The stairway was mostly quiet, the silence only broken by the rhythmic thud of Ethan's shoes against the concrete steps.
He reached the second floor, where the stairs opened directly onto a long corridor bathed in the dying sunset. A single figure stood near the landing.
A girl.
She was leaning slightly against the wall, gazing out of the window towards the school entrance. Pausing for a moment and following her gaze, Ethan felt she might be looking at Braden and his cronies, but it was hard to tell for sure.
Ethan didn't know who she was. In a school with over a thousand students across multiple grades, that wasn't surprising, but she was certainly eye-catching.
She was undeniably pretty. Her uniform fit her well, and her hair was styled in neat twin-tails. She had delicate features, the kind that naturally drew the eye without trying too hard.
Ethan didn't stare for too long. He didn't have the time or the inclination to ogle random girls. He simply continued walking, intending to pass by and continue down the stairs.
However, the sound of his renewed footsteps seemed to alert her.
The girl turned her head, her gaze locking onto him.
For a split second, their eyes met. Ethan expected her to react with indifference, or perhaps the polite nod of a stranger.
What he got instead was a look of cold distaste.
She glanced him up and down, her brow furrowing slightly. It wasn't a hostile glare, but the kind of look one might give to something unpleasant on the sidewalk—a clear desire to distance herself from him.
Without saying a word, she turned away from the window and walked past him, descending the stairs quickly to put some distance between them.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Her footsteps faded rapidly as she disappeared to the floor below.
Ethan stood there, blinking in genuine confusion.
"What was that about?"
He hadn't said a word to her. He hadn't even looked at her for more than two seconds. Was his reputation as the school punching bag really so widespread that random students looked at him like he was a disease?
He looked down at himself, and the realization hit him instantly.
His uniform was caked in gray dust from the rooftop gravel, and he spotted jagged tears in the fabric where Braden's goons had roughed him up earlier. He ran a hand through his hair—it felt tangled and stiff—while the sensation of dried sweat and dirt clinging to his skin made him itch.
"Right," Ethan muttered, realizing as he brushed some dust off his sleeve. "I must look like a total wreck right now."
It wasn't surprising she reacted that way. He probably looked like a vagrant who had snuck into the campus rather than a proper student.
Pushing the encounter to the back of his mind, Ethan decided to stop at the boys' washroom.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile white glow over the tiled room. It was empty.
Ethan walked up to the sink and turned the tap. Cold water gushed out. He splashed it onto his face, scrubbing away the grime and the sweat, trying to wash away the physical remnants of the bad day.
He grabbed a paper towel and dried his face, then looked up at the mirror. The reflection staring back was… surprisingly decent.
Despite the exhaustion hanging under his eyes, the face in the mirror was objectively good-looking. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and clear skin.
There was even something exotic about him. While most of his hair was a dark raven black, a distinct lock of hair near his left temple was a shimmering silver. It wasn't dyed; it was a birthmark, a genetic quirk that stood out starkly against the dark strands.
Ethan touched the silver lock thoughtfully.
In a society that valued conformity, standing out was dangerous if you didn't have the strength to back it up.
His appearance was likely one of the reasons Braden targeted him. It made him noticeable. In the ruthless ecosystem of their school, being weak was a sin, but being weak and standing out was a provocation.
"What a waste of good looks," Ethan whispered.
He wasn't talking about the bullying. He was talking about the way he carried himself until several minutes ago.
Ethan straightened his spine, watching his reflection change.
Previously, he had always hunched his shoulders, shrinking into himself to avoid attention. He had walked with his head down, effectively hiding his face and his potential behind a curtain of hair and insecurity. He had taken a winning hand and folded it because he was too afraid to play.
But as Ethan stood there now, standing to his full height with a cold, impassive expression, the transformation was striking. The face was the same, but the aura was entirely different.
He fixed his collar and dusted off his trousers as best as he could. He couldn't repair the tears in his uniform, but he could at least make sure he didn't look like a victim. Such tears could easily be the results of some rough sparring.
Satisfied with his new look, he turned and exited the washroom.
The hallway was bright now. With the sun fully set, the automatic lights overhead had flickered to life, filling the corridor with a steady, artificial glow.
Ethan stepped out, intending to make his way out of the building and head home, but he paused.
Situated between the washroom and the staircase—directly on his path to the exit—were two figures standing just outside the staff room door engaged in conversation.