October 8th, 7:51 AM, Westfield High School
I walk through the main entrance with my head down, same as every day. The hallways smell like floor wax and teenage sweat. Lockers slam. People laugh. The world keeps spinning like I'm not even here.
Nobody knows it's my birthday. Why would they? Mom was too caught up in her case meltdown this morning to remember. Granny probably has it written down somewhere, buried under distributor contracts and supply chain issues. It doesn't matter. Seventeen feels exactly like sixteen felt, like fifteen, like every other day of my forgettable life.
I'm halfway to my locker when I see them.
Marcus and his crew, but they're not in their usual spot. They're waiting by my locker. All three of them—Marcus, Tyler, and Jake—and they've got these looks on their faces that make my stomach drop.
This is going to be bad.
I think about turning around, finding another route, but Marcus has already seen me.
"Halden! Get over here, man. We need to talk."
His voice is different. Not the usual mocking tone. Something else. Something worse.
I walk over because I don't have a choice. Running would just make it worse later.
"What?" I keep my voice flat, emotionless. Don't give them anything to work with.
Marcus leans against my locker, arms crossed. He's smiling, and it makes my skin crawl. "Dude, why didn't you tell me we were friends?"
"What?"
"Yeah, man. Your mom came by my house yesterday evening. You know, for the Patterson case? That's my dad." His smile gets wider. "She seemed real stressed, sitting in our living room, trying to work out some kind of deal. Said she was representing Patterson, the guy who embezzled from my dad's company."
My blood goes cold. The case. The one that's been consuming Mom for months. Patterson Industries versus Chen Enterprises. I never made the connection that it was Marcus's dad.
"She looked good though." Tyler chimes in, that stupid grin on his face. "Real good for someone's mom."
"Yeah," Marcus pulls out his phone. "I got some pictures. You know, for memories."
He holds up the screen and I see her. Mom. Sitting in what must be the Chens' living room, her back to the camera. Her shoulders are slumped, head in her hands. Even from behind, I can see how defeated she looks. How small.
"Got a few more." Marcus swipes. Another photo. Mom standing now, talking to someone off-camera. Another one, closer, showing her profile. The tension in her jaw. The exhaustion around her eyes.
"Where did you—"
"I was real polite," Marcus says. "Introduced myself. Told her I was your friend from school. She seemed surprised, but hey, she had bigger problems to worry about, right?" He laughs. "We had a nice chat while my dad kept her waiting. She's sweet, your mom. Real sweet."
My hands ball into fists at my sides. "Delete those."
"Why would I do that?" Marcus looks at the photos again, making a show of it. "Damn, Halden. Your mom is seriously hot. I mean, everyone says it, but seeing her up close? In that tight little suit?" He makes a sound that turns my stomach. "I get why all the guys in town are talking about her."
"She's a professional," I force out through clenched teeth. "She was there for work."
"Oh, I know. All business, your mom. But man—" Marcus zooms in on one of the photos. "That body? At thirty-nine? That's some MILF territory right there."
Tyler's laughing. "Bro, remember what your dad said? That she was practically begging—"
"Shut up." My voice comes out strangled. "Just shut up."
Marcus pockets his phone, steps closer. "You know what, Halden? I think I might have to visit your place sometime soon. Get to know your mom better. She gave me your address when I told her we were friends. Said I should come by sometime, hang out with you." His grin turns predatory. "Maybe when you're not home. I bet she gets lonely, working all those late nights, dealing with all that stress. She could probably use some company. Some relief."
"I said shut up!"
"What are you gonna do about it, string bean?" Marcus shoves me, light, mocking. "Your mom's gonna be thinking about me now. Every time she's alone in that house. And you know what? After my dad destroys her case, after Patterson goes to prison and your mom's reputation is trashed, maybe she'll need a shoulder to cry on. Maybe—"
I don't remember deciding to do it. My fist just swings.
It connects with Marcus's jaw with a sound like a slap, weak, pathetic. His head barely moves.
For a second, everything stops. Marcus touches his jaw, looks at his fingers like he's checking for blood. There isn't any.
Then he looks at me, and I see something dark slide behind his eyes.
"You actually just hit me."
"I—"
His fist comes out of nowhere. It slams into my stomach and all the air rushes out of my lungs. I double over, gasping, and then Tyler's there, grabbing my arms, holding me up. Marcus hits me again, face this time. My glasses go flying. The world blurs.
Another hit. My lip splits. I taste copper.
"You think you can touch me?" Marcus's voice sounds far away. "You think you're somebody?"
Jake kicks my legs out. I'm on the floor now. They're kicking me—ribs, back, stomach. I curl up, try to protect my head, but it doesn't matter. They're everywhere.
Someone's shouting. The kicks stop.
"What the hell is going on here?" Coach Peterson's voice, loud and authoritative. He's the PE teacher, built like a tank. "Break it up! Now!"
Hands pull me up. Everything hurts. I can't see clearly without my glasses. Someone puts them in my hand—one lens is cracked, frame bent—but I shove them on anyway.
Coach Peterson is standing between me and Marcus's crew. "Someone want to explain this?"
"Halden attacked Marcus," Tyler says immediately. "We were just defending him."
"That true?" Coach looks at me. "You throw the first punch?"
I don't say anything. My mouth's full of blood.
"Jhaeron?" Coach's voice softens slightly. "That true?"
I nod. Because it is true. I hit him first.
Coach sighs, looks at Marcus. "You hurt?"
"Nah, Coach. I'm fine. Barely felt it, honestly." Marcus is playing it cool now, the perfect innocent victim. "I don't want to make a big deal out of it. Halden's going through some stuff at home, I think. His mom's got that big case, probably stressed out. I get it."
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. That false sympathy. That knowing tone.
Coach Peterson looks at me, then at Marcus. I can see him doing the math. Marcus Chen, son of David Chen, who owns half the businesses in town and donates heavily to the school's sports programs. Me, nobody, son of a lawyer who's apparently losing her biggest case.
"All right. Halden, nurse's office. Get cleaned up. Marcus, you and your friends get to class." He pauses. "All of you. I don't want to hear about any more fights. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach." Marcus's voice is perfectly respectful.
They walk away. As Marcus passes me, he leans in close, voice low enough that only I can hear. "I'll be seeing you soon, Halden. At your place. Gonna get to know your mom real well." He pauses. "And that granny of yours? For fifty-eight, she's not bad either. Total GILF. Might have to get to know the whole family."
He walks off laughing. Tyler and Jake follow, throwing looks back at me that promise this isn't over.
Coach Peterson guides me toward the nurse's office, but I barely feel his hand on my shoulder. Everything's numb except for the rage and humiliation burning in my chest.
The nurse isn't in her office. Coach tells me to clean up and wait, then leaves.
I stand at the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Blood drips from my split lip. My left eye's already swelling. There are red marks on my neck, my arms. Tomorrow they'll be bruises.
I look pathetic.
I am pathetic.
I can't even throw a punch properly. Can't defend myself. Can't defend my mother. Can't do anything except stand there and take it while they talk about her like she's—like she's—
The door opens. I freeze, thinking it's the nurse.
It's not.
"Just making sure you're okay, buddy." Marcus's voice. He's alone now, no witnesses. "That looked rough."
"Get out."
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, just checking on my friend. But seriously, Halden. Your mom. I wasn't lying. I'm gonna visit. And there's nothing you can do to stop me." He smiles. "Happy birthday, by the way. Yeah, your mom mentioned it when I was at your place. Said you were turning seventeen today. Some birthday, huh?"
He leaves. The door swings shut behind him.
I stay at the sink until the bell rings. Until the hallways empty. Until the school settles into that quiet mid-morning hum of classes in session.
Nobody comes looking for me.
I grab my backpack from where Coach left it, walk out of the nurse's office, through the empty hallways, past the main office where the secretary's too busy on the phone to notice me leaving.
Outside, the October air is cold. It stings my split lip.
I walk. Not toward home. Not toward anywhere specific. Just away.
10:47 AM, Old Morrison Construction Site
The site's been abandoned for months. Some developer bought the lot, started putting up what was supposed to be luxury condos, then ran out of money. Now it's just skeletal steel frames and concrete platforms reaching into the sky, surrounded by chain-link fence with holes kicked through it by kids looking for places to drink and smoke.
I climb. The stairs are unfinished, just metal grating. Some platforms don't have railings yet. I keep climbing anyway. My ribs scream with every step, but I don't stop.
Ten floors. Fifteen. Twenty.
At the top, the wind hits me like a wall. I can see the whole town from up here. The high school in the distance, small and insignificant. The suburbs spreading out in neat grids. The highway cutting through it all like a scar.
I walk to the edge. There's no railing here, just concrete and open air and a very long drop.
My chest hurts. Not from the beating, though that throbs with every breath. Something else. Something deeper. Like there's a fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing.
This is my life. This has always been my life and always will be.
No love at home—Mom's too busy trying to keep her career from imploding, Granny's too focused on running her company. I'm just the kid they have to remember to feed occasionally, the obligation between meetings and depositions and conference calls.
School is torture. Every single day. And now Marcus has pictures of my mother. Now he knows where I live. Now he's going to show up at my house, and what can I do? Call the police? Tell them what, that some kid took pictures and made comments? They'll laugh at me, especially once they find out his father basically owns the town.
Nobody cares. Nobody has ever cared about Jhaeron Halden, professional punching bag, ghost in his own life.
And my father—whoever he was—he looked at this future and decided it wasn't worth sticking around for. He saw me coming and ran. Can't even blame him, really. I'd run from me too if I could.
But I can.
I can run from all of it.
The wind pushes at my back like it's encouraging me. Like it knows.
One step. That's all it would take. One step and gravity does the rest. The pain stops. The humiliation stops. Everything stops.
My mother would be sad, probably. For a while. Then she'd go back to work because that's what she does—work is how she copes with everything. Granny would handle the funeral arrangements efficiently, between dairy distribution meetings. Life would go on exactly as before, just without me taking up space in it.
Better that way.
I'm crying now. I don't know when I started. The tears sting where they touch my split lip.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to nobody. To everybody. To the father I never knew. "I'm sorry I wasn't stronger."
That pressure in my chest is worse now. It feels like something's breaking open inside me, like there's light trying to force its way out through my ribs. It hurts. God, it hurts.
I close my eyes.
I step forward.
The world drops away.
Wind screams past my ears. My stomach lurches. This is it. This is—
Something catches me.
Not hands. Not anything I can see. Just—something. Like invisible arms wrapping around my chest, stopping my fall mid-air. The pressure in my chest explodes outward and everything goes white, bright, blinding.
I can't breathe. Can't think. The light is everything, pouring out of me, through me, around me.
Then nothing.
Just darkness.
And silence.
And finally, finally, peace.