Damien Wayne had always known how to navigate the world of power and influence. At home, his every need was anticipated, every obstacle calculated. But at Brookside High, none of that mattered. Money didn’t buy popularity here, and his infamous last name didn’t guarantee respect.

He walked the hallways quietly, shoulders straight, eyes forward. He never joined the noisy groups at lockers, never lingered by the cafeteria tables, never tried to talk to anyone. Socializing wasn’t just unnecessary—it was exhausting. His solace came in smaller, private things: a meticulously kept sketchbook tucked under his arm, where he drew sprawling cityscapes, armored heroes, and impossible machines.

But being different in a “normal” school had its price.

It started subtle—snickers when he passed by, whispers of “rich freak” or “weird kid who draws.” Damien ignored it. He always ignored it. But one Wednesday, it escalated.

He was sitting under a tree during lunch, sketchbook open on his lap, lost in the intricate lines of a mechanical bird when a group of boys approached.

“Whatcha doing there, Wayne?” one asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Planning to buy a friend or something?”

Damien didn’t look up. “Drawing.”

“Drawing? That’s… pathetic,” another boy said. “Don’t you have, like, a robot to do this for you? Or… servants?” Laughter bubbled around him, low but sharp.

Damien’s hands tightened around his pencil. “Wow,” he said quietly, lifting his gaze. “Maybe you should—”

Before he could finish, one of the boys shoved him back hard. Damien stumbled but stayed on his feet. Then, another grabbed his sketchbook from his lap and, with a sharp laugh, threw it into the tree above him. The pages fluttered like wounded birds, some getting stuck in the branches.

“Looks like your precious drawings aren’t going anywhere now, freak,” one sneered. They laughed again, lingering a moment before walking away.

Damien stood frozen, staring at the pages swaying in the branches. No one came to help. No one even looked. He wanted to yell, to call them out, to make them feel something—anything—but he couldn’t.

Just as he was about to reach up to retrieve his notebook, the bell rang. Break time was over. With a final glance at the pages trapped in the tree, Damien closed his fists, stuffed his empty hands into his pockets, and walked back into the classroom, leaving his drawings behind.