If Roosevelt High had a heartbeat, it throbbed in the detention hall. Creaky fans, chalk-stained walls, and rows of wooden desks that trapped the worst of us inside four suffocating corners.
That afternoon, the room smelled of sweat, pencil shavings, and rebellion. And in the back row—where shadows stretched the longest—sat Derrick Kane.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, hood up, daring anyone to say his name. His presence filled the room like smoke. The other students, most busted for chewing gum or sneaking phones, tried not to look at him. Because Derrick wasn't there for something small. He never was.
Rumor had it he'd gotten into a fight with two seniors in the gym locker room—left one with a split lip and the other clutching his ribs. The story spread like wildfire, each version darker than the last. No one asked Derrick what really happened. Maybe no one wanted to know.
The teacher droned on about "discipline" and "second chances," but Derrick didn't hear a word. He pulled out a crumpled football magazine instead, flipping pages with that lazy arrogance that made teachers boil with rage but never do anything. They were scared of him too—even if they'd never admit it.
I wasn't supposed to be in detention. But fate, or maybe bad luck, had a cruel sense of humor. My offense? Talking back in English class. Mrs. Hall gave me her famous death glare, and before I could explain myself, I was marched here like a criminal.
And that's how I ended up two desks away from Roosevelt's most dangerous boy.
The silence cracked when Derrick spoke. Not loud, not threatening. Just low and sharp, like the edge of a blade.
"You don't belong here."
I froze. He was looking straight at me. Those gray, stormy eyes locked on mine. The entire room felt smaller, like it was just the two of us, and everyone else had vanished.
I swallowed. "Neither do you."
For a second, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even amusement. Then it was gone, replaced by that same hard mask he wore on the field. He smirked, shook his head, and leaned back again.
But I felt it. That shift. That invisible thread that had just tied me to him.
Minutes crawled by. The teacher scribbled on the board, the clock ticked, and Derrick kept tossing his pen into the air, catching it like time itself was his toy. Every move of his was calculated chaos.
And then—without warning—the pen missed his hand and clattered to the floor, rolling straight to my desk.
I picked it up. Our fingers brushed when I handed it back. Cold. Rough. Electric.
That was the moment I knew: detention wasn't the punishment. Being close to Derrick Kane was. Because once you stepped into his orbit, you didn't escape unchanged.
The bell rang, but the story had just started breathing.
---