Owen noticed Beau’s absence the second he stepped into the common area.

  It wasn’t conscious at first, just a sudden loosening in his chest, a quiet exhale he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The space Beau usually occupied was empty. No boots on the furniture. No sharp voice cutting across the room. No heavy presence dragging the air down like a storm front.

  Good.

  The knot of kids by the vending machines looked normal. Relaxed. Murphy laughing at something Royel had said. Jess half-turned toward the window, phone in hand. Nelson leaning nearby, but without Beau, even he felt less charged.

  Owen felt himself soften, the constant burn of anxiety in his gut fading to a dull murmur. He wandered over, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, a grin already halfway there.

  “Heeey,” he said brightly. “Lovely people.”

  Murphy looked up, one eyebrow arching in amusement. “Wow. Someone’s in a good mood.”

  Royel squinted at him, suspicious. “Yeah. What’s up with you, tech boy?”

  Jess finally glanced up from her phone. “You have been weirdly quiet all week.”

  Owen shrugged, his posture easy and casual, the familiar reflex kicking in, be light, be harmless, be unremarkable. “I’m allowed to have more than one emotion. And right now, it’s radiant.”

  Murphy grinned. “Suspicious.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “What did you do this time? Reroute the building Wi-Fi through your brain again?”

  Owen spread his hands wide. “Hey, if I could, I would.”

  Jess snorted, turning back to her screen. “Please don’t.”

  “Oh, speaking of weird stuff,” Royel said casually, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “did you see the new kid earlier?”

  Owen’s smile stayed perfectly in place, but something deep underneath it went very still.

  “The new kid?” he echoed, his voice carefully neutral.

  “Yeah,” Murphy said. “Red band. Rory.”

  Owen nodded, pretending his chest hadn’t just tightened at the mention of the name. “Yeah…No, I missed him. What about him?”

  Royel shrugged. “I dunno. Nelson saw him. Figure he was here for a compliance check or something.”

  “Probably,” Jess added. “That’s what happens when you punch two people in the face.”

  Nelson spoke up then, his voice smooth and just loud enough to command the conversation. “He wasn’t just here for that.”

  Owen turned to face him. Nelson was leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that irritating way that always made Owen feel like he was missing the punchline to a dark joke.

  “What do you mean?” Owen asked.

  Nelson’s mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. “We saw him heading toward the executive offices.”

  The words hit Owen like a dropped plate, shattering the brief peace he'd found.

  “The exec wing?” Murphy repeated, her brow furrowing. “Why would he be going there?”

  Owen’s pulse kicked up hard against his ribs. “Who saw him?”

  Nelson’s eyes flicked to him, sharp, assessing, and entirely too observant. He answered lightly. “Me.”

  A beat of silence followed.

  “And Beau.”

  The room barely reacted to the addition. A couple of people raised their brows in mild interest, but Owen felt a cold chill wash over him.

  “Where is Beau?” he asked, the question coming out too fast to be casual.

  Nelson shrugged, the movement lazy and dismissive. “Dunno. Haven’t seen him since.”

  Owen scanned the space instinctively, his eyes flicking down the long corridor toward the exits, searching for a shadow that shouldn't be there.

  “What did he say?” Owen pressed, his voice rising in pitch.

  Nelson tilted his head, studying Owen with newfound curiosity. “Just said he had something to take care of.”

  The way Nelson said it, calm, knowing, and utterly indifferent, it made Owen’s stomach drop.

  “Oh,” Owen breathed, the realisation chilling his blood.

  Murphy frowned, her amusement fading. “Owen?”

  But Owen was already backing away, his mind racing through the possibilities, each one worse than the last. He didn't wait for anyone to question him or for the conversation to continue. He turned and broke into a jog, which quickly transitioned into a full run as the reality of the situation crashed into him.

  If Beau had seen Rory heading into the executive wing, if Beau thought for one second that Karmal was trying to pull the "new kid" back into the fold while he remained sidelined, then Rory was in serious danger.

  Owen seemed to hold his breath as he rounded the corner. Please don’t be what I think it is, he thought desperately. Please don’t let me be too late.

  As he ran, he reached out blindly with his technopathy. He tapped into the building’s digital pulse, searching the security feeds and sensor logs for two familiar presences, his sense of dread growing with every silent server he bypassed.

  ***

  Rory exhaled through his nose, a slow and careful breath, as if he were trying to keep something fragile from shattering inside him. His head felt heavy; everything did. He was exhausted, not the kind of tired that sleep could mend, but the weary soul-sickness that made the mere act of standing feel like a monumental effort.

  He lifted his head slowly.

  Beau stood just a few paces ahead, his posture loose and casual despite the rain beading on the shoulders of his jacket. The red band sat stark and unapologetic against his wrist. He looked clean, rested, and disturbingly satisfied, as if this confrontation were just another pleasant item on his itinerary.

  “There you are,” Beau said, his voice cutting through the damp air. “Thought you might disappear.”

  Rory stared at him, drained to the marrow. He didn't have the energy for a this, he barely had the strength to keep his knees from buckling.

  “Move,” Rory said, his voice a quiet rasp. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Beau let out a low, breathy laugh. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  Rory attempted to step to the side, intent on brushing past, but Beau shifted with lazy precision, blocking his path.

  “That’s rude,” Beau chided. “We haven’t even talked yet.”

  Rory’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “That’s fine,” Beau replied easily, his eyes gleaming. “You don’t have to want it.”

  The casual tone made Rory’s stomach twist. Beau glanced back toward the Karmal building, a monolith of glass, steel, and cold distance. “You know, I saw you heading upstairs today.”

  Rory remained silent, his pulse beginning to thrum in his ears.

  “Executive wing,” Beau added, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s not where screw-ups usually go.”

  A sharp flicker of shame flared in Rory’s chest.

  “They must really be worried about you,” Beau continued, stepping closer. “Dragging you upstairs like that. Afraid you’re going to snap again.”

  Rory’s patience was fraying into nothing. “I said move.”

  Beau didn't budge. Up close, the differences were impossible to ignore. Beau was taller, broader, built like someone who had grown up knowing his body would be used for something. Rory felt small suddenly, aware of his own thinness, the way his hoodie hung off him like borrowed clothes.

  Beau grinned. “What was it? A pep talk? A pity speech? ‘You’re very special, Rory, we just need to keep you close so you don’t hurt anyone’?”

  Rory swallowed hard. “That’s not what happened.”

  “Oh? Because from the outside, it looks a lot like Karmal dragging the stray inside so it doesn’t bite anyone important.”

  Heat flared in Rory’s chest, but he crushed it down with practiced desperation. “I’m done. I’m leaving. Get out of my way.”

  He tried to sidestep again, but Beau blocked him effortlessly. “Funny,” Beau murmured. “They don’t even trust you enough to let you roam free. You’re not dangerous in a cool way, Rory. You’re dangerous like a rabid dog.”

  Rory flinched, the word hitting a nerve he hadn't fully shielded. Beau’s smile widened as he pointed at Rory’s face. “There it is. That look.”

  Rory’s hands curled into fists inside his sleeves. He hated the predictability of his own pulse, the way his skin felt too tight for his bones.

  “They think they can fix you,” Beau said. “That’s the funniest part.”

  Rory tried to push past, but Beau snagged the sleeve of his hoodie.

  “Don’t,” Rory snapped, yanking his arm back with a sharp jerk.

  Beau’s grip loosened, but his expression only sharpened. “Touchy.”

  Rory shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his nails biting into his palms. Don’t engage. Don’t react. He knew this pattern; he had lived it a thousand times. Beau began to circle him slowly, like an inspector examining a wreck.

  “You know what everyone says about you? That Karmal feels sorry for you.”

  Rory’s breath caught.

  “They don’t respect you, Rory. They just feel sorry for you.”

  Rory stared at a point beyond Beau’s shoulder, his jaw locked tight.

  “You know what the difference is between you and me?” Beau asked quietly. “Even suspended, I still belong here.”

  “I don’t care,” Rory growled.

  Beau laughed again. “Sure you do. You went upstairs today hoping they’d tell you that you did.”

  Rory froze, the truth of the barb stinging more than the insult. “Shut up.”

  “Relax,” Beau replied. “I’m just saying what everyone else already thinks. Including your stepdad.”

  The word hit like a physical blow. Rory’s head snapped up.

  “Oh, that’s a sore one, huh?” Beau’s grin was predatory. “He still treating you like his pet? Short leash and all? Watching you like you’re about to fuck up again.”

  “Stop talking!”

  “Why? Everyone else gets to talk about it. ‘Poor Rory. Shitty school. Broken home. Violent tendencies.’ They eat that shit up.”

  “I said stop,” Rory said, his voice cracking despite his best efforts.

  Beau tilted his head. “Or what? You’ll hit me again?” Something ugly sparked in Beau’s eyes at the memory. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a needling whisper. “You really thought they were going to save you? After today?”

  Rory felt a wave of dizziness. “I didn’t ask them for anything.”

  “Exactly. You never do. You just wait for things to happen to you.” Beau paused, then added as if it were an afterthought, “And Dan. Your boyfriend.”

  The word made Rory’s stomach drop. “He’s not—”

  “Oh, sorry,” Beau mocked. “Best friend? Boyfriend? Hard to keep track. You seemed pretty attached. What’s the matter? He didn’t like it when you made him bleed?”

  Rory’s heart slammed against his ribs.

  “You remember that, right?” Beau pushed, his voice low. “How confused he looked. How scared. How hurt.”

  Rory shook his head violently. “I didn’t—”

  “But you did. You didn't have to hit him. I guess that’s what happens when people get close to you.”

  “You know that’s not what happened,” Rory said, his breath hitching.

  “Poor Dan. Gets punched by his own… whatever you were. Must’ve been humiliating.” Beau’s voice was a relentless drone of salt in the wound. “And then you cry about it, like you weren’t the one who did it. Like you weren't exactly what everyone already thought you were.”

  Rory backed away, his chest heaving.

  “You both deserved it,” Beau said flatly. “Two pathetic little losers pretending you mattered.”

  Something in Rory snapped. It wasn't simple anger; it was a volatile mix of grief, shame, and the raw memory of Dan’s startled, hurt face. He surged forward and swung.

  The punch was clumsy and desperate, fuelled by every emotion he’d been trying to suppress. It caught Beau across the jaw with a sickening crack. Beau’s head snapped sideways, the impact vibrating up Rory’s arm.

  For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of the falling rain. Then, Beau smiled, a slow, satisfied expression that signalled Rory had walked right into the trap.

  “There it is,” Beau said, wiping a bead of blood from his lip. “I was wondering how deep I’d have to dig.”

  Before Rory could recover, Beau struck back. The blow was clean and clinical, cracking into Rory’s cheek and sending the world spinning. Rory’s footing slipped on the wet concrete; he barely stayed upright as pain exploded across his face.

  Beau didn't give him an inch of space. “That’s assault,” Beau said coldly, driving a fist into Rory’s stomach. “You threw the first one.”

  Rory gasped, folding forward. Beau watched him with an intense, hungry focus. Rory swung again, wild and wide, but Beau parried it with ease and slammed an elbow into Rory’s ribs. The air left Rory’s lungs in a broken wheeze.

  Beau grabbed the front of Rory’s hoodie and hauled him upward, slamming him against the brick wall. Rory’s spine rattled against the masonry.

  “You don’t belong here,” Beau hissed. “You never did.”

  Rory slid down the wall, his legs buckling as Beau landed another hit to his midsection. Pain radiated through his entire body. His ears rang, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  Beau loomed over him, his breathing steady and controlled. “Even red-banded, I can still kick your ass.”

  Rory curled into a ball on the pavement, shaking with a humiliation that burned hotter than his bruises. Deep in his chest, a realisation took root: if he had said yes to Sullivan, if he hadn't walked away, he wouldn't be here, broken and reminded of how small he really was.

  The thought hurt worse than the beating. And that was exactly what Beau had intended.***

  Owen tore across the grounds of Karmal, his movement a desperate, full-body blur. This wasn’t the measured jog he used to signal that everything was fine, nor the disciplined sprint of a training drill. This was raw, frantic motion—lungs burning, legs driving with a mechanical force that surpassed his natural limits, heart hammering without the fatigue that would have felled a normal person. His sneakers slapped violently against the concrete as he rounded the outer corridor; his shoulder clipped a metal railing with a bone-jarring jolt, but he barely registered the impact.

  He didn’t slow down.

  Too quiet, his brain insisted in a frantic loop. Beau shouldn’t be this quiet.

  Owen reached for his technopathy without ceremony. There was no finesse here, no careful easing into the stream. He shoved his awareness outward with the violence of a hand plunged into icy water, and the world exploded. Signals flooded him, security cameras, building systems, street sensors, traffic grids, personal devices, implants, a wall of noise, layered and overlapping, a thousand machine-voices screaming at once. It wasn't sound, but pressure; a crushing digital crowd packed inside his head.

  Owen hissed through his teeth. Too loud. Too much.

  He staggered, catching himself, forcing his breathing to regulate even as his body pushed for speed. Stress only amplified the feedback; the louder his panic grew, the more the signals bled together until the data was a jagged, illegible mess.

  Focus.

  He forced the chaos down, narrowing the field and stripping the noise back layer by layer. He filtered instinctively, pushing aside fixed infrastructure and stationary networks until he locked onto the signatures he knew.

  There. Beau. A clean, aggressive signal Owen had clocked a hundred times, sharp-edged and occupying space like it expected to be noticed. Then, a second later, Rory.

  They were too close. Their signals were stacked, overlapping in a way that made Owen’s chest seize. They weren't passing each other; they were fixed in a tight, stagnant radius.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, the word lost to the wind.

  He triangulated their position, tracking them, they were basically off-grid, away from high-density zones and toward blind spots where sensors were thin and witnesses were non-existent. Cold dread washed through him. Owen broke into a harder sprint, his speed fully engaged now, muscles burning without fatigue.

  He raced away from the last vestiges of the facility. He didn’t know what was happening, not exactly. He couldn’t feel pain or intent or impact. But he knew distance. Two signatures occupying the same tight space where they shouldn’t be.

  “Just hold the fuck on!” he muttered under his breath, like the words might move faster than his body. “I’m coming, okay…”

  The street resolved in fragments: stained brick, wet pavement, and minimal light. A quiet stretch. He rounded the final corner at a tilt, and the scene finally hit his eyes. Rory was slumped against the wall; Beau loomed over him, a dark silhouette of predatory intent.

  Owen didn't plan. He didn't calculate the odds. He simply moved.

  “HEY!”

  The word ripped out of Owen as he slammed into the space between them. He planted himself shoulder-first, the impact reverberating through his bones as he shielded Rory without even checking his own footing. His back brushed Rory’s chest for a fleeting second before he adjusted, one arm spreading out instinctively as a barrier.

  He didn’t look back. He didn’t ask if Rory was okay. He didn’t give Beau an inch.

  For a heartbeat, the world stalled. Rain hissed softly against the concrete. Rory sagged behind him, his breath broken and uneven. Owen could feel him there, the way one feels heat at their back.

  Beau stared at Owen as if he’d just walked into a punchline. Slowly, he leaned back, his hands lifting in mock surrender. A streak of dark blood stained the corner of his mouth.

  “Well,” Beau said mildly. “If it isn’t the golden boy.”

  Owen straightened his shoulders, his breath fast but controlled. His technopathy was still pushing hot and unruly at the edges of his skull, but he locked himself into his body. Into the moment.

  “Back off,” Owen said. His voice shook, not with fear, but with a barely restrained fury. “Now.”

  Beau’s gaze flicked past him, a deliberate look at Rory, who remained hunched against the wall with blood on his lip and an arm tight against his ribs. Owen angled himself further, blocking Beau’s line of sight completely.

  Beau’s smile sharpened. “Cute. Didn’t realise you were playing bodyguard now.”

  “Just leave it, Beau!” Owen’s voice was low, vibrating with the effort to stay steady. “You’ve done enough.”

  Beau let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, as if Owen had just told a joke that missed the mark. “You really going to stand there like that? After everything?”

  Owen didn’t rise to the bait. “Just walk away.”

  “Oh, come on,” Beau said, his voice turning conversational. “Don’t pretend this isn’t awkward for you. You want to talk about endings? You were there, remember? You were there every step of the way.”

  Owen swallowed hard. Beau took a slow step to the side, and Owen mirrored him instantly, a sharp movement that drew Beau’s full attention.

  “Hm,” Beau noted, looking pleased. “Still quick.”

  Owen’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Tell the truth?” Beau’s gaze locked onto Owen’s, unblinking. “You stood there. You watched him lose his grip. You helped me find the pressure points. You remember that, right? You didn’t stop it. You didn’t pull him out. Hell, you didn’t even look surprised.”

  “That’s not how it—” Owen started, then clamped his jaw shut.

  Beau pounced on the hesitation. “Not how it what? Worked? Or not how you tell it now? I thought we were a team. That’s what you said, remember? You wanted him gone. You wanted the problem dealt with.”

  Owen didn’t argue again. Not because Beau was right, but because Rory was listening. Beau moved closer, invading Owen’s space. “From where I’m standing, the only difference between us is that you get to hide behind Ethan’s shadow.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Owen’s chest burned. He could feel Rory shifting behind him, steadying himself. “Just leave,” Owen said again, firmer. “Before you make this worse.”

  “Worse for who?” Beau leaned in, his eyes gleaming. “You think Ethan protecting you makes you clean? You think because you didn’t throw a punch, you get to pretend you weren’t part of it? You wanted him gone just as much as I did. You don’t get to absolve yourself just because you decided to grow a conscience.”

  Owen didn't answer. He couldn't.

  Beau’s gaze flicked past him again. Rory, having heard it all, took a shaky step backward. Owen turned, risking a look, dreading the expression he would find. But Rory didn't look at him. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused, his jaw tight with a dangerous kind of resignation.

  “See?” Beau said softly. “He gets it.”

  Owen snapped back to Beau, anger flaring wild. “Shut up.”

  “Careful,” Beau murmured. “You hit me, and this gets real messy for you.”

  The power imbalance throbbed between them; Beau was red-banded, Owen was not. Owen forced his hands to unclench. “I’m not fighting you.”

  “Of course not,” Beau said lightly. “You never do.”

  Behind Owen, Rory took another step back, then another. This wasn’t retreat. It was withdrawal.Rory turned and staggered away down the street, limping and hunched, putting distance between himself and the noise behind him. Beau watched him go with open satisfaction before turning back to Owen.

  “There,” Beau said. “Problem solved.”

  Owen stood torn, body rigid, pulse roaring in his ears as Rory’s uneven footsteps faded into the rain. “You don’t get to mess with him again,” Owen said, his voice low. “Ever.”

  Beau leaned back, the rain slicking his hair. “We’ll see. You don’t get to decide that.” He stepped back, hands lifting in that same mock surrender. “Enjoy your moral high ground, Owen. Doesn’t change what you did.”

  Beau turned and disappeared down the street, his boots splashing through puddles as if nothing had happened. He left Owen standing alone, heart pounding and guilt clawing at his ribs, the echo of Rory’s retreat burning deeper than any hit Beau could have landed.

  ***

  Rory didn’t look back. He didn’t wait to see if Owen had anything left to say, nor did he check to see if Beau was still savouring the view of his retreat. He simply turned and walked, his body moving on a hollow instinct, as if his legs possessed a memory of the way home that the rest of his mind had already abandoned.

  Everything hurt, but the sensation felt distant, almost muted, like the pain was a physical object being carried by someone else, and he was merely a passenger to the struggle.

  His cheek throbbed in slow, pulsing waves that synchronised with the heavy beat of his heart. His ribs screamed in protest every time he drew a breath that reached too deep into his lungs. Something warm and wet slid from his nose, tracing a path over his upper lip; he wiped it away with his hoodie sleeve without looking, smearing the dark crimson across the grey fabric. His mouth tasted of copper and something bitter and wrong.

  Don’t think. Just go.

  That was the only thought he could manage to hold onto.

  The rain soaked through his layers with a relentless chill, darkening his school shirt and plastering the thin fabric to his skin. His gait was uneven, his right hip pulsing with a sharp ache with every stride. He kept his head bowed, his shoulders rounded inward to protect his core, making himself as small as possible as he moved through the desolate stretch of the street.

  Leave. Get home. That’s it.

  The bus stop eventually emerged from the mist like a lighthouse in a fog. It was a simple glass shelter with a flickering digital sign, a small, clinical mercy of light in the downpour. Rory shuffled into the enclosure and leaned his weight against the glass. The cool shock of it against his bruised spine knocked the wind out of him for a moment. He stayed there, breathing in shallow gasps, his eyes unfocused as rainwater dripped from his hair and pooled on the concrete.

  A woman stood at the far end of the shelter, shielded by her headphones and the glow of her phone. She glanced at him once, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of him, before she looked away a little too quickly, retreating back into her digital world.

  Rory couldn’t maintain his balance. He slid down onto the bench, letting his head thud back against the glass wall. Blood continued to drip from his nose, spotting his white uniform shirt. He held his sleeve against his face to stem the flow, not caring as the stain blossomed across the fabric.

  The bus pulled up moments later with a heavy hiss of hydraulics. Rory stood on instinct, forcing his shoulders back and wincing as a fresh flare of agony shot through his ribs. He fished his pass out of his pocket with trembling fingers and stepped toward the doors as they folded open.

  The driver took one look at him and froze. His expression was a complicated mix of concern and hesitation.

  “Hey,” the driver said, holding up a hand to halt Rory’s progress. His eyes flicked to the blood on Rory’s shirt and the way the boy was favouring his side. “I can’t let you on like that, mate.”

  Rory blinked, the words failing to register at first. “I… I’m fine.”

  The driver shook his head gently, his voice already heavy with apology. “You’re bleeding. Policy says I can’t let you on in that state.”

  Rory swallowed hard, his throat burning as if he’d swallowed glass. “I just need to get home,” he said quietly. He hated how small and fragile his voice sounded in the quiet of the bus.

  The driver hesitated, his expression softening even further. “You should get that looked at. There’s a clinic a few blocks up.”

  Rory’s stomach dropped into a cold pit. He nodded, it was automatic, a reflex of compliance. He didn't trust himself to speak again. He simply stepped back onto the wet pavement.

  The doors closed with a soft, final hiss. The bus pulled away, its taillights bleeding long streaks of red into the rain-slicked road as it disappeared.

  Rory stood there alone.

  For a second, he just stared at the empty road, his bus pass still clutched uselessly in his hand. The numbness held for a few heartbeats, thick and heavy like cotton packed behind his eyes. Then, he let the card drop back into his pocket and turned away from the shelter.

  Walking was a new kind of torture now. The rain soaked deeper into his skin, and the cold crept in through the gaps in his clothes, through the fresh bruises, and through the cracks in his resolve. The street stretched on much longer than he remembered. Every step jarred something loose in his frame, his ribs, his jaw, the heavy ache behind his eyes. His breathing grew frantic and shallow, and he had to stop once, bracing a hand against a rough brick wall until a wave of dizziness passed.

  You’re fine. Just get home.

  But the numbness was thinning, and Beau’s voice was creeping back in, uninvited and cruel. He saw Owen’s back again, blocking his view, a shield that felt like an insult.

  Rory swallowed, his throat tight. The rain washed the blood down his face, streaking it across his collar in pale pink lines. He hadn't cried yet, he wasn't even sure he was capable of it anymore. What he felt instead was something uglier and much heavier, a profound sense of being done.

  Done fighting. Done pushing back. Done pretending he could keep taking hits and still remain standing.

  If I’d said yes.

  The thought was quiet, but relentless. If he’d said yes to Sullivan. If he’d stayed in that office. Maybe Beau wouldn’t have touched him. Maybe Beau wouldn’t have dared to speak to him that way. Maybe he wouldn't be stumbling home, bleeding in the rain.

  His jaw clenched, the pain flaring sharp enough to bring moisture to his eyes. The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the pavement. By the time he reached the next block, his hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from everything he’d been suppressing finally forcing its way to the surface. Anger, shame, and grief all vied for space in his chest.

  Underneath it all was a terrible, sinking realisation that saying no hadn't protected him. It had just left him alone.

  Rory kept walking anyway, hunched and limping through the rain, the blood drying on his skin. The numbness was finally cracking open, and the full weight of what had happened settled in his chest, inescapable and heavy. Home loomed ahead, but it offered no relief. It was just the next thing he would have to survive.

  ***

  Owen stood motionless long after the last echo of Beau’s footsteps had vanished into the city.

  The rain had no mercy; it soaked through his layers, plastered his hair to his forehead, and slid in cold rivulets down the back of his neck. He barely registered the chill. His body remained locked in a post-adrenaline stiffness, every muscle coiled tight and his heart thudding with a frantic, uneven rhythm. It was as if his pulse hadn't yet caught up to the fact that the immediate danger had passed.

  Rory was gone.

  That single fact settled into his mind slowly, heavy and unavoidable. Owen finally let his shoulders drop, and when they did, the full weight of the encounter crashed into him at once: the shouting, the cutting accusations, and the haunting way Rory hadn’t even looked at him before he left. Rory hadn’t argued. He hadn’t tried to defend himself against Beau’s venom. He had simply walked away.

  Owen dragged a hand through his sodden hair and then down his face, wiping away a mix of rainwater and sweat.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the downpour.

  His technopathy still pressed at the edges of his skull, residual noise he hadn’t fully shut down yet, systems and signals brushing past his awareness like static. He forced himself to ground, to pull back into his body, to feel the cold rain, the ache in his legs, the sting where he’d clipped the railing earlier.

  The next step was obvious. He should tell Ethan. It was the right thing to do, the responsible choice, especially after everything he’d already confessed, after all the chances Ethan had given him to be honest. It had happened off-site, yes, and it could have been much worse, but the facts remained: Beau had hunted Rory down, he had attacked him, and Rory was injured.

  Owen knew exactly what the fallout would look like if he spoke the truth. He could see Ethan’s jaw tightening. The sharp, controlled focus snapping into place. The immediate escalation.

  And Beau could be finished.

  Not just suspended. Not just red-banded.

  Finished.

  Owen pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his breathing coming hard and fast. Because Beau wasn’t just a random trainee who had gone too far. Beau was…Beau. They were friends. They’d trained together. Fought together. Covered for each other. There were years of shared shortcuts and half-spoken understandings and unspoken rules about what you handled inside the group and what you didn’t.

  And if Owen told Ethan now?

  He’d be the one who walked away clean.

  The one who snitched.

  The one who’d been involved, who’d stood there, who’d let Beau dig, who’d helped find the pressure points, and then turned around and pointed the finger when it finally got ugly.

  Owen’s stomach twisted into a nauseating knot. Beau’s voice echoed in his head, smug and surgically precise.

  You were there. You didn’t stop it. You wanted him gone too.

  Owen flinched as if the words were physical blows. That was the part that made everything feel rotten to the core. He hadn't thrown the punches, and he hadn't built the elaborate illusions that ruined Rory's reputation, but he hadn't stopped them either. And Rory…Rory hadn’t said a word about any of it. Not then. Not after. Not even now.

  Even after Beau was so ready to drag Owen down with him.

  That cut deeper than any accusation.

  Owen paced a few restless steps, his boots splashing through shallow puddles, before stopping abruptly with his fists clenched at his sides. If he spoke up, Beau’s career was over. And Owen would still be standing, protected, shielded, and forgiven.

  The thought made him feel physically sick. He knew he should reach for his phone, but his hand hovered uselessly near his pocket. Telling Ethan didn't just mean doing the right thing, it meant choosing Rory over Beau. It meant choosing the consequences over a twisted sense of loyalty. It meant admitting publicly that he had been a part of something cruel and had walked away without paying the same price as everyone else.

  A cowardly, tangled part of his mind grasped for an out. What if Rory doesn’t even want me to tell?

  Rory hadn't stayed to ask for help. He hadn't demanded justice or waited for a witness to corroborate his story. He had just left…hurt, humiliated, and utterly done with all of them.

  Owen blinked the rain out of his stinging eyes. I’ll tell him, he thought, the lie tasting like ash. I will.

  Just not yet.

  He convinced himself he needed time. He needed a version of this story where he didn’t feel like the worst kind of hypocrite. The promise sat hollow and heavy in his chest as he finally turned back toward the lights of Karmal. He walked with a crushing sense of guilt, knowing with a sick, absolute certainty that this wasn’t over. Not for Rory, and certainly not for him.

  ***

  The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound carrying a quiet, heavy finality.

  Rory stood motionless in the entryway for a long moment. Rainwater dripped steadily from his sodden sleeves, pooling on the floor tiles with a rhythmic patter that felt deafening in the stillness of the house. The air was unnervingly quiet, the rooms empty and dark.

  Good. Pete wasn’t home yet.

  Rory exhaled, a shallow, jagged breath that tugged painfully at his injured ribs, and kicked his shoes off. One of them landed crookedly, sending a small spray of water across the hallway. I’ll clean it up later, he thought, the instinct of a boy used to hiding his tracks flickering through the fog. Before he gets home.

  He didn't bend to fix it. He couldn't. Not right now.

  Every movement felt delayed, as if his physical form were running a half-second behind his conscious thoughts. He dragged himself down the hallway toward the stairs, one hand skimming along the wall for balance to keep the world from tilting. By the time he reached the top step, his legs were trembling with a deep, systemic exhaustion.

  Bathroom. Shower first.

  The hallway carpet darkened into damp bruises under his footprints as he passed. He noticed the trail vaguely, another mess to be erased, another thing to explain if he failed to hide it.

  The bathroom light flicked on, and Rory flinched at the sudden glare. On instinct, he averted his eyes from the mirror, reaching straight for the shower instead. He twisted the handle and waited as the water roared to life, watching the first wisps of steam begin to curl into the room.

  Only then did he begin the agonising process of peeling his clothes away.

  The hoodie came off first, heavy and sodden, hitting the floor with a dull, wet slap. His fingers fumbled blindly with the buttons of his school shirt; they were stiff and slow, and white-hot pain sparked through his side every time his ribs shifted beneath the skin.

  When the fabric finally came free, Rory froze.

  The white shirt was an absolute ruin. Pink and red blooms had spread across the front and collar, the blood soaked deep into the fibres and smeared where he’d wiped his face without thinking. The school crest was barely discernible beneath the dark, jagged stains.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  The word came out flat, carrying more exhaustion than anger. Pete’s going to lose it. That was his first thought. Not I’m hurt, not I need a doctor. Just the looming shadow of Pete’s reaction.

  Rory crossed to the sink and shoved the shirt under the tap, turning the water on full blast. The cold rush cascaded over his hands as he grabbed a bar of soap and began to scrub frantically at the fabric. His fingers were clumsy and numb, trying to will the red out of the cotton, but the stain was stubborn. It didn't lift. It only lightened into a sickly, telltale pink that bled further across the white.

  His hands began to shake uncontrollably.

  He glanced up without meaning to and finally caught his reflection in the glass. For a heartbeat, he didn’t recognise the person staring back.

  His cheek was already swelling into a distorted, purple knot. His lip was split, still weeping a faint trail of crimson. Dried blood crusted the edge of his nose and was streaked down toward his jawline like war paint. His eyes looked hollow, shadowed by a fatigue that went deeper than sleep.

  Lower, his torso told the rest of the story. Bruises were blooming across his ribs, ugly, deep, and already turning a dark, mottled plum. A long, angry red mark traced his shoulder where he’d been slammed against the brick.

  Rory stared, the realisation landing late and distant. Oh. I’m… really hurt. The thought stayed on the surface, it didn't sink in the way it probably should have.

  His gaze flicked back to the ruined shirt in the basin, the evidence he wouldn’t be able to hide. Pete’s going to see this. His chest tightened as a sharp, familiar knot of dread curled in his stomach. He could already see the look on Pete’s face, irritation, never concern. He could hear the set of Pete’s jaw and the questions that were actually accusations.

  What did you do now? Where were you? Do you know how much that costs?

  Rory turned the tap off and let the heavy, wet shirt slump back into the porcelain. Water dripped into the drain, tinged a pale, watery red. He leaned both hands on the edge of the sink, his head bowed, his shoulders shuddering once before he forced them still.

  Shower first, he reminded himself, pushing the command through the mental fog. Just…shower. Clean up. Figure it out after.

  He stripped the rest of the way out mechanically. Every movement was a chore, tugging at the bruises and sending sharp reminders of the alleyway through his body. When he finally stepped under the spray, the hot water hit his raw skin and he hissed, a broken, strangled sound tearing out of him as the pain flared bright and undeniable.

  He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut, letting the water pound over him. He wasn't crying. He was just breathing. Just getting through the next thing.

  Pete wasn’t home yet. That was the only mercy he had left.

  ***

  It was later that night, and Rory had stayed in his room much longer than he should have. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring blankly at the floor while the day's trauma settled deep into his bones. Every breath was a choreographed struggle against his ribs. His cheek throbbed, a dull, insistent rhythm he couldn't escape. He felt hollowed out, as if whatever invisible force had kept him upright all day had finally surrendered.

  Downstairs, the house was silent. That was never a good sign.

  Rory knew the routine by heart, it was a nightly clockwork. Homework at the kitchen table. Pete watching. Correcting. Hovering. Waiting for the inevitable stumble so he could pounce on it like a long-awaited proof of Rory’s inadequacy.

  He was supposed to be down there already. The realisation made his stomach twist into a fresh knot.

  Dragging himself upright with a quiet groan, Rory reached for the largest hoodie he owned. He pulled it on with ginger movements, wincing as the rough fabric grazed his swollen face. He tugged the hood forward until it was deep and tight, casting his eyes into shadow and masking as much of the damage as possible. It was a flimsy shield, but it was all he had.

  He grabbed his workbooks and a pen, his hands shaking just enough to be noticeable, and headed for the door. Halfway down the stairs, Pete’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

  “Rory.” It was sharp and irritated, the tone of a man whose patience was already a fraying thread. Rory flinched but kept descending. “I shouldn’t have to call you,” Pete added, his voice rising. “You know what time it is.”

  “Coming,” Rory said quietly, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel.

  He stepped into the kitchen with a stiff, guarded gait, favouring his side. The table was clear except for Pete’s mug and a stack of papers he used to perform the role of a busy man.

  Pete looked up, his eyes sweeping over Rory in a single, predatory arc. He noted the hood, the ginger walk, and the way Rory refused to meet his gaze. His mouth thinned into a hard line.

  “What’s with the hood?”

  Rory stopped at the edge of the table. He offered a small shrug, angling his head to keep the worst of the bruising in the dark. “It’s cold in here,” he muttered.

  Pete stared at him, incredulous. “No, it’s not.”

  The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Rory’s heart began to gallop against his bruised ribs. Slowly, Pete stood up, the chair legs emitting a harsh scrape against the tiles. He took a step closer, scrutinising Rory like a puzzle that was starting to annoy him.

  “Take it off.”

  Rory’s chest seized. “I…It’s fine, I just—”

  “I said take it off.”

  There was no yelling yet, no heat. That was always worse. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edges of his exercise book. For a fleeting second, he considered bolting, but there was nowhere left to run. He gave a shallow, frantic nod and reached up, forcing his hands to remain steady as he pushed the hood back.

  He tried to act casual, as if his face didn't feel like a raw wound, as if he weren't bracing for the sky to fall. He stepped past Pete and dropped into his chair, flipping his book open so fast the pages rustled violently in the quiet room.

  Pete didn’t move. Rory could feel the man's stare boring into the side of his head. At first, there was a flicker of genuine surprise on Pete's face, but it was quickly eclipsed by something ugly and dark.

  “You get into a fight?” Pete demanded.

  Rory shook his head immediately. “I didn’t—”

  He never saw the blow coming.

  The heavy textbook caught him across the face with a sickening crack, snapping his head sideways. Pain exploded behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound, as the book hit the floor with a heavy thud. Rory’s hands flew up instinctively, his hoodie sleeve pressed to his face as blood began to spill again, warm and fast.

  “Bullshit!” Pete roared. “Look at you!”

  Rory folded in on himself, his breath coming in ragged stutters. “I didn’t get into a fight,” he wheezed through the fabric. “I didn’t—”

  “What did you do?!” Pete loomed over him, fury radiating in waves. “What the hell did you do this time?!”

  Rory squeezed his eyes shut, trying to become invisible.

  “What did you do?” Pete repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Where did this happen?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Rory tried again, his voice cracking. “I didn’t start anything.”

  Pete scoffed. “Oh, so it just happened to you?” He lunged forward and grabbed Rory’s wrist, yanking his arm down to expose the damage. He stared at the swelling, the split skin, and the deepening purple of the bruises. “You look like a delinquent. You walk into my house looking like this and expect me to believe you?”

  “I wasn’t fighting. I was—”

  Pete shoved him back into the chair so hard the legs screamed against the floor. Rory gasped as the impact sent a jolt of agony through his ribs.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Pete growled. “You go out, you get into fights, and then you crawl back here playing the innocent victim.” He slammed his hand onto the table, making the mug jump. “Look at you! You think this just appears? You think I’m stupid?”

  Rory curled further inward, blood dripping onto his lip. His head rang with the force of the hit. Pete began to pace, his voice cutting and relentless. “I told you, you don't go looking for trouble. And every time I turn my back—”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Pete?”

  It was Liz. Her voice was cautious, sharp with sudden alertness. Pete stopped mid-sentence, his anger not vanishing, but rearranging into a defensive posture. Liz stepped into the kitchen with Abbey right behind her. They both froze.

  “Oh my god,” Liz breathed. “Rory?”

  Abbey’s eyes went wide. “You’re bleeding.”

  Pete exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair like he was the one being martyred. “He got into a fight,” he said flatly.

  Rory’s stomach dropped. Liz turned to Pete, her brow furrowed. “A fight?”

  “He won’t say where,” Pete added, his irritation mounting. “Came home looking like this and thought I’d just ignore it.”

  Liz was already moving, her practical instincts taking over. “Rory, sweetheart, okay… sit still.” She grabbed a handful of paper towels and turned to the freezer. “Ice packs. We need ice.”

  “Don’t baby him, Liz,” Pete snapped, waving a hand dismissively. “He did this to himself.”

  Liz shot him a look that finally held some steel. “He’s hurt.”

  “And that’s on him!” Pete fired back. “Maybe next time he’ll think before he swings.”

  Rory stared at the wood grain of the table, unable to look at any of them. Abbey hovered for a second before stepping closer, as if Rory were made of glass. She reached out and slipped her small, warm hand into his. He hadn't realised how much he needed the contact until her fingers closed around his.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Rory’s throat tightened so hard it hurt. He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak.

  Liz pressed a towel-wrapped ice pack into his hands. “Here. Hold this against your nose. Lean forward a little.”

  As Rory complied, Liz continued, her voice firm. “When the bleeding slows, I want you to go upstairs, have a shower, and clean yourself up.”

  Pete’s head snapped toward her. “No. He has homework. I said every night.”

  “Pete.”

  “He can sit there and work just fine,” Pete insisted, gesturing aggressively at Rory. “Bleeding or not.”

  “Pete. Not tonight.” Liz cut him off, her tone leaving no room for a counter-argument. The room went unnervingly still. “He’s bleeding. He’s clearly hurt. You can pick this up tomorrow, when he’s had a decent night’s sleep.”

  Pete stared at her, his jaw working as his pride ground against her restraint. Finally, he scoffed and looked away. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”

  Rory barely heard him. He was looking at Liz, his eyes glassy and exhausted. He needed her to believe him. “I didn’t fight anyone,” he said quietly. “I swear.”

  Liz didn’t ask for details or contradict Pete. She simply stepped closer and squeezed Rory’s shoulder. “I know, honey,” she said softly.

  Something in Rory’s chest gave way. It wasn't relief, but the devastating ache of being seen for a fraction of a second, knowing it wouldn't change the reality of his life.

  Liz nudged him toward the stairs. “Go on. Get cleaned up.”

  Rory stood carefully, clutching the ice pack. Abbey hovered nearby as he began the slow climb back up. Behind him, he heard Pete exhale a sharp, disgruntled breath. “This kid,” he muttered.

  Liz didn't respond. And Rory didn't look back.

  ***

  The house had descended into silence hours ago. He had tracked every sound with a surveyor’s precision: Liz’s soft, retreating footsteps, the gentle click of Abbey’s door, the low murmur of the television downstairs finally cutting to black. Then, later, much later, the unmistakable groan of the floorboard outside his room as Pete moved through the hallway, followed by the muffled closing of the master bedroom door.

  Both Pete and Liz were in bed. That had been over an hour ago.

  Rory still hadn’t moved.

  He lay rigid beneath his blankets, shoulders drawn tight and muscles coiled in a state of permanent readiness. His breathing was shallow and controlled, as if he were hiding underwater, waiting for a predator to pass. His body refused to accept that the window of danger had closed for the night. It never did. Not really.

  Any second now, his brain insisted. Don’t relax. Don’t sleep.

  He listened for the phantom weight of footsteps that didn't come. His phone on his bedside table cast a faint, ghostly glow: 2:17 a.m. His ribs throbbed with every deep inhalation, and his cheek continued to cause him discomfort. Somewhere beneath the hoodie he’d been too exhausted to remove, his bruises burned as if the impact were still happening.

  He swallowed and shifted a fraction of an inch, but instantly froze, his heart spiking as he waited to see if the slight rustle of sheets would be punished.

  Nothing. The quiet was thick, suffocating, and absolute.

  Eventually, his body stopped listening for external threats and handed the reins back to his thoughts. That was worse. With no immediate danger to focus on, the weight of the world came crashing in to fill the void.

  It wasn’t just today. That was the realisation that made his chest ache more than the broken ribs. It was everything.

  His family leaving. All of them. One by one until there was no one left to even be mad at properly. Nick. The implant. Being dumped with something illegal inside him and then just… left. Like it was his mess now.

  Since then, the momentum of his life had shifted entirely toward the floor. School was gone. Dan was gone. And now there was Karmal, the red band, the watchful eyes, the cold anticipation of his next failure.

  Beau’s voice replayed in his head, calm and surgically cruel. Dan’s face flashed behind his eyelids, marked by a look of hurt and shock that made Rory squeeze his eyes shut, trying to force the memory out.

  Every time he tried to take a step forward, the world yanked him back twice as far. Every time he tried to keep his head down and avoid trouble, he still lost something precious. He lost people, he lost chances, and he lost ground. And the most hollow part of it all was that he usually hadn't even done anything wrong.

  He had tried to be good. He had tried so fucking hard.

  He stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned with the strain. I keep fucking it up, he thought, even as a small, logical part of him knew that wasn't fair. It didn't matter. It didn't feel unfair, it felt like a law of nature. No matter what he did, he lost.

  Maybe this was just how his life was going to be. A cycle of bracing for impact, messing up, getting in trouble, and apologising for things he hadn't even intended to do. The thought made something sick and cold twist in his stomach.

  Without meaning to, he let his mind drift back to Karmal. They terrified him, intimidated him, and they had certainly hurt him. But they were something. They were solid. They were strong. In that building, people didn't pretend to care and then vanish. They told you exactly what they wanted and exactly what you were.

  If I’d said yes.

  The thought wasn’t loud. It didn’t feel like surrender or relief. It felt practical. Heavy. Inevitable.

  If he’d said yes to Sullivan. If he’d stayed in that office. Maybe Beau wouldn’t have touched him. Maybe Beau wouldn’t have dared to speak to him that way. Maybe he wouldn’t be bleeding in the rain, calculating how much pain he could hide before it became inconvenient for someone else.

  The idea settled deeper than anger ever had.

  Not trust.Not hope.Just… less exposure. Less vulnerability. Less losing.

  Rory stared at the ceiling, his ribs aching with every breath.

  He had tried to be good. He had tried to stay out of the way. He had tried saying no.

  It hadn’t protected him.

  “I’ll do it,” he thought. Not because he wanted power — but because he was done being powerless.

  Tomorrow.

  He didn’t know how he’d say it. He didn’t know what it would cost him. He only knew that staying like this, open, unshielded, easy to hurt, was no longer survivable.

  Sleep eventually took him, heavy and dreamless.

  Tomorrow, he’d say yes.

  It wasn't because he suddenly trusted them, or because he believed for a second that it would fix his life. It was simply because he was tired of losing and having nothing to show for it. At least with them, he’d be doing something. He wouldn't just be a target.

  He rolled onto his side with agonising care, pulling the blankets up to his chin and tucking one arm protectively against his ribs. His body remained tense, but the decision settled into his chest, heavy and real.

  Tomorrow.

  He didn’t know how he’d say it. He didn’t know what would happen once the words left his mouth. He just knew he couldn’t keep doing this.

  Eventually, long after the house remained silent and the hallway stayed empty, exhaustion finally won. Sleep crept in slowly, dragging him under while his thoughts kept looping, softer now, dulled by his deep tiredness.

  Tomorrow, he’d say yes. Even if it scared him. Even if it hurt.

  Because right now, everything already did.

  What do you think most pushed Rory toward his decision?