from her pocket.
The school after hours possessed a different quality—emptied of its daytime chaos, it became almost sacred. My footsteps echoed too loudly as I reshelved books.
I was halfway to the exit when I realized: my bag. I'd left it in the classroom.
The curse I muttered disappeared into the vacant hallways.
Luckily the classroom door yielded easily—I'd expected it locked.
Relief lasted exactly as long as it took me to grab my bag and turn—
—and stopped.
Voices carried from the staff room down the hall. Low and secretive.
Every instinct screamed to leave. I should have. Should have minded my business. Instead, I crept closer, heart hammering against my ribs, and looked through the gap in the doorframe. My stomach plummeted.
I saw her first: Ms. Alstone, fingers working the buttons of her blouse with the unhurried precision of someone who believed herself unobserved. Across from her, Blake tucked in his shirt, his movements carrying the careless confidence of someone who owned everything he touched.
The world tilted. My hand found the doorframe, gripping hard enough that the wood grain pressed patterns into my palm.
"Before I forget." Blake's voice carried the same tone he used in class—bored, entitled. He produced folded papers from his bag. "Tomorrow's exam."
Ms. Alstone laughed softly, the sound crystalline and wrong. She slipped the papers into a folder with practiced ease. "Just pretend to write. I'll grade the paper you handed me. I hope you remembered to make it look authentic. A few deliberate mistakes. We can't have you suddenly performing at genius level, it would be suspicious."
"Relax." Blake's smirk carried audibly. "I'm not going to compromise your position. Though I still don't understand why the scholarship kid can ace every exam and nobody blinks, but if I do, suddenly it's a miracle?"
"You don't understand—he's a genuine outlier," Ms. Alstone said, her voice clinical. "Once in a generation, perhaps. I've taught for five years and never encountered anything comparable. Someone with that capacity, trapped by circumstance. It's almost tragic."
"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Blake's laugh held an edge.
"Did it work?" She stepped into her heels, then her tone shifted sharper, crueler. "You should have seen his face when I played the concerned mentor. The Arabic coffee, the hand-holding—God, I felt dirty afterward. You owe me for that performance. A few strategic tears, some manufactured worry about his scholarship, and he told me everything: Noah, the empty classroom, your father the police chief, the headmaster, the doctored video."
She chuckled under her breath.
"You even made a poor old woman kneel. Remind me to never cross you."
"And the best part came dangerously close to making me blow my cover and burst into laughter—" her voice pitched into a cruel mimicry of mine, "—'I want to remain anonymous.'"
Something fundamental cracked open in my chest.
Blake's laugh echoed through the hallway. "My father nearly killed me when the police got involved, he yelled about ruining his image and what he'd built. I didn't even know about the headmaster and the police chief's involvement until they ran their mouths." His smile thinned. "Even I got goosebumps. Guess the monster runs in the family. Still, I'm impressed—I wasn't expecting him to sell us out a second time. I assumed after the scholarship kid witnessed real power, real money in action, he'd learn his place, tuck his tail, but he keeps biting back. Not every stray can be tamed, I suppose." A pause, weighted with anticipation. "Though he's different—hero material—actually stood up for Noah when everyone else stayed silent. This should prove interesting. My money's on him lasting longer than Noah did. It's been too long since I had proper entertainment. Make it last a bit longer, Luck. What's the point of a toy that breaks immediately?"
Questions detonated through my mind: How long had this been happening? Was Noah's hospitalization connected? Had he discovered something similar?
My grip on the doorframe tightened. Blake's voice cut through my thoughts, panic igniting every nerve. "My driver's waiting." He kissed her—unhurried, proprietary. My stomach turned violently.
I needed to leave. Now.
My hand slipped on the door handle—a small sound, but in the silence it might as well have been a gunshot. I didn't wait. My body moved on pure survival instinct, feet carrying me through darkened corridors toward whatever safety I could manufacture.
The next morning, I walked into school wearing the blankest expression I could construct. Something had shifted in the classroom ecosystem. It started small: crumpled paper hitting my desk, laughter disguised as harmless pranks. I kept my eyes on my textbook, willing invisibility.
The bell rang for lunch. The teacher gathered her materials and left. In the subsequent silence, I heard Blake's chair scrape back.
The first blow came without warning—his palm connecting with my skull hard enough to rattle my vision. "You sold me out, you piece of shit." His voice came low, venomous. "Get up. We're going somewhere."
I stayed frozen, staring at the words on the page until they lost all meaning.
Crack.
The second strike slammed my face into the desk. The impact sent a white-hot burst of pain through my skull. Something warm and copper-tasting flooded my mouth. The classroom tilted, sounds becoming distant and submarine. Darkness crept in from my peripheral vision.
"And here I thought we were friends after the headmaster's office." Blake's voice reached me through the haze. "The BFF kind."
"What the hell are you doing?!" Natalie's voice cut through—sharp and furious, like a lioness protecting her cubs. "Get away from him!"
"You should learn to mind your own business, princess. You're being fucking noisy. Giving me a headache." Blake replied, walking away as if nothing happened.
Natalie dropped to her knees beside my desk, her hands trembling as she pressed something—a handkerchief, I realized distantly—against the blood streaming from my nose. "We need to get you to the nurse. Can you stand?"
I let her help me up, the world tilting dangerously. One thought burned through the haze with absolute clarity: This wasn't over. Blake was just getting started.
The nurse cleaned the wound with efficient detachment—antiseptic, bandage, assessment of "nothing serious, just a nosebleed and minor contusion." To her, I was already forgotten before I left the room.
To Natalie, though, it was a disaster. "You're hurt," she whispered, her voice trembling, tears gathering in her eyes. "We have to report him to Ms. Alstone. You should go home and rest."
I shook my head. There was an exam that afternoon—missing it wasn't an option.
Inside I knew reporting this to Ms. Alstone wouldn't help but make things worse.
When Ms. Alstone entered for the test, her heels clicked against linoleum with metronomic precision. She distributed exam papers with her usual composed efficiency, and when she reached my desk, our eyes met for exactly one heartbeat. Her gaze flicked to the bandage across my nose, then away, her expression revealing nothing. She set the paper down and continued her circuit of the room.
I picked up my pen, though the exam questions barely registered. Around me, students scribbled desperately—some would fail, some would pass, and Blake would excel through means I'd witnessed but could never prove.
The final bell released us. I made it halfway to the school gate before hands grabbed my arms.
"Blake wants to see you." The voice came from behind me.
Before I could resist, two others flanked me, steering me down an empty corridor toward the locker rooms. Violence wasn't necessary; they were smarter than that. Their presence alone herded me forward until we stopped in front of the locker rooms.
"Inside," one barked.
I froze. The sign clearly read: Girls' Locker Room.
"…Wait, this isn't—"
A fist caught me in the solar plexus, driving all air from my lungs. I stumbled through the swinging door into disinfectant and perfume, laughter echoing off tile.
Blake sat on a wooden bench, scrolling his phone with the lazy arrogance of a king. His smile sharpened when he saw me.
"Well, well, well…if it isn't our little voyeur," he drawled, mockery lacing every word. "Enjoy yesterday's show, Luck?"
"I…don't know what you're talking about," I muttered, sidestepping his bait.
"Oh, really? Must've been your twin. Bring me his phone." His words cut like a command—and his friends obeyed, like well-trained dogs.
"What's this loser hiding?" one muttered as another yanked my bag off my shoulder. They dumped it on the floor, scattering books and notes. Another went straight for my phone, snatching it from my pocket and handing it to Blake.
"Ever heard that snitches get stitches, Luck? Let's see if you deserve any," he sneered, scrolling through my screen. "I remember the old hag—is she still alive? Last saw her on her knees in front of my father. A middle schooler? Cute. Your sister? She has your eyes. And this girl from our class..." He squinted at the screen. "Pretty, but not really my type. I prefer slightly older women. MILFs—you know what I mean? I see the way you stare at her; it's pathetic. What was her name again…Natasha? Natalyn?"
He made a dismissive sound. "Boring. I expected better from a supposed genius. If I were you, I'd have recorded last night, leveraged it for money. But no—you just watched like a creep. Probably got off on it."
With a careless flick, he sent my phone spinning toward the toilet. It splashed. The screen glowed underwater, distorted by ripples. That phone was a gift from Grandma—earned through sleepless nights and sacrifice—for my birthday.
"Don't look so upset. Just retrieve it." Blake's grin widened. "Might still work. And if you don't like how you're being treated, you could always report me again. To the police, the headmaster, even Ms. Alstone. I hear you like espresso and expensive dark chocolate. Good taste for a beggar."
"And if I don't?" Anger overrode fear. "You going to try to kill me like you did Noah?"
His expression darkened. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "That mouth of yours... I know how to keep it quiet. Hold him."
Hands locked around my arms, my shoulders. Blake spat his gum into the toilet where my phone rested, then pressed his shoe against my skull, forcing my face toward the cold porcelain.
I fought—clawed, thrashed, tried to break free. But their grip held like iron. Rancid water surged over my face, my phone scraping against my lips. The stench choked me.
"Be a good dog and fetch."
Darkness swirled at the edges of my vision.
It felt like I was dying. My body went slack. The last sensations registered distantly, as if happening to someone else: hands pulling at fabric, cloth tearing, laughter echoing off tile.
Then nothing.