The night air was heavy with the scent of rain. Bryant pulled his hoodie tighter as he left the gym, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Practice had gone late, the coach pushing them harder than usual, and most of the team had already peeled off in pairs. Bryant didn't mind walking alone—he usually liked the quiet.
Tonight, though, the silence felt… different.
His sneakers crunched against the gravel path that cut across campus, shadows stretching long beneath the dim glow of the lampposts. He glanced behind him once, then again. Nothing. Just empty pavement.
Still, the hairs on his neck prickled.
He adjusted the strap of his bag, quickening his pace. He'd almost reached the back gate near the dorms when movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
Too fast.
Too close.
The first blow came hard and sharp to his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
Bryant staggered, dropping his bag. "What the—"
Another figure rushed from the side, a fist connecting with his jaw. Pain exploded across his face.
Three of them. Maybe four. Hoodies pulled low, their faces shadowed.
"Stay down," one of them growled.
Bryant spat blood onto the pavement, his teeth clenched. "Not my style."
He swung back, his fist catching one attacker in the gut. The boy doubled over, wheezing. Bryant pivoted, catching another by the shoulder and shoving him hard against the fence. For a second, adrenaline surged—he might get out of this.
But then another punch slammed into his cheek, blinding him with white-hot pain.
He dropped to one knee, vision swimming.
"Enough," someone barked. A voice that was familiar, though Bryant couldn't place it through the haze. "That's enough. Just make sure he remembers."
A final kick to his ribs sent him sprawling against the cold pavement. The attackers scattered, their footsteps fading into the night.
Bryant lay there, chest heaving, his body screaming with pain. He wanted to chase them, to fight back, but his muscles refused to move. All he could do was breathe.
And think.
This wasn't random.
He knew it in his bones. This wasn't about money, or robbery, or some drunk kids looking for trouble.
This was about him.
And there was only one person twisted enough to send a message this way.
Mani.
Bryant eventually dragged himself up, clutching his side as he limped back to the dorms. His reflection in the bathroom mirror made his stomach sink—bruises already blooming across his jaw, blood crusted on his lip, a dark welt forming along his ribs.
He turned on the tap, splashing cold water over his face.
Brooklyn couldn't see him like this.
Not now. Not after everything she'd gone through in the last forty-eight hours. She was already drowning under the weight of Mani's obsession. The last thing she needed was to feel guilty for Bryant's injuries.
He cleaned himself up as best he could, pressing ice against his ribs, dabbing ointment on the cut above his brow. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest when he thought of Brooklyn.
She'd cry. She'd blame herself. And worse—she'd start thinking Mani had control over their lives.
No.
Bryant wouldn't give him that power.
So when Brooklyn texted later that night—"Are you okay? You didn't answer when I called. Amanda said you weren't at the café."—he forced his swollen fingers to type back.
"I'm fine. Just tired. We'll talk tomorrow."
He pressed send before he could change his mind, then leaned back against the wall, wincing as pain shot through his ribs.
Tomorrow.
He'd see her tomorrow. Smile, crack a joke, make her laugh. She wouldn't know. She didn't need to know.
But deep down, Bryant knew secrets like this never stayed hidden for long.
And sure enough, the next morning, when he walked into class with sunglasses pulled low over his face, Brooklyn's sharp eyes found him immediately.
"Bryant?" Her voice carried across the room, full of suspicion.
He froze.
The whole class turned.
And in that instant, he realized—there was no hiding anymore.