The yellow school bus rumbled along the two-lane highway, rattling with every bump in the road. Students shouted over the roar of the engine, trading snacks, blasting music from portable speakers.Adam sat in the very front seat, his backpack clutched on his lap, trying to block it all out. From here, he could at least avoid the eyes, the jeers.“Yo, Sanchez!” someone yelled from the back. “You bringing the party to the woods, or what?”“Always,” Sanchez said, his voice carrying effortlessly. Laughter erupted.The teachers, seated a few rows behind Adam, didn’t even try to hush the noise. To them, this was just kids being kids.Adam stared out the window. Trees blurred by, tall and endless, the forest stretching like an ocean of green. A part of him liked the thought of being lost in there—away from all of this.---When the bus pulled into the state park, students spilled out, their voices echoing in the open air. The teachers gathered them in a circle, giving instructions about

Adam didn’t remember walking out of the woods. One moment, he was deep in the endless dark. The next, he was standing on the edge of the road, the forest shrinking behind him as if it had spat him out. A faint glow lit the horizon—the first hint of dawn. Cars rushed past on the highway. Drivers glanced at him, then away, as though something in their gut warned them not to stop. Adam smirked. They were right to fear him now. By the time he reached his house, the sun had risen fully. His hands shoved casually in his pockets, he walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. It was his mother who opened the door, her hair a mess, worry lines creasing her face. When she saw him, her jaw dropped. “Adam?” she whispered, as if unsure. “My God, where have you been? The school said—everyone thought—” Her words trailed off. She was staring at him too hard, as though he wasn’t the same son who left on the field trip. And he wasn’t. Adam met her gaze calmly. His shoulders were straighter, hi

By Monday morning, Westfield High had a new story.Derek Hanley—the linebacker, the loudmouth, the guy who laughed the hardest whenever Adam was humiliated—was walking through the halls with a black eye, a bandage above his brow, and a stiffness in his movements that spoke of pain deeper than bruises. He didn’t swagger anymore. He didn’t shout. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact, flinching whenever someone brushed too close.And everyone noticed.“Yo, what happened to Derek?”“Looks like someone worked him over.”“Bet it was Sanchez. He probably got out of line at practice.”The rumors swirled in every corner—cafeteria, locker room, bathrooms. But Derek said nothing. When pressed, he muttered something about tripping on the stairs. Nobody believed him. The more he lied, the more the mystery grew.Adam watched it all from a calm distance, savoring the whispers. He hadn’t killed Derek—no, that would’ve been too blunt, too soon. But he had left a mark. And now that mark had bl

By the end of the week, Westfield High had rearranged itself around Adam like a new axis. People whispered more than they used to, phones buzzed with screenshots and stories, and for every kid who smiled at him, another kept a wary distance. The balance had shifted—but Adam wanted a structure, not a rumor. He wanted foundations.Malick’s patience had been a lesson: start small, make the world listen. Derek had been the first stone. The second had to be heavier, placed somewhere that would make the whole pile tremble.Ethan Calder was the obvious choice.Ethan didn’t have Sanchez’s smarm or stage-ready grin; he had a different kind of power—the kind that spreads like a rumor. He ran the school’s unofficial “highlight” feed, the account that posted videos and photos from parties and pranks. When Ethan gave someone attention, it stuck. When he deleted a post and replaced it with a mocking remix, you were finished. He’d posted the video of Adam slipping on mashed potatoes in the cafeteria

By morning, Westfield High was ablaze with rumor.Ethan Calder—loudmouth, joker, keeper of the highlight reel—wasn’t in his usual spot by the cafeteria televisions. Instead, his name passed from mouth to mouth like contraband.“Did you hear?”“Ambulance took him.”“Skull fracture. Concussion. He might not even come back this semester.”Some whispered it was an accident. Others, with wide eyes and lowered voices, insisted someone pushed him.Adam walked the halls in calm silence, slipping between clusters of gossip. Every word fed him. He didn’t need to start the fire; it spread on its own.But Derek knew. Adam saw it in the way Derek avoided his gaze, in the way his bruised face stiffened every time their paths crossed. Derek knew—and he was terrified.Malick’s laughter slithered in Adam’s skull. Perfect. Fear sharpens the air. It is like wine. Drink it, boy.Adam adjusted his backpack and smiled faintly.---In English, the teacher stopped mid-lecture to glance at Adam. “Mr. Lawson,”