THE ALL VALLEY KING

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. “I said let him go.”

Blake shoved the freshman down and swung. Alex moved the way he had practiced a thousand times in secret. He ducked under the punch, drove forward, and landed one clean shot to Blake’s jaw. Blake hit the ground hard.

Silence.

Then screams. Teachers running. Too late.

Blake stayed on the grass, holding his face. The freshman stared at Alex like he was a miracle. Alex picked up his bag and walked away, heart pounding.

He headed to the cafeteria. Inside, the huge room was already buzzing. By the time he reached the lunch line, every screen in the place showed the same thirty-second clip on loop: Blake falling, Alex walking away.

People stared. Some clapped. Most whispered.

Alex bought a bottle of water and found an empty table in the corner. Ten minutes later the intercom crackled.

“Alexander Vincent to the headmaster’s office. Immediately.”

He sighed and stood.

Dr. Lang didn’t look up from his computer when Alex entered.

“Close the door.”

Alex did.

Dr. Lang looked tired. “You broke Blake Harrington’s jaw, Mr. Vincent. The family wants expulsion. I managed to get you a two-week suspension instead. Do not make me regret it.”

Alex nodded. “Yes, sir.”

By closing time, the parking circle was alive with engines and money.

A matte-black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

A pearl-white Lamborghini Urus.

A customized Maybach.

A bright-red Ferrari SF90 for Blake himself (even with a wired jaw, he still got driven in style)

And a dozen other luxurious cars.

Alex walked past them all to the gate, hands in his pockets, and boarded the city bus like always.

The ride home took forty-five minutes. He sat in the back, earphones in but no music playing. On the late bus home, he closed his eyes, and the memory came anyway.

He was ten years old. Uncle Nico picked him up every Saturday morning and told Dad they were going fishing.

They never fished.

They went to an old gym that smelled of sweat and rust. Nico wrapped Alex’s small hands and taught him footwork, jabs, hooks, how to breathe when someone bigger wanted to hurt you.

“This is only for protection,” Nico always said. “You keep Mia safe. You keep yourself safe. Your dad walked away from fighting. We respect that. But the world doesn’t always respect promises, kid.”

“So I’m going to teach you anyway. And you never, ever tell your father. Promise me.”

Alex had promised.

Nico taught him how to hit, how to block, how to end things fast and quiet. Then one winter night Nico didn’t come home. Car accident, they said. Alex never asked questions.

He didn’t stop training. Push-ups in his bedroom at midnight. Shadowboxing in the tiny bathroom mirror. Running stairs until his legs burned. He never told Dad. He never told anyone.

The bus stopped two blocks from The Anchor, the little bar their dad owned. The neon sign flickered red. Inside, Richard Vincent stood behind the counter drying glasses, looking like any tired single father.

He saw the bruise on Alex’s knuckles immediately.

“Suspension?” Richard asked, voice soft.

Alex nodded.

“Your sister told me.”

Richard came around the bar and hugged him without another word. He smelled like lemon polish and coffee.

Upstairs in the tiny apartment, Mia was asleep on the couch, textbooks open. Richard covered her with a blanket, then sat Alex at the kitchen table.

“Tell me,” he said.

Alex told him everything: the bullying, the freshman, Blake’s punch, his own, the video, the suspension.

Richard listened, face unreadable.

When Alex finished, his father spoke quietly. “It was just one punch, Dad.”

Richard looked at him for a long time. “One fight is never just one fight, Alex. Not here. Not with these people.”

He reached over and gently touched the bruise on Alex’s hand. “Two weeks at home. You keep your head down when you go back. You stay away from trouble. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Alex said.

Then Mia’s voice cut through the room. “You’re viral, dummy.” She turned her phone so he could see the video, already at 87,000 views.

Alex groaned.

The next morning, while scrolling through his phone, the topic dominated every feed.

Headline: “Blake Harrington hospitalized after assault at Crestwood Academy… scholarship boy suspended…”

Then, in the related-news sidebar: “In other news, Emma Valenti will attend this weekend’s Fall Gala…”

The screen flashed a photo.

Black hair. Ice-blue eyes. A smile sharp enough to cut.

Alex had never spoken to Emma Valenti.

He had only seen her from a distance, always surrounded by friends and fear. Everyone called her the Queen.

Now, because of one punch, the Queen knew his name.

And something cold settled in Alex’s stomach.

Because Emma Valenti wasn’t just beautiful and untouchable.

She was the daughter of Marco Valenti.

The Boss of the valley after the silencing of the Tambovskaya.