The gymnasium pulsed with noise—bass-thumping music, chants from the cheer squad, and a sea of students packed into bleachers, faces painted in school colors, phones raised like torches.
It was the annual Spirit Surge, Eastwood High's biggest pep rally of the semester.
But today, the only thing being ignited wasn't school spirit.
It was the beginning of collapse.
Max stood near the center of the gym floor, surrounded by teammates. Grinning, flexing, blowing kisses toward the crowd. Every move he made was for show, for attention—every laugh timed, every shout amplified.
He was in his element.
And I was about to poison it.
I leaned against the far wall behind the bleachers, hood up, phone in hand. Mira stood beside me, silent, arms crossed.
"You really going through with it?" she asked.
I nodded.
She exhaled slowly. "This'll be louder than Trask."
"Good," I said. "Max always wanted to be famous."
The principal gave his usual speeches. The cheerleaders did their stunts. Teachers faked enthusiasm like their lives depended on it.
Then it was time.
The announcer stepped up to the mic. "Give it up for your MVP—Max 'The Machine' Callahan!"
The crowd screamed.
Max jogged forward, bouncing in place, pumping his fists like he was walking into a title match.
He grabbed the mic.
"Eastwood!" he bellowed. "Let's make this the loudest year yet!"
Thunder.
I watched him soak it in.
Then I tapped send.
A chime echoed through a thousand phones as airdrop alerts popped up across the gym.
Then the big screen behind the stage flickered.
No one noticed at first.
But when the music cut, and the projector kicked in, all eyes turned.
At first, just a picture.
Max.
Shirtless.
Flexing in front of a mirror—his school badge ID accidentally visible on the nightstand.
Then another.
Max at a party, red cup in hand, with a passed-out girl in the background.
Then text.
"Yo bro, she was out cold. You think she'll even remember?"
"Nah. Just tell her we were vibin'."
"She'll thank me later lol."
Laughter died instantly.
A silence settled over the gym like snowfall—soft, cold, suffocating.
Max's face twisted.
He turned to the screen, mic still in hand.
"Hey, that's not—That's fake—It's edited, you psychos—!"
His voice cracked.
The principal rushed toward the control booth.
Too late.
Phones had already lit up with reposts.
Screenshots.
Video reactions.
I watched Max turn in a circle, eyes wild, crowd spinning around him like a collapsing circus tent.
He didn't know who did it.
But he knew.
Somewhere, I was watching.
And he was right.
Elian stood across the gym, arms folded in the bleachers. He looked at the screen. Then at Max. Then slowly, toward where I stood.
We locked eyes.
He didn't smile.
But he nodded.
Understood.
Max dropped the mic.
Pushed a cheerleader aside.
Stormed out of the gym like a man running from his own shadow.
The rally didn't recover.
Neither would he.
Later, in the hallway, I passed Mira.
She didn't say anything.
Just slipped a note into my palm as she walked by.
I unfolded it.
"One more snake gone.Two left.Still breathing?"
I smiled.
For the first time in a long time…
I was.