The first encounter still feels unreal.
A harpoon appeared out of nowhere, embedding itself in the hard concrete without questions or permissions. The rope tied to its base fell to the floor like the body of a snake that has had its head cut off.
The sharp sound of the metal driving into the concrete and the slap of the rope against the cold floor echoed in the tense silence with chilling clarity.
For an instant, no one breathed. Then came the screams: chaotic, childish, useless. As if simply raising one's voice served as protection. I remained motionless, observing the rope. New rope. Sturdy. This was no improvisation.
From the bag hanging on the harpoon came a harsh sound: typical of a walkie-talkie.
["Rat Kid 1 to Rat Kid 5, respond, Rat Kid 5,"] —said a voice laced with a sharp edge.
No one answered. Some pushed each other to get away from the device, as if it were a bomb about to explode. And, in a way, it was: a social contact bomb.
A contact that, given the situation, could be a blessing or a curse.
Which is ironic when you consider we're starving to death, surrounded by giant killer wolves.
In the midst of the discomfort and doubt, an unexpected figure took action.
Louise, a transfer student from this year.
The way she bit her lip, the blush on her cheeks, and the firmness of her fingers as she took the device revealed as much to me as her words.
["Th... this is Rat Kid 5... over,"] —she said, without conviction.
The response was a cackle laden with insults. The voice on the other side—recognizable, though no one yet dared to accept it—called her a "vixen," a "gal," and a number of other things. And yet, despite the repulsive vocabulary, there was something in the rhythm of the exchange that didn't align with simple aggression. It was a twisted greeting. A form of recognition.
I observed the reactions around me:
Milia pressed her lips together, visibly annoyed, as if every word were a stab against the little order she was trying to maintain.
Carlos frowned, unable to hide that he was trying to understand the logic behind so much vulgarity.
The rest, divided into their small groups—jocks, popular kids, delinquents, nerds—looked back and forth between the window and Louise as if they didn't know who posed the greater danger.
Little by little, the others began to enter the classroom, drawn by the commotion. And, without anyone declaring it, Louise became the center of attention. The rope, the harpoon, and the walkie-talkie marked her as the protagonist of a scene that seemed to be from a bad script.
I, from the sidelines, was measuring. The angle of the harpoon, the tautness of the rope, the distance to the other building. It all spoke of prior planning. Nothing I was seeing could have come from some improvising madman. And yet, every word that came out of the device was the very definition of "unhinged."
The contrast disturbed me more than the wolves in the courtyard.
The execution was that of a professional; the communication, that of a child with anger issues. The two variables could not coexist in the same person. And yet, they did. The paradox was fascinating.
"How can someone demonstrate such analytical precision and such clumsiness in communication?" I thought. Although perhaps... it wasn't clumsiness. Perhaps that aggressive facade served a purpose. Maybe it was part of controlling the situation.
Of course, not everyone thought as I did.
Carlos, my dear friend, moved towards Louise, and without thinking, I followed him.
Quickly, the group split into two sides: basically Louise and her two friends against everyone else.
I honestly thought it would be best to let her handle it, but I didn't dare say anything.
In the first place, someone with my physical specs is alive almost by a miracle, and while I don't consider myself socially awkward, my voice isn't exactly the strongest.
Besides, it's not that I didn't understand the others.
In such a critical situation, you don't want to see someone start insulting and cursing your potential savior, however small the possibility might be.
Finally, when the argument seemed to be heading down the wrong path, Louise relented with a frown.
The result?
The relief was short-lived.
As soon as Carlos spoke into the walkie-talkie, the atmosphere collapsed like a poorly built foundation.
["Faggot, who the fuck gave you permission to touch my things?"]
The verbal explosion was so brutal that even those who didn't understand the slang understood the implicit threat. Carlos paled and took a small step back, just enough to betray the blow to his pride. And Louise, far from defending him, crossed her arms with that arrogance of hers: self-sufficient, provocative, as if she were enjoying the chaos she had caused.
The walkie-talkie ended up back in her hands. The way she held it, as if it were a stolen relic, said it all.
What followed was an absurd sequence of insults: an exchange laden with venom and sarcasm that seemed to last forever. Louise responded with measured fury, almost as if she enjoyed playing the same game; he, from the other side of the rope, seemed delighted to keep her on that hostile ground. And all around, the faces of the others contorted between anxiety and desperation, unable to interrupt them.
I just watched.
And analyzed.
Every word of his sounded like that of an unhinged person, yes, but what was unsettling was the way he maintained control of the scene. He never let the tension drop for a second. In a way, he had all of us dancing to his rhythm.
A distant howl filtered through the walls, deep and prolonged. It was enough to remind us where we were: the courtyard was still infested. The moment felt like a macabre choreography: the argument in the classroom, the pack outside "applauding."
And then, without warning, the conversation changed tone.
["What's the current situation?"] —he asked, as if nothing had happened.
Louise responded with sarcasm but ended up confessing the obvious: food and water depleted, confinement, non-existent hygiene. She reduced it all to a biting phrase, but behind her acidic humor was an uncomfortable truth: we were at our limit.
He, instead of sympathizing, attacked again with taunts and grotesque promises. The strange thing was that it didn't sound like gratuitous cruelty. It seemed... like a way to tear us from our paralysis. As if he were pushing us to move, even if it was through provocation.
When he explained his plan, some breathed a sigh of relief: the rope, the crossing, point A to point B. Direct, logical. The problem was obvious: it wasn't simple for ordinary teenagers. Most of the gazes turned desperate again.
I felt the vertigo too.
It was feasible, yes, but at a cost.
And then he said it: that he only needed Louise and Milia to cross. The rest... were expendable.
The mention of Milia's name left us in absolute silence. We all turned to look at her. She flinched, surprised, as if her privacy had been forcibly stripped away.
Almost instinctively, my suspicions were confirmed.
["You... you know Milia?"]
["She's something like my neighbor and childhood friend."]
Those words were like thunder in the classroom. Some covered their mouths; others looked at each other, unable to process it. I myself felt a strange knot in my stomach.
Because we all had an inkling. That voice, that tone, that insolence that seemed straight out of the high school hallways. It was impossible not to recognize him if you'd seen him once.
The name fell like a sentence:
["I am. Got a problem?"]
A heart-wrenching scream filled the room. Louise—the self-sufficient, the queen, the dominant one, the one who never let herself be beaten—collapsed to her knees, sobbing with her face buried in her hands.
And then, only then, did I understand something.
This wasn't about some random madman appearing out of nowhere. It wasn't a stranger improvising a half-assed rescue. It was Astrad. The same one many had forgotten, the same one others remembered as a disaster.
The same one who, with insults and cackles, had just taken control of an entire room without even being present.
And I... I didn't know if I should fear him or feel relieved.
.........
The crossing began like a mechanical miracle and ended like an agony of nerves.
Each student who moved along the cable seemed to be walking on the very edge of death. The metal vibrated with a tense hum, reminding us that one misstep was all it would take to fall directly into the sleeping jaws below.
The first to cross breathed with relief and even smiled. I, from the back, couldn't share it. You just had to open the window and stick your nose out to understand that the street offered no better future: cold, smoke, rotten meat. An air that insisted on reminding us that we weren't saved, merely relocated to another hell.
Astrad said it out loud, of course, but there was no need: we all knew it.
Carlos, naturally, took the lead. My friend was always like that: willing to step forward. Although he himself isn't very athletic, he was always at the front of the group as the class representative. A smart, reliable boy, my dear friend, someone with whom I could face any difficulty...
At least, that's what I thought.
.........
["We can't leave her..."]
["It's not that I want to, but... What can we do?..."]
The "quiet" conversations between Milia and Franco pulled me from my thoughts.
In the once-crowded classroom, only seven people who refused to move remained.
Among them, Milia and Louise.
The true protagonist princesses in the midst of us extras.
["Girls... I'm sorry..."]
Finally, Milia bowed to us with an apology, while Franco avoided our gazes.
Louise remained indifferent as she and Carmelia comforted their slumped friend, Amelia, who kept apologizing and begging to be left behind.
Only Mika, a known school delinquent, and I remained motionless, watching the scene with dead eyes.
Because, in this cruel world, having vertigo is a death sentence.
And, in the face of such a penalty, even your supposed childhood friend and love is capable of abandoning you.
And the worst part... I anticipated it.
I don't even dare to judge him.
To carry extra weight on a task that is already titanic on its own? To risk your own life or the lives of many others for one person? The equation was simple. The result, inevitable. Logic dictated that I was an acceptable cost. I understood it. I hated it, but I understood it.
Leave the fairy tales for Disney movies. This is the real world.
(It's okay, we'll get out of this.)
I remembered Carlos's reassuring smile when he decided to cross the rope without me, even knowing I have vertigo. No, even before that, even knowing it was impossible for my physique.
["Heh…"]
I couldn't help but let out a self-deprecating laugh for holding onto the slightest hope in his words, even though I already knew the truth.
Yes, it was all within my calculations...
Or so I thought.
Because that boy... turned out to be incalculable.
["You bitches, if I tell you to move, then you fucking move..."]
He complained as he entered the classroom through the window, holding onto the taut rope.
Just seeing him collapse to the floor from exhaustion was enough to guess that the journey was nearly impossible on its own, let alone carrying someone in his arms.
And yet... here he was.
["You're an idiot…"]
["Shut up, you damn vixen. If you had just crossed obediently, this wouldn't have happened."]
Perhaps he wasn't a hero.
Perhaps he wasn't even a good companion.
But in that absurd choreography of students, sleeping wolves, and teenage grudges, he was the only variable who refused to be defined by his suffering. The only one who refused to act like a victim.
And according to my horrible calculations... That variable... changed everything...