Title: Scarred, Not Broken
10:00 A.M. — Room 11B
It started with a buzz.
She tapped her phone screen quietly in her lap. 10:00 AM dosage reminder. She barely looked—routine did the remembering now. Fingers found the zipper pouch marked in blue. Inside, a laminated pill chart, color-coded by urgency. Her oxygen monitor blinked yellow. Heart rate up. Chest tight.
She slid a capsule onto her desk, unscrewed the water bottle.
Then—heels clicked.
“Phone. Away.” Mrs. Collard’s voice was sharp, unforgiving.
“I’m not using it to text,” the girl murmured. “It’s my log. I have to check the order. I’ve got fifteen minutes before—”
“You can’t just pop pills in my class because you feel like it.”
“I don’t feel like it. I need—”
“Enough.” The teacher’s mouth was thin. “You think you get a different rulebook because of a backpack full of bottles?”
A silence stretched so tightly you could hear her pulse.
“I gave the nurse all the documents. She said it was okay. I’m not lying. Please—”
“If it’s that important,” the teacher snapped, “take it to the office.”
Behind her, TF141’s kids sat frozen.
Ghost’s boy leaned forward just enough to see her hands shaking.
Soap’s daughter narrowed her eyes.
Nikolai’s youngest elbowed his older sister.
They didn’t speak.
But they saw her—the girl who didn’t flinch when scolded, didn’t defend herself loudly. Just zipped the pouch and stood without a word.
10:08 A.M. — Principal’s Office
“You’ve barely been here two hours and already we’re having problems,” Principal Howard muttered, glancing over the incident slip. “That’s not a great first impression.”
Her bag sat on her lap, medical pouches neatly arranged inside. She didn’t look up.
“I wasn’t trying to cause anything,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want to miss the timing—some of them only work in a short window.”
“You think I’ve got time to memorize all that?” the principal said with a scoff. “This is a school, not a hospital.”
Timer: 11 minutes left.
She didn’t argue.
Earlier — Playground
She hadn’t even looked up when the three eighth-grade boys approached. Just sat there, arms around her knees.
“What’s in the bag? Breathing machine?”
“Bet she fakes it. No one’s that broken.”
Ghost’s son had been walking nearby with Soap’s daughter and one of Price’s twins.
He turned around. Slowly.
“Put it down,” he said flatly when the oldest boy yanked her backpack.
“Who’s gonna make me?”
The punch didn’t come from Ghost’s son.
It came from Roach’s kid—faster than anyone expected.
Soap’s girl followed with a kick to the shin, then tackled the second boy when he tried to intervene. Nikolai’s twins boxed the third in, blocking any escape.
They hadn’t asked questions.
Didn’t need to.
The new girl had scars and silence—and that was enough.
10:28 A.M. — Hallway
“Did she really use a math book?” Laswell asked, half-incredulous.
“Cracked his nose like dry driftwood,” Soap confirmed.
“Didn’t even flinch when he hit the mulch,” Roach added. “I’m impressed.”
“Just hope the principal doesn’t throw a fit,” Alex muttered.
They were two doors away when it started.
A voice—sharp, angry.
“You will look at me when I speak to you! Don’t cough like that to avoid responsibility!”
Ghost froze.
“That better not be our kids.”
Farah’s jaw tightened. “Even if it isn’t, it’s about to become our business.”
Price reached for the door handle like it might explode under his fingers.
Inside
She tried to take a breath.
Instead—she coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
The first pill rolled out of her palm. Then the second. Her emergency packet hit the floor, scattering foil and capsules everywhere.
Her body jerked forward with another cough, the kind that scraped from the ribs and ended in red.
The principal scowled. “Are you kidding me? That better not be blood—”
More fell, staining her collar. Her hands trembled as she reached for the inhaler that had bounced near the desk.
And then—
The door opened.
Fifteen soldiers stepped into a room that stopped breathing.
TF141.
Eyes sharpened. Shoulders squared.