Break time at Crestwood Academy was always the same. The rich kids spread across the courtyard like they owned the air itself, while the scholarship students tried to disappear against the walls.He kept his head down, earphones in. He liked being invisible.Today the courtyard was loud. A circle of students had formed around the big oak tree. In the middle, Blake Harrington and two of his lacrosse teammates had a skinny freshman pinned against the trunk. The boy’s glasses lay cracked on the ground. Blake held him by the collar, fist raised.Alex stopped.He told himself to keep walking. Scholarship kids who got involved disappeared. Teachers pretended not to see. He knew the rules.But the freshman was crying now, Blake’s knuckles were white, and something inside Alex snapped.He dropped his backpack.“Let him go,” Alex said.Blake turned, laughing. “Walk away, charity case. Bus boy.”The courtyard fell quiet. Phones turned toward Alex.Blake smirked.Alex stepped closer.

The suspension was supposed to be two weeks, a forced timeout that left Alex feeling unmoored. But on the morning of the fourth day, as he restocked shelves at The Anchor, his phone buzzed with an email from Crestwood Academy. He glanced at it absentmindedly, expecting some form update or reminder. Instead, the subject line jolted him: "Suspension Lifted Effective Immediately." Alex froze, the bottle of whiskey in his hand forgotten. He read the message twice, his pulse quickening. "Due to new evidence submitted anonymously and administrative review, your suspension has been rescinded. Report to classes tomorrow morning. See Headmaster Lang for details." Anonymous evidence? After just three days? He was stunned, a mix of disbelief and wary relief washing over him. The video had been everywhere, clear as day. Who would step in now, and why hide? Blake's family wasn't the type to forgive; this smelled like interference from someone with real influence. But questioning it felt danger

Alex woke to the taste of copper and chemicals.His mouth was dry, head throbbing like he'd been hit with a hammer instead of a dart. He was sitting upright, wrists zip-tied to the arms of a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. Ankles bound the same way. The room smelled of damp stone, motor oil, and old blood. A single overhead bulb swung gently, casting long shadows across bare walls.Warehouse. Empty except for him, the chair, and a steel table ten feet away. On the table: his phone (screen cracked), wallet, keys, and the folded note he'd had in his pocket for quiz practice.Two men stood in the corners behind him, out of direct sight but close enough that he heard their breathing. The ones from the sidewalk, maybe. Or new ones. Didn't matter.He tested the ties. Tight. Professional knots. No immediate give.Footsteps echoed from the darkness beyond the light. Slow, deliberate. Dress shoes on concrete.Blake's father stepped into the circle of light.Preston Harrington

The third man laid the tools out on the table like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Pliers. A small hammer. A battery pack with wires. Nothing dramatic, nothing cinematic. Just efficient things that hurt.Preston watched Alex’s face for the flinch that didn’t come.“You’re tougher than you look,” Preston said. “But everyone breaks. The question is how much of you is left when it happens.”Alex flexed his freed left hand under the zip tie’s remaining loop, keeping the movement hidden. Right hand still bound, ankles tight, but one free limb changed everything.The scarred guard from earlier stepped forward first, cracking his knuckles.Preston raised a hand. “Wait.”He leaned in, voice almost paternal.“Last offer. Sign, and this ends. You go home tonight with ice packs and a story about muggers. Refuse, and we start with fingers. Your choice.”Alex looked past him to the tools, then back to Preston’s eyes.“You talk a lot for a man who needs three guys to hold one kid.”

Mia's fifteenth birthday, the kind of day where the valley's fog burned off by noon, leaving clear skies and a bite in the air. She had been talking about it for weeks, not for gifts or parties, but for the simple ritual of family time. No big plans, she insisted, just the three of them, maybe a movie or takeout from her favorite Thai place. But Richard had other ideas.That morning, over breakfast in the cramped kitchen, he slid an envelope across the table to her. Mia opened it, eyes widening at the reservation confirmation inside."La Mer?" she said, voice pitching up. "Dad, that's... that's the fancy place downtown. The one with the waiting list and the views of the bay."Richard smiled, flipping pancakes like it was nothing. "Figured you deserved something special this year. After everything."Alex, nursing his coffee at the end of the table, raised an eyebrow. His ribs were mostly healed now, a dull ache only when he twisted wrong, but the memory of the warehouse still linge