The city changed after sunset.
By day, it pretended to be polished—glass buildings, clean sidewalks, people moving like they belonged somewhere important. At night, the cracks showed. Streetlights flickered instead of shone. Alleyways stretched longer than they should. Laughter sounded sharper, like it carried teeth.
Theo walked home alone.
His backpack hung loose on one shoulder, sketchbook tucked inside like a secret he didn't trust the world with. His phone buzzed once in his pocket.
Lilly: Did you eat?
Theo smirked, thumbs moving fast.
Theo: Yeah. If instant noodles that taste like dog food count.
He added a laughing emoji, then paused. Deleted it. Sent the message anyway.
The street grew quieter the farther he walked from campus. The sounds of traffic faded, replaced by footsteps that didn't belong to him.
Five of them.
Theo noticed without turning around. He always did. Growing up broke taught you things no class ever would—how to listen, how to read silence, how to know when trouble was walking behind you pretending it wasn't.
He stopped.
So did they.
Masks came up. Cheap ones. Black fabric, badly cut. Amateur hour.
Theo sighed. "Wow," he muttered. "You guys really rehearsed this, huh?"
No answer.
The first punch came from the side—fast, sloppy, angry. It caught his cheekbone and snapped his head sideways. Pain exploded white-hot, then settled into a dull burn.
Theo staggered back but didn't fall.
That annoyed them.
They rushed him all at once.
Fists. Elbows. Boots.
He covered his head, curled inward, taking hits where he could survive them. Someone kicked his ribs. Another punched his stomach so hard the air left his lungs in a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh.
One of them leaned close enough that Theo could hear him breathing.
"You should've stayed in your place," the boy hissed.
Theo smiled through blood.
"Which one?" he asked hoarsely. "The floor? Or under your ego?"
That earned him another punch—this one straight to the eye.
Stars burst behind his vision. He went down hard this time, hands scraping against concrete, skin tearing. The world tilted, blurred.
He heard laughter.
He also heard a familiar voice—strained, furious, trying too hard to sound fearless.
Ash.
Theo didn't say his name. He didn't need to.
The boots stopped. Footsteps retreated. Someone spat near his head.
Then silence.
Theo lay there for a moment, staring up at the night sky between buildings. It looked fake. Too clean. Like a painting someone hadn't finished shading yet.
"Great city," he muttered. "Ten out of ten. Would get jumped again."
He forced himself up, every movement screaming in protest. His face throbbed. His ribs ached. One eye was already swelling shut.
Still, he walked home.
The apartment smelled like cheap detergent and old paint.
Theo locked the door behind him, leaned against it, and slid down slowly until he was sitting on the floor. He laughed under his breath—short, broken.
"Real smooth, Da Vinci," he whispered to himself.
He cleaned up as best he could. Cold water on his face. A hiss when it touched the bruise. A wince when he pressed his ribs.
His phone buzzed again.
Lilly: Good. Don't skip meals.
Theo stared at the message longer than he should have.
He typed.
Theo: I won't. Promise.
Lie delivered with perfect handwriting.
He dropped onto his mattress fully clothed, pulled his sketchbook out, and opened it. His hands moved on instinct, pencil scratching softly across paper.
Lines formed without asking permission.
A figure. Faceless. Surrounded by shadows shaped like mouths—open, whispering, laughing. The title wrote itself at the bottom.
RUMORS.
Theo snorted. "Subtle."
His eyes grew heavy before he realized it. Pencil slipped from his fingers. The world faded mid-line.
The next morning arrived without mercy.
Theo woke late, face stiff, eye swollen dark and ugly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, tilted his head.
"…Huh," he said. "Adds character."
He went to school anyway.
No uniform day.
He wore a blue two-piece tracksuit—faded but clean enough—and white sneakers that had seen better years and worse weather. Dirt clung to the soles like it refused to let go.
As he walked through the gates, the whispers followed him.
"That's him."
"He punched Ash."
"Did you see his eye?"
"He's trouble."
Theo kept walking, hands in his pockets, expression bored.
Wow, he thought. I get jumped once and suddenly I'm a criminal mastermind.
In the tuck shop, he sat alone at a corner table, poking at food he didn't plan on eating.
Across the room, Isabella stood with her friends.
She glanced at him once.
Black eye. Relaxed posture. No shame.
"Huh," she thought. What a loser.
Her friends giggled.
"Can't believe he punched Ash," one said.
Isabella scoffed softly. "More like got punched and wants attention."
Still, her eyes lingered a second longer than necessary.
Theo didn't look back.
Simon slid into the seat across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Rough day?" Simon asked casually.
Theo smirked. "Nah. Just fought a staircase. Lost."
Simon chuckled, then leaned in. "People are talking."
"They always do," Theo replied. "It's their favorite hobby."
Before Simon could answer, the bell rang.
In class, the teacher hadn't arrived yet.
Theo sat near the back, sketchbook open again. He shaded quietly, movements calm, controlled.
Isabella walked past his desk without looking—until she did.
The drawing stopped her.
A figure in the center, bruised but standing. Shadows shaped like eyes. Words bleeding into the page.
RUMORS.
Her expression shifted—surprise flickering across her face before she masked it.
She walked away without saying a word.
Theo didn't notice.
He kept drawing.
Bruises didn't talk.
But art did.