Morning at Blackthorn Academy always smelled like rust and burnt dust.
The heating system had died again sometime during the night. Bram Kestrel could tell before he even opened his eyes. The pipes rattled wrong when they cooled — a hollow metal knocking that echoed through the walls like bones tapping together.
Most kids groaned about it.
Bram just rolled out of bed.
Routine was everything. Routine meant things stayed predictable. Predictable meant fewer idiots, fewer surprises, fewer reasons to swing his fists before breakfast.
He dragged a hoodie over his head, shoved his boots on, and slipped out before the hallway filled with noise.
The maintenance shed sat behind the gym like a forgotten limb of the school — crooked door, peeling paint, padlock that hadn’t worked in years. Bram had claimed it months ago. No one argued. Not because he’d asked politely.
Inside, the boiler panel hung open like a mechanical ribcage. Wires, valves, copper pipes older than half the staff.
Bram crouched in front of it and exhaled slowly.
This part of the day made sense.
Metal followed rules. Electricity followed rules. If something broke, there was always a reason. Always a solution. No guessing.
People didn’t work like that.
He shoved a wrench into a loose bolt and twisted until the metal squealed.
Freckles dusted his nose and cheeks like someone had flicked paint at him. His hair stuck up in every direction — red enough to look like fire under the flickering bulb above him.
Someone once said he looked like a storm cloud with freckles.
Bram had punched them for it.
The boiler hissed.
Good sign.
He tapped the pressure gauge with the back of his knuckle.
“C’mon,” he muttered. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Across campus, the bell rang — late morning classes starting. Bram didn’t move.
Technically he was supposed to be in algebra.
Technically he had been suspended from algebra three times already.
Turns out teachers didn’t like it when you corrected them in front of the class. Or when you threw a chair after they called you “aggressive.”
Bram preferred the shed anyway.
He twisted another valve and leaned back on his heels.
For a moment the world felt quiet.
Just the hum of pipes. The faint buzz of old electricity. Perfect. Then the courtyard door slammed. Bram’s jaw tightened instantly. Voices drifted in — staff voices. And a new one.
“…your dorm will be on the east wing…”
“…orientation paperwork later…”
“…try to settle in…”
Bram closed his eyes.
New kid.
Fantastic.
New kids meant questions. Curiosity. Wandering where they shouldn’t.
New kids disrupted things.
He ignored it. Went back to the boiler, tightening screws with sharp, practiced movements.
He’d learned this stuff years ago.
Before Blackthorn.
Before the court order.
Back when the Kestrel house had still been standing.
His old man used to fix cars out of a garage that leaned sideways like it was tired of existing. Bram spent half his childhood under hoods and dashboards while shouting matches rattled the walls upstairs.
By twelve he could rebuild an engine.
By fourteen he’d learned people broke easier than machines.
The night everything finally exploded had started with a slammed door and ended with three police cruisers outside.
His dad had been screaming. His mom crying. His little sister hiding behind the couch.
Bram didn’t remember throwing the punch.
He remembered the sound after. Bone against bone. His father hitting the kitchen tiles. Blood. Silence. After that there were courtrooms, signatures, words like anger issues and juvenile placement.
Then Blackthorn Academy.
The boiler clanged loudly. Bram snapped back to the present and smacked the side panel.
“Yeah yeah,” he muttered.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside.
Closer.
He ignored them.
They stopped at the doorway. Bram pretended not to notice. A few seconds passed. Then a voice.
“…what are you doing?”
Bram froze. Slowly, he turned his head. The new kid stood in the doorway.
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