A hand grabbed a fist full of my hair, slamming me into the crumbling brick wall underneath the stairwell. His grip mirrored Hank's—thumb digging into the same nerve cluster. Muscle memory kicked in: go limp, wait for the whiskey stench to waver, then knee the groin. But Freddy didn't smell like Jim Beam. He smelled like the DHR office—cheap cologne over rot.
A shadow flickered in my periphery—leather and restless motion—before Freddy yanked me back. Someone had been tailing me since third period, footsteps echoing mine a half-beat too slow.
Pain spiderwebbed behind my eyes. Freddy's breath clawed at my face—rotten meat and Juul pods. I'd take Hank's belt over this. At least his violence had rules: scream too loud, get the buckle; cry too soft, get the hose. These boys? Their cruelty was a grenade with the pin long gone. "Miss us, Crazy Girl?"
Eddie snickered, blocking the exit. Chip cracked his knuckles—a ritual as pathetic as their faux-gangster swagger.
"Looks like our little Druepy Princess got lost on her way to ballet class," Chip said with a smirk.
"Eddie snorted, fingering the hem of my hoodie. "Guess we'll just have to comfort her for a little while."
A leather creak echoed overhead—the sound of a boot shifting on rusted bolts. I'd heard it before, two days prior, when someone had watched me pocket tampons from the nurse's office. But Freddy's grip tightened before I could look up. "You'll thank us, bitch. Bet you've been beggin' for it—"
"Oh yeah?" I spat, throat raw. "Good luck finding anything under here worth your baby carrot, Chip."
Chip's grin faltered. He leaned in, his breath blasting my face like a landfill on fire. "We'll see what you're hidin' under that hoodie."
I gagged, eyes watering. "Holy shit—have you ever heard of mouthwash? The body odor was bad enough, but that breath could kill a whole forest. Animals included."
"Why you little bitc....", Eddie spat as he moved to grab the hem of my hoodie.
"Think we'll teach you some manners," Freddy hissed, yanking my hair. "Starting with—"
I palmed the broken fork tine—waiting for Freddy's grip to slacken—just as the shadow dropped.
***THUD.***
It dropped from the ceiling.
No—someone dropped from the upper stairs.
Leather creaked. Freddy choked mid-sentence as an arm hooked his throat from behind. A bicep flexed, tattoos rippling under sweat-slicked skin as it locked into a chokehold. Freddy thrashed, face purpling, but the newcomer's expression stayed cold. Calculated.
Mystery guy's sleeve rode up as he tightened the chokehold—numbers carved into skin. My pulse spiked. Numbers? Scars like that weren't from fights. They were countdowns.
He cracked his neck, all coiled violence, and I caught the glint of a silver chain under his vest. *Santería?* Mom's voice hissed in my head: *Criminals wear saints, cherie. Means they've got sins to spare.*
"Dormido, cabrón," he muttered. But as Freddy choked under his arm, his gaze flicked to me—not to check if I was impressed, but to see if I was safe. His jaw tightened when he spotted my split lip.
*Don't.* I dug nails into my palm. *Don't you dare pity me.*
Freddy thrashed. Eddie lunged again, all flailing limbs and Axe body spray. The stranger pivoted, using Freddy's body as a battering ram. Their skulls cracked together—a sound like Louisville Sluggers on pumpkins. The stranger kicked him in the gut without loosening his grip. Eddie crumpled, wheezing. I'd seen brawls in juvie, but this? This was poetry. Violent, efficient, and rhyming in blood.
Chip hesitated. "Who the fuck—"
He dropped Freddy, and my lungs seized—air vanished like a candle snuffed.
The world snapped back into focus as Freddy's grip vanished. Chip dragged Eddie's wheezing body backward, eyes wide as a spooked colt's.
I braced for another shove, but the stairwell had gone dead quiet. That's when I saw him.
*Holy hell.*
I braced against the wall, breath jagged. *Who the hell is he?* He wasn't a teacher. Wasn't a student I'd seen before. His leather vest hung open over a threadbare band tee, tattoos snarling down his arms like graffiti. For a heartbeat, I forgot to be afraid.
He stood between me and the fluorescents like some leather-clad angel of bad decisions—the kind Mom would've warned me about between cigarette drags. Not that I cared. Black hair fell wild over one eye, like he'd rolled straight out of a knife fight and into my personal hell. *Exchange student?* Yeah, right. This guy didn't belong in a school—he belonged on a wanted poster. Or my daydreams.
"You okay?"
His voice roughened the air like bourbon splashed on a fresh wound—sweetness edged with burn. Rough, warm, and laced with a Spanish accent that curled heat low in my gut. *Since when do I get flustered?*
I wiped blood off my chin. "Define okay."
A ghost of a smirk. "You look alive."
"Barely."
He shrugged, thumb rubbing a silver chain around his neck. "Barely's enough."
His voice jolted me. Low, edged with a Spanish lilt that curled heat under my ribs. I wiped my mouth, praying I wasn't actually drooling. *Focus, Dru. He's not a knight—he's another storm.* Heroes don't smell like junkyard spearmint. They don't have knuckles scarred from something worse than fistfights. I knew his type—saviors with price tags.
But God, those eyes. Dark as the oil stains on Dad's old garage floor, the kind you could drown in. His jeans clung to his hips like a second skin, frayed at the seams and stained with secrets. I suddenly understood why Louise always sneered about "trash chasing trash."
*Stop it. He's just another guy who'll want something.*
"Walk with me," he said, not a request.
I should've spat in his face. Instead, I followed the sway of his vest, the way his belt buckle gleamed—a winged skull. *Of course.* His leather vest reeked of burnt rubber, but beneath it lingered wintergreen—sharp and incongruous, like hope in a graveyard. *Who the hell smells like wintergreen after dropping from a ceiling?*
I hated the way his mere presence made my pulse thrum. Hated that his voice sent shivers down my spine. Hated that my thighs clenched when his jacket brushed mine. *Pathetic. He's just a boy.*
But as we passed the lockers, girls whispered. Guys stepped back. Dragon didn't smirk. Didn't preen. Just… existed, like a lit match in a room full of gas.
*You're worse than the bullies,* I told myself. *At least they're honest about being shit.*
I stared. His jeans were ripped at the knees, boots scuffed raw. His abs, perfectly outlined through his shirt, rippled with every step.
"You gonna stare all day?"
I flushed. "You gonna tell me your name?"
"Why? You wanna thank me?"
"I wanna know what to carve on your gravestone when Freddy's crew jumps you."
He laughed—a low, rusty sound. "Dragon."
"Dragon?" I snorted. "Like the fairy tale?"
His eyes narrowed, but the smirk stayed. "Like the thing that eats little boys like them."
A shiver skittered down my spine. Not fear. Something worse.
He nodded at my hoodie. "You're leaking crimson, gatita."
I glanced down. A red stain bloomed where Freddy had clawed my ribs. "It's nothing."
"Nothing's still something." He handed me a bandana—black, smelling of motor oil. "Wrap it."
"Why? You collecting favors?"
He paused, voice like gravel, "Favors rot. Bloodstains don't."
I snort out, "Poetic. You moonlight as a funeral director?"
His eyes darkened as he turned. "Only for pretty liars who talk too much."
Yet when he offered that bandana, calloused fingers grazing mine, I didn't flinch.
*Yeah, Mom. This is how it happens.*
I hesitated. "Why help me?"
For a heartbeat, his gaze softened—truly softened—the harsh angles of his face gentling like worn leather. Then he looked away, jaw tightening. "Red's your color princessa—matches your temper, but you'll bleed out. Just wrap it."
"Why do you care?"
His thumb rubbed the silver chain at his throat, the motion slow, almost reverent. "Don't."
I pressed the bandana to my ribs, hissing. His eyes snapped back to mine, dark and urgent. "Let me."
Before I could protest, he knelt in front of me. His thumb brushed my wrist—too quick to be an accident, too gentle to be a threat. The stairwell's chill vanished as he leaned in, his breath warm against my collarbone.
"This'll hurt," he murmured.
"You're not selling the hero vibe," I choked out.
A ghost of a smile. "Told you. I'm not."
He tightened the bandana with surprising care, his touch featherlight over the bruise. When his knuckles grazed my skin, I shivered. His hands were a paradox—callouses sharp enough to draw blood, touch light as a methhead's whisper. I'd seen hands like that before. On the man who'd fixed Louise's Corolla last spring. He'd taken one look at my split lip and slid me a switchblade under the oil rag. Dragon's fingers lingered too long. Either he was offering a blade… or becoming one.
"Cold?" he asked, voice low.
"No."
His fingers brushed my ribs—callouses snagging fabric. I'd known hands like his. The mechanic who'd traded blades for cash. The nurse who'd sold my file to Hank. Every touch came with a tax. But Dragon's breath hitched as he tied the knot. A crack in his armor. I filed it away—leverage for when he'd come collecting.
His eyes flicked up, holding mine. The chain around his neck swayed, catching the light. His sleeve rode up, revealing a scar. The *603* glared red and raised, like he'd carved it with something dull. My own countdown itched under my sleeve. My breath hitched. He yanked his sleeve down, eyes flashing a warning: His eyes locked onto mine, a silent dare. *Ask*, they said. *I'll lie.* So I let the numbers hang between us, twin nooses in the dark. I understood then—we were both tallying days. For a second, I saw it—the boy beneath the scars, the one who still remembered how to be kind.
Then he looked down, fingers retreating. "Done."
"Thanks," I whispered.
He stood abruptly, chain clinking. "Don't."
"Don't what? Thank you?"
"Don't act like this changes anything." His voice roughened, walls slamming back up. "You're still alone."
The words should've stung. But I'd seen the truth—the way his hands had trembled as he touched me, the hitch in his breath when our eyes met.
I lifted my chin. "You're right. I am."
Something fractured in his stare. He reached out, almost touching my cheek, then curled his hand into a fist. His fingertips hovered, callouses scraping my jawline like a match about to strike. I held my breath, waiting for the burn. "Gatita… run faster next time."
He turned to leave.
"Dragon—"
He paused, shoulders tense.
"Your chain," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "It's pretty."
His hand flew to it, gripping so hard the links bit into his palm. "Was my mamá's," he said, so quiet I almost missed it. Then, louder: "Stay out of stairwells, princessa. Next time, I might not be there… or I might not want to be."
This time, when he walked away, his steps were slower.
Heavier.
The bell's shrill scream cut through the adrenaline haze—another day in the belly of the beast. The hallway fluorescents buzzed like wasps trapped in glass. I counted steps to steady my pulse—*37, 38, 39*—each number a shackle to reality. Through the cafeteria doors, Tyler's laughter spiked like a fever. I pressed Dragon's bandana tighter. Blood seeped through anyway, a Rorschach test of survival.
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos—trays clattering, laughter too loud, the stench of burnt pizza crusts. I shuffled into the line, my ribs throbbing under the bandana. *Barely's enough.* Dragon's words echoed in my skull, sharp as the pain in my jaw.
I grabbed a slice, ignoring the stares. My hoodie hid the worst of the damage, but nothing could mask the split lip.
Tyler's voice cut through the din—"Lookin' good, Crazy Girl"—but the prickle down my spine wasn't from him.
I flipped him off without turning.
Then I felt it. Like static crawling up my spine.
He sat alone at the back table, legs sprawled, leather vest stark against the neon cafeteria lights. Dragon. A textbook cracked open in front of him, ignored. His eyes tracked me over the pages, dark and unreadable.
*Why is he here?*
I hesitated, tray trembling. *Walk away. Now.*
But my feet betrayed me, carrying me toward him.
He didn't look up as I slid into the seat across from him. "Library's the other direction," I said, voice flat.
"Changed my mind." He flipped a page, jaw tight.
"You following me?"
"You wish."
The lie hung between us, thin as the bandana around my ribs. I picked at my pizza. "What's with the book? Thought dragons ate their prey raw."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Trigonometry. Gotta keep up appearances."
"For who? The FBI?"
He finally met my gaze, chain glinting. "For me."
"Trigonometry, huh? Let me guess—you're calculating how long till someone stabs you in the back."
Dragon flipping a page lazily, "Already happened. Twice."
"And?"
He meets my gaze again, "They're bad at math."
Leaning in, I smirk, "Or you're better at hiding the knives."
The neon lights buzzed like the Silverado's radio on a bad night. Silence settled, thick with everything unsaid. Dragon's shadow stretched across the table, jagged as the scars under my hoodie. His boot tapped mine under the table—once, twice—before he jerked it back. Two damaged things, pretending not to see each other's cracks.
"You should ice that lip," he muttered.
"You offering?"
His eyes tracked me, unreadable as a sniper's scope. I hated how my pulse spiked—not fear, but recognition. Two predators circling, unsure who'd pounce first. He reached into his vest, slid a convenience-store ice pack across the table. Condensation dripped down the plastic.
I stared. "You… had this?"
"Bought it after." He shrugged, too casual. "Waste of a dollar otherwise."
I stared at him dumbfounded.
He sighs, not looking up, "Convenience store's on your left. Buy your own next time."
Looking in the direction he nodded, outside the window, a tree barely obscuring a gas prices sign. In the branches, a crow cocked its head, one red eye fixed on me. Watching, as if eavesdropping on our conversation.
My senses returning, I snorted, "What's next? Band-Aids shaped like hearts?" I pressed the ice to my mouth, the cold biting. "Why?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. His scent clung—like spearmint gum clinging to the violence under his nails—cutting through the cafeteria grease. A cocktail that made my nerves hum.
"Why'd you sit here?"
"Free country."
"Bullshit."
Our knees brushed. Neither of us moved.
"You're staring, gatita."
"You're looming."
He huffed—almost a laugh—and stood abruptly. "Don't get jumped again."
"Or what? You'll drop from the ceiling?"
He paused, hand on the chair. "Nah. Next time, I'll let you bite."
Then he was gone, the ice pack and his apple the only proof he'd been there.
Dragon's apple sat half-eaten, its flesh browning. I took a bite anyway. Poison never killed me. I took another bite. The apple's tartness bit back—a rebellion Louise couldn't whip out of me. Tart. Sweet. Like him. Let Louise call it rot—I'd survived worse. Hope was the real poison—it left you starving.
Dragon's ice pack wept onto the table, carving rivers through grease. I traced its path.
*603 days*
Some maps only led deeper into hell—but I'd burn the whole state down before I'd stop walking.
******