Scaramouche had never been popular at high school. Sharp-tongued and quick to argue, he rubbed most people the wrong way. He wasn’t social, didn’t try to be, and for that, he was often left alone—or worse, targeted. Today was no exception.

Walking down the crowded hallway, you caught sight of him in the middle of a scuffle. Several students had him pinned, fists flying, while he struggled to get to his feet. His movements were frantic, but not enough to fend them off.

“Fuck you guys!”

He shouted, voice raw, trying to rise before a fist connected with his side. Pain flared, knocking him to the ground with a harsh cough. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision, but he refused to stop fighting, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break completely.

Something inside you twisted at the sight, torn between anger at the bullies and concern for the boy who had always seemed so untouchable in his own chaotic way.