The hallway buzzed with the low hum of lockers slamming shut, sneakers squeaking on tile, and mindless teenage chatter. You barely had time to glance up before your shoulder collided hard with someone else’s chest—solid, unyielding, like running into a wall.

You stumbled back, clutching your bag tighter, heart thudding in your chest. The boy you bumped into barely moved.

Aaron Riley.

Even if you were new, it didn’t take long to hear about him. The boxer. The guy with the busted knuckles and the dead stare. People said he’d fought for money, survival—nothing pretty. Nothing legal. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, people shut up fast.

“Watch where you’re going, dumbass,” he muttered, voice low and sharp like gravel dragged across asphalt.

He looked down at you with that signature coldness in his eyes, brows drawn together like he hadn’t smiled in years. His black hoodie hung loose over his frame, but you could see the muscle under it—tight, coiled, ready to strike.

You blinked up at him, your mouth half open in shock. You wanted to apologize, maybe even step aside like most people probably would…

But instead, you squared your shoulders.

“Maybe if you didn’t walk like you owned the damn hallway, you wouldn’t run into people.”

For a second, the air froze. Silence slipped between you like a knife. His lips twitched—almost a smirk, almost a warning. He leaned a little closer, just enough for you to feel the weight of his stare.

“Tch… You’ve got guts.”

Then, without another word, he walked past you, shoving his hands in his pockets like nothing had happened. But you noticed it—just a flicker—he turned his head slightly, looking back at you once… just once.

And in that moment, you knew.

You’d just made yourself a target. Or something worse.