The first day of classes hit like a punch to the gut.
I barely stepped five feet into the classroom before the atmosphere shifted. A thick silence slammed over everything—like someone had pressed pause. Heads turned. Conversations stopped mid-word. Even the scraping of chairs froze in place. And all eyes? They were on me. Not curious. Not friendly. Just…watching.
Like I didn't belong here.
Which, truthfully, I didn't.
The classroom looked like a leftover scene from a war movie. The walls were painted a dreary concrete gray, the kind of color that sucked the warmth out of everything. Layers of graffiti bled through peeling paint—some of it angry scrawls, some just names and numbers etched in frustration. A warped ceiling fan groaned above, spinning slow, clicking like it was counting down to something worse. The floor was cracked in places, dusty with shoe prints and old gum marks.
And then there were the students.
No uniforms.
None.
Baggy hoodies. Ripped jeans. Combat boots. Crop tops layered with flannel shirts. Piercings and tattoos on faces far too young to carry them. Their clothes looked like they'd been slept in, fought in, maybe even bled in. Some had dyed hair in every shade imaginable—burnt orange, seaweed green, bleach blonde with uneven tips. Their faces were sharp, alert, older than their age, like they'd seen things and didn't care to explain.
And me?
I was the idiot in a spotless black-and-white uniform. Shirt tucked, collar stiff. Fresh out of the brochure. A private school reject trying to breathe in a cage full of wolves.
Worse still?
Chains. Everywhere.
Necks, wrists, belts—metal glinted from every body in the room. Some were chunky and bronze, some thin and silver, a few heavy gold links that sparkled like trophies. But what made them worse were the numbers etched into each one. Some were low—single digits. Others were in the teens or twenties. But every number was a brand. A ranking. A threat.
Me?
I had nothing. No chain. No number. Just a stiff collarbone and a thousand silent stares.
As I walked further in, trying not to look fazed, I heard the whispers. Quiet, sharp-edged things slipping past lips. Some smirked. Others leaned in to mutter something, then laugh. I didn't need to hear it to know it was about me.
I scanned for an empty seat and spotted one beside a red-haired guy slouched in his chair, legs stretched out like he didn't give a damn about the rules. Headphones stuffed deep in his ears, tapping his fingers to a beat only he could hear. He didn't look at me when I sat down.
Which made me sit.
He pulled out one earbud, side-eyeing me. "Seat's taken."
I glanced around. "By your imaginary friend?"
His lips twitched. A crooked grin cracked through the boredom on his face. "Name's Archer."
I looked at his hand when he offered it—tattoos snaked across his knuckles—and then ignored it entirely.
"Camille," I said, dry. "Don't bother me."
He leaned back in his chair like I'd just confirmed a theory. "Oh, we're definitely gonna be friends."
Before I could shut that down, the door swung open.
Our teacher entered—a man who looked like he'd been in the wrong profession for years. His dress shirt was wrinkled, his tie hung loose like a noose, and his tired smile didn't reach his eyes. He clutched a clipboard like it was a shield and made a beeline for me.
"You're the new student?" he asked, voice carrying enough volume to stir the entire room.
"Unfortunately," I muttered.
"Great," he said, with the kind of enthusiasm people fake when they're about to watch a car crash. "Mind introducing yourself to the class?"
I blinked. "Yeah. I mind."
He kept smiling. "Miss Jones, please."
God. Kill me.
I stood, each step to the front dragging like I was walking through wet cement. I didn't need to see their faces—I could feel the weight of them, sizing me up. Waiting to decide whether I was prey, threat, or entertainment.
I turned, smiled without warmth.
"Camille Jones. And just a heads up—don't talk to me unless you're giving me answers or food."
A few students let out whistles. Others laughed quietly, like they hadn't heard sarcasm in a while. But the moment shattered when a guy in the back leaned forward, flashing a pearly white grin that was all teeth and zero charm.
"What's your cup size?" he called out.
I blinked,"Come again?"
He leaned back, arms stretched cockily. "You know… bra—"
"Thirty-four—fuck you," I said, flipping him a middle finger before he could finish.
His stupid smirk dropped.
The laughter that followed wasn't kind. It was surprised. Lots of 'oohs' echoed through the class.
The teacher looked like he wanted to evaporate. "Miss Jones, language. Take your seat."
I didn't apologize. Just walked back with my jaw set and my hands open, resisting the urge to punch something.
Archer leaned in again. "You're doing great, by the way."
I ignored him.
Because I made myself a promise the day I walked through these doors:
No friends. No trust. No feelings
But I needed answers about my brother. And that meant I'd have to break my own rule eventually.
"Thanks for the intro, Miss Jones," the teacher said dryly.
I smiled smugly,"You're welcome."
The rest of class was a blur.
The teacher mumbled through some reading list I didn't care about. My mind kept circling the chains. The numbers. The way they looked at me. Archer's chain had a 23 etched into it. Bronze. Clean. Heavy. His fingers tapped it sometimes, like a habit.
I stared at mine—well, the space where it should've been.
When the bell rang, I didn't even realize it.
"Cafeteria," Archer said, nudging my desk.
I didn't argue. Hunger trumped dignity.
.
.
.
.
The cafeteria was packed and loud, smelling like cheap oil and soggy rice. Voices clashed with clattering trays. We squeezed through the noise until we found a spot at the edge of the room.
"You want pasta?" Archer asked, lifting his tray.
I looked down at my food—white rice, or something that was supposed to be rice. It looked undercooked and overboiled at the same time.
"I want answers."
He raised an eyebrow.
"The chain," I said, nodding at the number 30 hanging from his neck. "They say it comes with… messy consequences."
"Kinda," he said, chewing slowly.
"Kinda?"
He put his spoon down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "You don't have a number, Camille. That makes you... unofficial."
I leaned forward, voice low. "Define unofficial."
He scanned the room before answering. "It means people can mess with you. Use you. Hurt you. And technically, it doesn't count."
I stared at him.
He sighed. "I got mine in a fight. Won. Barely. Spent two months with a busted leg. Worst days of my life."
"Have people died for it?"
He froze, brows pulling together. "Why?"
"Can't I be curious?"
"A few," he said quietly.
Before I could press him, a loud, rough voice rang out from the front of the cafeteria, slicing through all the noise.
"Yo. I don't need to waste my time, do I?"
The buzz dropped instantly. Like someone hit mute.
A huge guy—definitely a student—stood on a table like it was a stage. Brown undercut. Smug smirk. Chain with a glowing Number 3 around his neck. Two boys flanked him like bodyguards.
Archer groaned.
"What is this?" I asked, watching the tension ripple across the room.
"This is the dirty part I told you about," Archer said under his breath. "We should sneak out."
"Why?"
"No chain makes you a target."
And like on cue, a line of students—those without chains—started getting up and walking forward like soldiers. Quiet. Afraid.
And then... they all looked at me.
Oh.
Hell no. I didn't move. I just sat and stared, heart pounding.
The guy on the table—Spencer—scanned the room. "Is that all?"
He spotted me and jumped down from the table, walking over with slow, theatrical steps.
"Weren't you informed, pretty?" he asked with a smirk that made my stomach turn.
"About what?" I asked calmly.
He chuckled and looked at Archer. "Didn't tell her?"
"Fuck off, Spencer," Archer snapped.
"Why do I need to come out?" I cut in, shutting their stare war short.
Spencer raised his chain. "No number means no student. That's the rule."
I stood. "Who made that rule?"
He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "You're feisty."
"You didn't answer."
He stepped closer, brushing a hand against my cheek. "Do I need to?"
I slapped his hand away. "Touch me again, and I'll break your jaw."
Spencer tensed—but not out of fear. He looked excited.
Archer moved fast, stepping between us. "She's new, Spencer. Chill the hell out!"
That's when it happened.
Spencer punched Archer.
No warning. No hesitation. Just—bam.
Archer's head snapped to the side, stumbling backward, stunned.
Gasps. Screams. Chairs scraping. Phones recording.
I saw red.
"If you have a problem, take it out on me," I growled, stepping forward. Cause what I the actual hell!?
Spencer grinned widely ."Gladly."
Then his hand cracked across my face.
A hot, sharp sting bloomed on my cheek, my head jerking sideways with the force of it. For half a second, everything tilted—sound muffled, lights swimming. My skin burned where his palm landed, and the taste of copper crept into my mouth.
Gasps.
Screams.
Phones up.
Chairs screeched across the floor like a stampede trying to make space for chaos.
I didn't think.
I lunged.
My fist slammed into his shoulder first—more bone than aim. He stumbled back a step, surprised but not hurt. His smirk returned fast.
"You wanna play?" he said, low and thrilled.
His knuckles came flying—one jab, two, fast and practiced. I ducked the second, but the first caught my ribs, thudding like someone dropped a brick against my side. Pain flared, white-hot and breath-stealing.
I shoved forward, gritting my teeth, letting my elbow drive into his chest. He grunted, but barely flinched. The guy was built like a wall. Still—his eyes gleamed with something close to respect. Or maybe hunger.
We circled each other, breath heavy.
The room was a blur of movement—some kids cheering, others yelling for staff, a few just filming like it was a free pay-per-view show.
Spencer swung again—wild and cocky.
This time I ducked under and landed a hit.
Right hook. Jaw. Hard.
His head snapped sideways, spit flying. I saw the moment his expression shifted—less amused now, more pissed.
He grabbed my wrist, yanked me close, and raised his other hand like he was ready to finish it.
But before he could—
A hand grabbed mine from behind.
Tight. Cold. Immovable.
"Enough," a voice said. Low. Dangerous. Final.
It wasn't the slap that silenced the cafeteria.
It was Number One.