Most people start their first day of school with a sense of gloom. But that usually depends on their place in the social hierarchy. The popular kids walk in bright and cheerful, surrounded by friends, while the less fortunate drift through the halls, unseen and unheard.
Kruel fell into the latter group.
He was returning to school after a long, strange summer. Not the kind of summer with beach days and bonfires—this one had been filled with hospital visits and endless therapy sessions. He wasn't sick, at least not physically. His parents just worried too much. But it wasn't really his fault. He was just… clumsy.
Things had changed at Wincher Lisa High. On the surface, at least. The school looked brighter, the paint fresher, and there were definitely more janitors this time around. Kruel noticed a new bike rack outside, half-filled already. It reminded him of how badly he used to want a bicycle. Even if he did get one, it would only end up wrecked. He'd crash it within a week—maybe even within a day.
"Hey, Kruel!"
He turned around and saw Mike, smiling wide. It was obvious he was genuinely happy to see him.
"Hi," Kruel replied, managing a dull smile. "Been a while."
"Yeah, true," Mike said, reaching out for a handshake. Kruel accepted. "I've been asking your sister about you. She always says she doesn't know anything."
Kruel just shrugged and started walking toward the school entrance. Mike walked beside him.
"You okay?" Mike asked.
"I am, bro…" Kruel began, just before slipping on a wet tile and hitting the floor.
"Still dealing with this?" Mike asked, helping him up while glaring at a group of guys laughing nearby.
"Yup," Kruel muttered. "Still the same damn thing. I'm tired of it, you know? I spent my whole summer seeing therapists."
"How?" Mike asked, clearly amused. "How'd you even get the money?"
"My mom, bozo!" Kruel said, letting out a short laugh.
Inside the school, the halls were just as he remembered. Same off-white tiles. Same grid of lockers. Even the principal's door still bore the faded graffiti—MIERDAS—a calling card from some mysterious troublemakers who were never caught. The school had offered a reward to anyone who could identify them, but no one seemed to care enough to try.
Wincher Lisa High was a jungle disguised as a school in the heart of the city. It welcomed all kinds—good, bad, and everything in between. Sadly, there were far more bad than good. Gangs were practically part of the ecosystem here, and every day, new ones were born. You couldn't blame the kids entirely. The world outside was just as cruel as the one inside.
"Watch where you're going, punk!"
A voice roared behind them. Kruel turned—just in time to catch a punch square in the face. The impact knocked him back to the ground.
"What's wrong with you?!" Mike shouted, charging the attacker. He didn't stand a chance, but his anger outweighed his fear.
Kruel raised a hand to his face.
"Nothing," he muttered to himself.
He didn't feel anything. He never did. That was his secret—no matter how hard he got hit, how many times he fell, he never felt pain. He never bled. Never bruised.
He looked up and saw Mike take a punch too. Something burned inside him. Something old and boiling.
Anger.