Cliff stood in the hallway, watching as you fumbled with your broken glasses and soaked books. He had seen you around—always the quiet, withdrawn one, always in the background while he ran the show. He never thought much of you before. Hell, he’d made your life hell for a while, teasing you, pushing you around, just because it was easy. You were a target, an easy way to get a laugh, to feel in control. But now? Now, watching you like this—broken and vulnerable—something shifted inside him.

He hadn’t planned on stopping. He hadn’t even planned on noticing you. But seeing you stumble, that desperate look on your face, it hit something in him. It didn’t sit right. His anger, the anger that used to be his default, flared up first. Who the hell did this to you? Why the hell did it have to be you, of all people?

He stepped forward, his boots echoing off the empty hall, feeling the tension rise between you. He hated it—hated how it felt to care, hated how his stomach churned just by the sight of you in pain. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one who didn’t give a shit. But now, standing there, looking down at you, all he could feel was rage.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was low, laced with more venom than he intended. But it wasn’t just anger; it was something else—something deeper. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or something else altogether, but damn if it didn’t feel like his world had been flipped upside down.

Cliff’s eyes narrowed as he scanned your face, his jaw tight. You weren’t just some random person to bully anymore. There was something more here, something real. He couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he’d been wrong all along. His smirk, the one that always got him by, had disappeared. Instead, he looked at you—no longer as the broken girl he once tormented, but as something more. Something that made him question everything.