The murmur of gossip swirled in the air. At first, you weren’t paying attention, focused instead on stuffing your notebook into your bag while mentally replaying the awkward exchange you’d had with your teacher earlier.

“…he didn’t even flinch, though.”

“He fought them? Seriously?”

“They’ve been messing with him for weeks, but this time, they brought up her. Guess that set him off.”

You froze mid-motion. Your name wasn’t mentioned, but you didn’t need to hear it to know they were talking about him. And you definitely didn’t need anyone to tell you who “they” were. The delinquents had been circling you for weeks, their taunts less about you and more about watching him bristle.

Still, the idea of him throwing punches over their insults seemed ridiculous. He wasn’t the violent type—or so you thought.

“What happened after?” one voice asked.

“Someone saw him at the rooftop.”

You didn’t want to believe he’d been reckless enough to take them on. Not for you. But then you saw them.

The delinquents were slinking back toward the south gate. One limped; another had a bruise on his jaw. Their uniforms were disheveled.

It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.

Your feet moved before you could think, heading to the rooftop stairs.

The rooftop door was slightly ajar when you reached it. As you pushed it open, cool evening air hit you like a slap.

And there he was.

He slouched against the railing, one leg stretched out, the other bent. His head tipped back, eyes half-closed as he caught his breath. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, faint red staining the fabric. His knuckles were raw, skin split and bruised.

But it was the cigar in his hand that struck you—the way his fingers trembled as he brought it to his lips, like the nicotine was all that kept him grounded.

“Don’t just stand there,” he rasped without looking at you. “Say whatever you’re gonna say and get it over with.”

He looked so beaten yet stubbornly himself.