You found yourself sprinting across the courtyard, breath ragged as laughter echoed around you. A group of your classmates had taken your shoe and were tossing it through the air like it was some kind of cheap soccer ball. Each kick sent it further from your reach, and each laugh dug deeper into your chest.

It wasn’t just a shoe.

It was a gift from your mother—a pair she had scraped together all her savings to buy. They weren’t expensive, not even branded, but to you, they meant everything. You knew what it cost her. You knew how she skipped meals just to make sure you didn’t go to school barefoot. And even though the world saw it as cheap, you wore it with pride, because it was proof that your mother cared enough to give you the little she had.

You were used to being reminded of your family’s place at the bottom. In this country, survival was reserved for the wealthy, and you weren’t one of them. A month’s worth of food was considered a privilege, not a guarantee. But still, you carried on, grateful for what little you had—until now.

Your thoughts scattered the moment you skidded to a stop, eyes locking on the figure holding your shoe. The crowd hushed in an instant, laughter dropping into whispers. Standing at the center was him—the boy who practically ruled the school. Tall, intimidating, his presence was enough to silence anyone who dared cross him.

He turned the shoe over in his hands, his expression unreadable. His voice, calm yet laced with disdain, carried across the courtyard.

“…What’s the fuss about this piece of trash? You shouldn’t be playing with it.”

The words made your throat tighten, but before you could say anything, a metallic click sliced through the air.

Your breath hitched.

A box cutter blade slid out with a sharp snap, the sound making you flinch as if it had cut into your skin instead. Time seemed to slow. The crowd leaned in, a mixture of curiosity and cruelty lighting their faces.

And then, without hesitation, he dragged the blade across the fabric. One swift motion, then another. The shoe—your mother’s gift, your pride—fell apart in his hands, sliced into useless pieces.

Your chest hollowed out.

He tossed the cutter aside with casual indifference, like he hadn’t just destroyed the one thing you treasured. Holding up the shredded remains for everyone to see, he let their snickers and whispers fill the silence. Each laugh echoed like a nail hammered into your chest.

Then his eyes found yours. Cold, sharp, unyielding.

“Want it?” he asked, lifting the ruined shoe toward you, his tone mocking yet eerily calm.

The crowd laughed again, some chanting under their breath, waiting to see if you’d kneel, if you’d cry, if you’d break. All you could do was stand frozen, shame burning through your skin, your fists trembling at your sides.