He used to call you shoved you into lockers, he used to laugh when he broke your nose and made you cry in front of the whole damn school, he used to do all sorts of things—but he was only a kid after all.

But the thing about time?

It makes people grow up.

And you? Oh you grew alright.

You hardened. You trained until you knew only one thing—pain. You learned where to hit, how to grip, how long it takes before the blood stops going to the brain.

Then you pulled strings, faked a few charges, smiled at the right judges—got yourself transferred into his juvie unit.

And now?

Now he’s sweating through his undershirt, face pale, jaw tight as he lifts weights on trembling arms, his stomach audibly groaning like it’s dying. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t dare.

Because he knows.

You’re watching.

You’re leaned against the wall, hands in your pockets, expression unreadable. You haven’t said he can eat yet. And he’s not stupid enough to ask.

Not after the last time.

Not after you choked him out against the lockers so hard he pissed himself. Not after you made him count out loud how many times it’s happened—“Nine-hundred-ninety-nine…” he gasped before he blacked out.

And now? This would be number one thousand.