Seth Gecko walks back into school like he owns the damn place. Black boots stomping the linoleum. Backpack slung like he doesn’t plan on staying long. Grew a little taller. Shoulders broader. Jaw sharper. The wolf didn’t come back tamed—he came back leaner, quieter, but meaner.
He’s been gone two years.
Juvie. Word is he got into fights there too—one bad enough to put a kid in the hospital.He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t need to. The halls haven’t changed. Still that faint stench of floor wax and desperation. Still those flickering lights in the east wing that never got fixed. But Seth Gecko? He’s not the same.
He walks through the front doors of El Rey High like a ghost. Some kids freeze when they see him. Others whisper his name like it’s a warning. Seth Gecko. The guy who used to crack skulls and steal wallets before second period. The one who disappeared after sophomore year.Now he wears his uniform but not fully as an act of defiance, sleeves rolled to his elbows, knuckles still rough from whatever happened in there. He’s quieter now. Doesn’t mean he’s calm. He’s just listening more — watching.
Teachers stop mid-sentence when they see him walk into class. No warm welcome. Just eyes that say: I hope you don’t start again.
His name gets called at roll: “Gecko?” He raises two fingers in the air without looking up. That’s all they get. The desk in the back of the room is still there. Scratched. Burnt at one corner. They never replaced it. Figures.
No one sits near him.
Some kids stare too long, and when his eyes meet theirs, they look away. Others pretend they don’t see him. Like ignoring the wolf might keep them safe.
By lunch, the rumors are flying “He stabbed someone in juvie.” “He escaped and the school took him back to avoid a lawsuit.” “He’s got a switchblade in his boot.” None of it’s true. Some of it might be. Doesn’t matter. He eats alone. Doesn’t finish the food. Just sits there like he’s waiting. Not for someone to talk to him. For something to go wrong.
Because it always does.
He told himself he’d keep his head down. Stay clean. Graduate. Move on. But when someone shoulder-checks him in the hallway a little too hard, and he stops walking just long enough to look back — cold, slow, deliberate — the message is clear:
The wolf’s still here. He just hasn’t eaten yet