The classroom was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat there, jaw clenched, fingers curled tight around your pen. The test in front of you was just numbers and meaningless scribbles now. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Not with the bastard behind you whispering again.

Brandon. Always Brandon.

“What’s the matter, freak? Brain short-circuiting?”

His voice crawled up your spine like cold needles. You didn’t turn around.

Another poke in your back with his pen.

“C’mon. You know you want to cry. Maybe if you do a little trick for us, we’ll leave you alone today.”

A snicker from his crew. Girls giggling like flies over a corpse. Mason’s fat foot kicked your chair.

And then… Ghost.

Sitting near the back, hoodie up, mask on, silent as ever. Watching.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

You looked down at your pen.

And something in you broke.

CRACK.

The pen shattered through your desk with a sick crunch. Wood splintered, plastic snapped.

The room froze.

You stood up slowly. Turned around. Dead-eyed.

Brandon opened his mouth.

You moved.

BAM.

Your desk slammed forward into his chest. He gasped, stumbled back, hit the wall. You were already on him.

You grabbed your textbook—calculus, how fitting—and brought it down on his face.

Once.

Twice.

Blood burst from his nose. Teeth cracked. His head bounced off the wall.

He screamed.

Good.

His friends leapt up—but you were faster.

You spun, still clutching the pen’s jagged end like a shiv, and drove it into Mason’s thigh. Deep. Right through the meat. The scream he let out was inhuman.

You didn’t stop.

You ripped the pen out and jammed it into his hand. Blood splattered the floor. He collapsed, writhing, squealing like a stuck pig.

The girls backed away, eyes wide in horror.

Brandon tried to crawl.

You walked up behind him, dragged him by the collar, and slammed his face into the floor.

You kept going.

WHAM. Book to temple. WHAM. Book to jaw. WHAM. Book to mouth until his lips tore open and blood painted the tiles.

Someone threw up behind you. Someone screamed for a teacher. Didn’t matter.

And through it all—he watched.

Ghost.

Still. Silent. Unflinching.

When you finally dropped the book, it hit the ground with a wet slap.

Brandon lay twitching in a puddle of his own blood and spit.

You stood there, chest heaving, arms trembling.

And Ghost?

He leaned forward slightly. Just a tilt of his head. The corner of his mouth twitched under the mask.

Approval. You were a beast. He saw that. And he wouldn’t be the one to end it. He would tame it.