Mark woke up early like always. Pushups, situps, . Shower. Uniform.
White jersey. Dress shirt. Black tie with the Silver High crest. Black dress pants. Black Balenciaga lace-less shoes.
He stood in front of the mirror and stared. Not out of vanity. His shoulders sat straighter now. Posture improved, even if only slightly. His frame filled the jersey better than last week. Small change. But in Brookhaven, small changes kept you alive.
Progress.
He started packing his bag. His eyes drifted to the taser on the dresser. Black. Compact. Waiting.
For half a second he considered it. Then shook his head. _Wouldn't be good bringing a weapon to school after all._ He zipped the bag shut with only the essentials — books, pens, notebooks — and headed downstairs.
Mary was already halfway out the door, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"See ya Mark, Mom's already gone by the way so don't look," she called, yanking her shoes on.
"Yeah yeah," Mark muttered more to himself than her, but a small smile slipped out. He grabbed four slices of bread, poured OJ into a 500ml bottle — pocket made for it — and packed lunch separate from his books. He'd learned that lesson back in Zimbabwe. Books + spilled juice = disaster.
White earbuds in. Door locked behind him. The street greeted him with cold air and morning noise.
---
The walk to Silver High was different today.
Mark's eyes scanned everything. Deliberate. Not just instinct anymore. Austin's eye training. Every corner where high school thugs usually stood — empty. Every bird taking off from a power line — tracked. Even the new cracks in the pavement, the way shadows shifted between buildings.
Earbuds blocked the noise. No music. Just silence. Total focus. Brain working overtime.
But the longer he walked, the heavier the air got.
Homeless teens that usually begged near the bridge? They saw him and immediately crossed the street. That never happened before. His uniform hadn't changed.
Something was off.
He barely had time to think it before a fist came straight for his face.
Mark ducked. The punch whistled past his ear. Close. Too close.
_Wow. That was close._ He stumbled back, heart hammering, but his feet moved on their own. Back on balance. Eyes up.
The guy looked frustrated. Zero stance. Zero experience. Hands up like he'd seen it in a movie. Brookhaven first-year energy. But Mark didn't know that.
"Looks like you aren't small fry, huh?" the guy spat.
Mark just blinked. Confused more than scared. The earbuds. He couldn't hear a word.
The guy took the silence as disrespect. Jaw clenched. Shoulders dropped. He was charging.
Mark exhaled. Slow. Steady. Feet planted. Hands loose at his sides.
_I guess it's practical application of Austin's lessons,_ he thought, locking eyes with the guy. _Watch the shoulders. Watch the weight shift. Don't think. React._
The guy lunged.
Brookhaven morning just started. And Mark wasn't small fry anymore.
---
The guy charged without a word. Fists came flying.
But this time Mark didn't flinch. Didn't close his eyes.
He saw the shoulder dip, the weight shift, the fist telegraphing from a mile away. Not Austin-level prediction. Not yet. But enough. His feet moved on their own, sliding left. The punch cut air next to his cheek.
_This is way easier than dodging dodgeball yesterday,_ Mark thought, sidestepping another wild swing. The guy's posture was all wrong. Feet too close. Shoulders locked. Every punch started in his chest instead of his hips. Sloppy initiation. Easy to read.
The more Mark dodged, the redder the guy's face got.
"Are you toying with me?!" He spat, breath ragged. "You're gonna regret that."
He chambered a front kick. Knee up, telegraphed. Mark drifted right. The kick whistled past his thigh and thudded into nothing.
Mark wasn't toying with him. Truth was uglier: he didn't know how to hit back. Hakim's words echoed in his head: _"Punching ain't like movies, Mark. Clench wrong and you'll sprain your wrist before you sprain their nose. Kicking's worse if your balance is trash."_
So he didn't throw. Not yet. If he couldn't match force, he'd match brains. Environment + weapons = odds evened.
The guy pressed forward, cutting off angles. One step, two steps. Mark's back hit brick. Cold through his Jersey. Dead end.
The guy's smile split wide. He cracked his knuckles, slow and loud. "Finally. Nowhere to run, Silver High brat."
The fist came for Mark's face. Straight, mean, committed.
Mark dropped. Ducked low. The fist slammed into the wall instead of his nose.
_CRACK_
"ARGHHHH!" The guy screamed, clutching his hand. Knuckles already swelling. He'd broken himself on brick.
Mark didn't waste the opening. This alley was why he'd picked this route. More "make-shift weapons" per square foot than anywhere else between Blue and Silver. Trash cans, broken bottles, bent bikes… and the rake.
A rusted metal rake leaned against the wall, handle between the guy's legs. Mark had noticed it the second he stepped in.
He stomped the handle.
_THWACK_
The rake head swung up like a spring. Connected with the guy's groin dead center.
The scream hit a new pitch. The guy folded forward, hands between his legs, dropping to his knees. Eyes watered. Breathing stopped.
Mark's bag was already off his shoulder. He swung it like a club. The textbook inside made it heavy. _THUMP._ The guy's head snapped back. Eyes rolled. He collapsed face-first into trash.
Silence.
Mark stood there for three seconds, chest heaving. Then his knees buckled and he sagged against the wall, grinning despite himself.
He did it. First real win. No Adrian. No Hakim. No Connor. Just him.
He pulled one earbud out. The city rushed back in. Shouts. Glass breaking. Somewhere between Blue Academy and Silver High, sirens wailed and sneakers slapped concrete. Another fight. Another block.
"Guess I'm not the only one getting jumped today," Mark muttered, wiping sweat off his forehead. He slung the bag back on. "Gotta be careful. One win doesn't make me strong yet."
And he moved forward. Faster now. Eyes up. Brookhaven didn't give medals for first blood. It just sent the next guy.
---
After about thirty minutes of ducking through alleys and backstreets, Mark finally reached Silver High's gate without catching another fade. The city behind him was chaos. Shouts echoed off brick. Glass cracked somewhere near 4th Street. He'd seen two groups of Blue High jackets sprint past an intersection while a guy with a chain chased them. Earbuds were still in. The chaos report between Blue and Silver was looping in his head.
His shoulder muscles were locked up by the time he made it to the gate. Every shadow made him stiffen. Every footstep behind him made his hand drift toward where the taser used to be.
Then a hand landed on his shoulder.
Mark's whole body went rigid. Breath caught. Adrenaline spiked. For half a second he was back in that service passage, bat whistling down.
"Aye, chill. It's just me."
Hakim. That laid-back smile was already there, like he hadn't just walked through a warzone.
Mark exhaled and sagged against the brick. "Sorry man. I've just been on edge. Streets are wild today."
"Yeah, no shit." Hakim leaned against the wall, arms folded, like this was normal. "I had to knock out fifteen fools on my way here."
Fifteen.
Mark didn't react outwardly. But inside, the number hit like a brick. Fifteen. Hakim said it the way Mark would say "I had to dodge three puddles." No bragging. No flex. Just fact.
That was the gap. Still massive. Still humbling.
But it didn't sting like it would've last week. Because today, for the first time, Mark had a win that was his. No taser dependency. No passing out after. One thug. One rake. One bag. One clear head. He stayed standing. That counted.
"Why aren't the teachers stepping in?" Mark asked, more to himself than to Hakim. He was watching a Blue High guy get dragged around the corner by two Silver kids, and no adult in sight.
Hakim sighed, the first crack in his calm. "Because this type of thing gets dangerous fast. If staff jump in, someone gets stabbed, sued, fired. Easier for them to pretend it's not happening."
He pushed off the wall, eyes drifting past Mark toward the street.
"This is our problem to handle. Not the cops. Not the teachers. Ours."
Two silhouettes cut through the haze down the block. Moving fast but not running. Purposeful.
Mark's hand twitched. Hakim didn't move. He'd already clocked them.
As they got closer, Mark recognized the walk. Bianca. Hair usually neat, tied back, glasses clean. Today it was a mess. Strands stuck to her forehead with sweat. One sleeve torn. A smudge of dirt on her cheek she hadn't noticed yet.
Payal was beside her, unscathed as always. Non-combatant. But her eyes were scanning everything, sharp, like she was mapping exits.
"You got in a fight too, huh?" Hakim said it casual, but his eyes did a quick sweep. Checking her for injuries.
Bianca ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when it snagged. "What is going on out there?" Her voice was steady, but Mark caught the edge under it. She wasn't scared. She was annoyed. Like someone had interrupted her morning.
Hakim glanced at Mark, then back at her. "I'll explain once we're inside. Others should be here soon."
He started walking toward the gate. No wasted motion. Mark fell in step beside him. Bianca and Payal followed, Bianca still trying to fix her hair and failing.
Mark kept his eyes on the street as they moved. The chaos wasn't stopping. If anything, it was spreading. Sirens wailed somewhere far off. Too far to matter.
Inside, the school would be its own kind of battlefield. But at least there, he wasn't alone.
And for the first time since stepping into Brookhaven, that thought didn't make him feel weak. It made him feel like he had a shot.
---