Aarvin sat alone at the far end of the cafeteria, a plastic tray untouched before him. A half‑eaten sandwich lay forgotten at its center. The room buzzed with layered noise—chatter, clattering cutlery, sudden bursts of laughter echoing off tiled walls. He stared at the wilted lettuce. Outside the windows, the rain had stopped. The floor beyond glistened—slick, reflective—like the calm after something violent. The stale taste of bread grounded him in an unpleasant truth: he was still here, still trying to disappear in a place that felt less like a school and more like a battlefield.
A sudden grip closed around his wrist. Aarvin flinched. Riyan loomed over him, eyes sharp, expression tight with urgency—and something harder to read beneath it.
"What are you doing?" Riyan asked quietly. "Come."
The word wasn't a request. Aarvin swallowed, heart slamming against his ribs.
"R‑Riyan? What's—"
"Just come." Riyan pulled him up. The chair screeched across the floor, drawing curious glances. Aarvin stumbled, sneakers squeaking on polished tiles, Riyan's grip firm—unyielding. A reminder of who held power in Oakridge.
They slipped into a back hallway where the lights dimmed and the air cooled. Damp concrete and rusted lockers filled the space with a faint metallic scent. Somewhere, a locker slammed shut. The echo ticked like a countdown.
Riyan stopped. Three seniors leaned against a graffiti‑scarred wall—tall, broad, relaxed in a way that made the hallway feel smaller.
"They're not my enemies," Riyan murmured, "just attitude problems." A faint smirk touched his lips. "I'll give the signal. You throw one or two punches."
The words hit Aarvin harder than any fist could.
"What?" His voice cracked. "Bro… I can't—"
"Quiet." Riyan's tone sharpened. "Just one punch. I'll handle the rest."
The boys turned as one. A lanky senior with a thin scar down his cheek laughed softly. "That Hale's little brother? Looks like a kid."
Heat crawled up Aarvin's face. The lights flickered overhead, the hallway seemed to close in. His palms slicked with sweat. Every instinct screamed to vanish.
Riyan leaned closer. "They won't touch you. I'm here. Punch."
Aarvin shook his head, panic spilling into his voice. "I don't want to fight. I can't do this." He turned—
And ran. Laughter followed—sharp, careless, cruel—echoing down the corridor. Riyan didn't laugh. He watched silently, expression unreadable, a faint crease forming between his brows. For a moment, the hallway fell quiet; water dripped from a leaky pipe, and Riyan's gaze stayed fixed on the empty space his brother left behind.
Aarvin didn't stop until he burst through the rooftop stairwell door. Cold air slammed into him. The railing was slick with leftover rain. City lights flickered below like scattered embers. He gripped the rail, chest heaving, metallic taste filling his mouth as his heart fought to break free.
"What am I doing here?" he whispered. The wind swallowed the words.
Later, back in class, the bell rang. Elena Cross slid into the seat beside him. Her amber eyes moved to his shaking hands.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
Aarvin forced a thin, fragile smile. "Yeah. Just… adjusting." The lie sat heavy between them. Inside him, something churned—shame, anger, fear twisted together. He felt small, weak, an intruder in a world that demanded strength.
Elena glanced at the empty seat where Riyan should have been, then back to Aarvin. She slipped a folded paper onto his desk. "If you ever need to get away," she murmured, "library. After school."
The bell rang again. The rest of the day blurred—lectures, whispers, sideways looks. When it finally ended, Aarvin lingered. The small paper in his pocket felt heavier than it should have.
At his locker, a sudden gust swept down the hallway, tossing loose pages across the floor. He crouched to gather them. His fingers brushed something cold—metal. A dented old key lay among the scattered papers, its teeth worn, hinting at a lock he hadn't yet seen.
He stared at it, unease crawling up his spine. The lights buzzed overhead, louder now, impatient. A choice. He pocketed the key.
Outside, the sky bruised violet. Thunder murmured far away. Aarvin headed toward the old stairwell, each step steadier than the last. He wasn't brave, but he wasn't running anymore.
The rooftop opened before him—concrete, wind, the city burning below. Lightning cracked the sky. Riyan stood at the edge, silhouette carved against the storm. "Thought you'd chicken out," he snarled.
Aarvin stepped forward. His knees trembled, but his voice didn't. "Never."
Thunder cracked. For a heartbeat, the world turned white. Aarvin saw the path ahead—painful, dangerous, unavoidable. Blood would be spilled. If not today… then soon.
_To be continued…_