Max didn't show up to fifth period.
Or sixth.
Rumors started spreading before the final bell rang. People were whispering, half in awe, half in fear.
Not just about the rally.
Not just about the messages.
About what came after.
They said he punched a locker until his knuckles bled.
They said he tried to get into the AV room to destroy the system.
They said he screamed in the teacher's lounge until he was dragged out by security.
Only one thing was clear:
Max Callahan was unraveling.
He sat alone in the locker room, lights off, back against the bench, staring at the floor.
His hands trembled. Bandaged knuckles, still red.
He'd screamed himself hoarse. He'd made calls. Threats. Pleas. Nothing worked.
No one picked up.
Not his father.
Not the coach.
Not even Reese.
He'd gone from king to ghost in a single day.
And all he could think of was him.
That freak.
The quiet one.
The shadow.
Kai Mercer.
The door slammed open.
Max stood, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight it popped.
He marched through the corridors like a storm gathering shape, mind boiling over.
No plan.
Just fire.
I felt him before I saw him.
The air changed when someone walked with that much blind rage.
I was alone behind the school building, hands in my jacket, eyes on the sky.
Footsteps behind me.
Quick.
Uneven.
"Mercer!"
I turned, slow.
Max stood ten feet away, panting.
Face red. Eyes wild.
"You think this is funny?" he spat. "You think you're clever?"
I didn't respond.
"You ruined my life!"
"I exposed it."
He lunged.
His punch was fast.
Fast for a school athlete.
I sidestepped.
Not dodged—slid, like water between fingers.
He spun, wild, throwing a hook meant to take my head off.
I caught it mid-air.
Twisted.
He screamed.
Dropped to one knee.
I let him go.
He rose, trembling. Swung again.
I didn't even move this time—just raised a leg and planted a heel into his stomach.
He flew back three feet and hit the dirt.
"Get up," I said.
He coughed.
"You're not even trying," he hissed.
I took a step closer. "No."
He stood again, slower.
His nose was bleeding.
"You're nothing but a freak—"
I slapped him.
Open palm.
Sharp.
He staggered.
Stared at me in disbelief.
"You're not even worth a punch."
He growled and rushed me one last time.
I stepped in, elbow to his temple, swept his leg, caught his fall by the collar, and gently laid him down face-first.
He gasped for air.
Tears mixed with dirt.
His pride lay shattered around him.
I crouched beside him.
"You liked hurting people who couldn't fight back," I said.
He didn't answer.
"But I can fight."
I leaned in closer.
"And I remember."
His eyes flickered.
"Remember what?"
"Everything."
I stood and turned.
Walked away without looking back.
His voice came faint, weak.
"What are you?"
I paused at the door.
And whispered:
"Justice."