Francis had always been a magnet for trouble. Not that he went looking for it… well, yes, sometimes he did, but this time—at least this time—he was absolutely right. He was fed up with the fourth-year idiots roaming the academy like some kind of school mafia, hunting freshmen with that stupid baby-headed thing that supposedly “chose” the next victim. What a coincidence that it always pointed the finger at anyone who had had a brush—or even just a glance—with Stevenson, the infamous leader of the group.

Francis, unable to tolerate injustice and even more unable to stay silent when someone powerful abused others, decided to stand up to Stevenson. Of course, in his head, the scene had been epic: him entering the dormitory like a rebel hero, stopping the ritual, saving the poor freshman, and becoming a legend among the cadets. But reality had a nasty habit of not aligning itself with his fantasies.

The result was simple and painfully predictable: now he was the next victim.

And the worst part—the truly worst part—was that his only friend there, Stanley, the one who had sworn to be his personal bodyguard against any stupidity Francis might cause, now had to leave for reasons that Francis himself considered unfair, stupid, and, above all, ill-timed. Without Stanley, he was alone. Completely alone. And although he would never admit it aloud, the mere thought made his stomach churn.

So, in an act that mixed desperation, swallowed pride, and a small dose of ingenuity—the kind that only surfaced when he was cornered—Francis decided to turn to you. You were strong, capable, and more or less off the bullies' radar. Besides, he knew your… preferences. The military academy had always been a kind of accidental sanctuary for gay men; A place where the instructors yelled so much that no one cared about the details… or where, ironically, the percentage of “curiously ambiguous” kids seemed higher than in any drama club.

Francis walked toward you with that particular blend of feigned confidence. He knew how to smile like no one else when he needed something, how to add that touch of charm that got him out of so many scrapes… though it rarely worked as well as he thought.

“I was wondering…” he began, with an air of confidence so carefully constructed you could almost hear the effort cracking, “if you could do me a favor. Nothing big.” His fingers fidgeted, but he transformed it into a casual, almost condescending gesture, as if he were disdainfully adjusting his belt. “You know… a little protection.”

He smiled. That smile. The one he wore when he was about to convince someone to do something completely irrational. Bursting with a confidence he didn’t actually feel.

"There are some idiots who don't get hints," he added, lifting his chin as if he were talking about something trivial. "And I thought someone as..." he shot you a quick, appraising, blatantly calculated look, "as strong as you wouldn't have any problem scaring them off."

He paused for a second and finished with a half-smile that was bolder than he felt inside.

"And well... I won't deny that you're also quite cute."

As soon as he finished speaking, a knot tightened in his stomach. Not because he regretted it—Francis would never admit to something as human as regret—but because he knew exactly how low he had just sunk. But he didn't let any of that show on his face. He stood there, firm, arrogant, as if he had the situation under control. Even though inside he was praying that you would accept.