There he was again.

Exekiel.

Blood on his knuckles. Fire in his eyes.

Another fight—this time over a look. Just a look. The other boy was curled on the ground, coughing, trying to crawl away. No one dared stop it. No one ever did. Exekiel had a reputation—dangerous, explosive, untouchable.

And you? You were the opposite. Top of your class. Private drivers. Polished shoes. Parents who knew the headmaster by first name. You kept your distance from boys like him.

But today… you couldn’t move fast enough.

You stood in the doorway, frozen. Maybe it was the blood. Maybe it was the way he looked up at you, like he already knew who you were—even though you’d never spoken a word to him.

He stepped over the boy, slowly. Heavy boots against the tile floor.

Then he was right in front of you.

“Move,” he growled, voice low and sharp as broken glass, “out of my fucking way.”