The metallic taste of blood is something you never really get used to, no matter how many times you bite your own lip to keep from screaming. I spat a mixture of saliva and red onto the cracked concrete of the school courtyard. The rain was coming down in sheets, washing away the evidence of my first sin, but it couldn't wash away the memory of why I was here.
Oakridge High wasn't a school; it was a food chain. At the very top sat the 'Apex', a group of four untouchable elites who ran the corridors with absolute, brutal authority. And at the bottom? People like my older brother, Julian. Julian was the golden boy—straight A's, a smile that could disarm a bomb, and a naive belief in justice. When he saw the Apex extorting a junior, he intervened.
That was three months ago. Now, Julian lies in a sterile hospital room, a machine breathing for him. The school called it a 'tragic fall down the stairs.' The police called it a 'lack of evidence.' I call it my starting line.
I adjusted the wraps on my knuckles, the rough fabric digging into my skin. As I looked up at the towering, grey building, my mind flashed back to last night. Chloe.
She had shown up at my apartment, drenched and shivering, holding a first-aid kit. Chloe, with her soft brown eyes and a heart too pure for a place like Oakridge. As she carefully bandaged a scrape on my arm from my 'training', her hands had trembled.
"You don't have to do this, Asher," she had whispered, her voice cracking. "Julian wouldn't want you to become a monster just to defeat them."
I had looked at her, really looked at her, wanting nothing more than to pull her close and forget this whole suicide mission. I reached out, gently tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not becoming a monster, Chloe," I had replied, my voice dangerously hollow. "I'm becoming a mirror. I'm just going to show them their own reflection."
I shook the memory away. Focus.
The ground floor belonged to the lowest tier of the Apex's army. The Gatekeeper. His name was 'Tank' Bronson. He was 6'4", built like a brick wall, and had the IQ of one too. He stood blocking the main stairwell, surrounded by a dozen lackeys who were busy smoking and laughing.
"Well, well," Tank rumbled, crushing a cigarette under his heavy boot as he spotted me. "If it isn't the ghost's little brother. Come to take a 'fall' too?"
The lackeys snickered. I didn't say a word. I just kept walking toward him, my pace even, my breathing controlled. I had spent the last ninety days studying anatomy, physics, and the brutal art of breaking things.
"I'm talking to you, trash!" Tank roared, losing his patience. He lunged, swinging a massive right hook that could have shattered my skull.
But I wasn't there.
Time seemed to slow down. I ducked under his sweeping arm, smelling the cheap cologne and stale sweat. My target wasn't his face—it was his foundation. I drove the heel of my boot straight into the side of his left knee.
Crack.
It was a sickening sound, like a thick dry branch snapping in half. Tank howled in agony, his massive frame buckling instantly. As he dropped to one knee, bringing his face right to my level, I didn't hesitate. I spun, using the momentum to deliver a devastating, calculated elbow strike directly to his temple.
His eyes rolled back before he even hit the floor. The heavy thud of his unconscious body hitting the linoleum echoed through the suddenly dead-silent hallway.
I stood up slowly, rolling my shoulders. The twelve lackeys were frozen, their cigarettes slipping from their fingers. They looked at Tank, then at me, pure terror dawning in their eyes.
"Level One," I muttered to myself, stepping over his massive body and placing my foot on the first step of the stairs.
I looked back at the terrified crowd. "Tell the Apex," my voice rang out cold and clear, "that the stairs are open. And I'm coming up."