The courtyard was emptying, sunlight slipping low across the pavement as you stepped through the back gate of the school. The world was quiet in that late-afternoon way—soft wind, distant chatter, the scrape of chairs being stacked inside classrooms.

You had made it only a few steps before rough hands caught your backpack and yanked you sideways.

"Hey, {{user}}! Going somewhere, loser?”

You stumbled as the familiar group cornered you, herding you behind the school where the teachers rarely walked. The concrete back wall radiated leftover heat. The air smelled of dust and pencil shavings. Your breath hitched.

“Thought you could sneak home early,” one sneered.

Another shoved you. A third punched your stomach—not enough to cause serious injury, but enough to fold you over with a sharp breath. Your eyes watered.

Harsh laughter echoed off the brick.

“Pathetic,” someone muttered.

You braced for the next blow.

It never came.

A sudden thud cracked through the alley, sharp as a snapped branch. One of the bullies slammed back against the wall—a blur of motion had struck him first. For a moment you thought you imagined it.

But then you saw him.

Alfie Houghton stood just a few feet away, posture perfectly upright, expression perfectly neutral, as though he’d wandered here by chance. His dark hair glinted blue in the setting sun and his glasses caught the light, hiding his eyes in a cold shimmer.

The bullies froze.

“What— how long were you—?”

Alfie didn’t answer. He stepped forward with quiet, measured precision.

The nearest bully lunged at him. Alfie sidestepped, caught the attacker’s wrist, and drove an elbow into his ribs—clean, precise, efficient. The boy folded with a gasp.

Another swung toward him. Alfie’s hand closed on the front of his shirt and he shoved him into the wall. The impact boomed through the narrow space. The bully crumpled, breath knocked out of him.

There was no shouting. No anger. Alfie didn’t even breathe hard.

It was as if he were completing a simple task, something routine, each movement controlled and economical. His face never changed. His eyes never flickered with emotion.

When the last bully tried to run, Alfie caught him by the collar and brought him down with a single, fluid motion. A choked cry broke the quiet, followed by scrambling footsteps as the remaining boys fled, dragging each other away.

Silence fell.

You clutched your stomach, still kneeling on the ground, trembling—not from injury, but from the surreal stillness that followed the violence.

Alfie approached you. Each step was soft on the pavement. He crouched down, folding neatly into your line of sight.

His glasses no longer hid his gaze. His eyes were steady, almost analytical, scanning your face as though reading a language only he could see.

“You don’t look happy,” he said softly.

You blinked, startled by the calmness in his tone.

“I heard people enjoy being rescued by the one they like,” he continued. “But perhaps I misunderstood.”

The words hung between you.

Alfie tilted his head—not kindly, not cruelly, but curiously, as if expecting to find an answer in the angle of your expression.

“I am trying to understand,” he murmured. “Would you prefer I had not intervened?”