The realization struck me like a cold blade between the ribs—those faces I'd witnessed tormenting the boy belonged to my classmates and he was also among those faces. They sat among us now, arranged in neat rows as if nothing had happened, as if their cruelty hadn't carved itself into another human being.
The classroom was unusually quiet. Papers rustled softly and the air conditioner hummed its mechanical lullaby, filling the spaces where conversation should have lived. A full week had passed since the incident in the empty class and Noah's seat remained empty. He hadn't returned since. I figured he needed time.
But then the rumors started, spreading like wildfire. Each one darker than the last. Natalie whispered he'd run away from home. Another kid said he'd tried to kill himself, though the story kept shifting: one day it was pills, the next it was bridges. But the worst of all was that he had gotten mixed up with dangerous people—and ended up dead.
The door creaked open, and Ms. Alstone, our homeroom teacher stepped in, her face a mask of grief and frustration. The class straightened instinctively, but no one spoke.
"Class," she said, her voice low, deliberate, "I have news about Noah."
The air grew thin.
"He's in the hospital. In a coma." Each syllable was measured, deliberate. "He tried to take his own life. The doctors said they don't know when—or if—he'll wake up. We're still trying to understand why."
A shiver ran through the room. Eyes flicked nervously from one classmate to another. I found myself staring at the ringleader, Blake, he was no ordinary kid—son of the country's minister of foreign affairs—his eyes catching mine for a split second before flicking away. A small frown creased his brow, but it wasn't remorse—it was calculation. Whispers hovered beneath the surface, but no one dared speak aloud.
Class resumed, mechanical and hollow. When the bell rang for break, I stood, ready to leave but Blake materialized beside my desk blocking my path.
"Hey," he said, voice casual, almost friendly. "Run down to the school store for me. Grab me an energy drink. I'll pay you."
I froze. I knew this game. His casual tone was a trap, the kind that closed around you before you realized you were caught.
"Come on. It's easy money. Just a quick run."
There was no choice. Blake got whatever he wanted, he was someone who'd never been refused anything. He could've also driven a classmate to the edge of suicide and barely batted an eye—and now he wanted an energy drink. I sighed, grabbed my bag, and left.
Minutes later, I returned. He snatched the drink eagerly.
"Good," he said. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Before I could retreat, one of his friends leaned over, "Hey, since you're already…helpful," he said with a smirk, sliding a notebook across my desk, "do my homework for me. I'll pay and I heard you're the smartest kid in class, shit's been rough at home."
My stomach twisted. I opened the notebook anyway. The money was too good to refuse—enough to buy Maeve proper school lunches, not close to expiring bread we scraped by on. Enough for a monthly bus pass, so she wouldn't have to beg Grandma for coins every morning. Enough to let Grandma sleep more than three hours a night, to ease the weight of her night shifts.
One request became two, two became ten. Blake's friends, upperclassmen, even random classmates—all waving cash, all expecting obedience. At first, it was just small tasks for small sums. But the payments grew and before long, I was running a small academic business, transforming rich kids' laziness into my family's survival.
The money piled up. Maeve's face lit up when I handed her a yearly bus pass, her arms wrapping around me. "Thank you, big brother," she whispered. Grandma stopped asking where the money came from after I fed her a half-truth about helping classmates with homework. I bought groceries—real ones, not the clearance-bin kind.
For the first time, I felt a flicker of control, like I wasn't just clinging to the edge of life. But it unnerved me, too, how kids my age tossed around sums that rivaled a low-wage salary. The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd become the minister's son's errand boy, but at least I was a well-paid one.
One afternoon, Ms. Alstone called me to her office. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, pouring me a cup of coffee from a sleek machine—not the instant powder we could afford, but rich, dark coffee, the kind the elite drank.
"Luck," she said, her voice warm as honey, "is there something you need to tell me?"
I nearly choked on the coffee, thinking she'd caught wind of my side hustle. "N-No, ma'am," I stammered, shaking my head.
"Please don't lie to me," she said softly. "You're my best student, the valedictorian, but your grades are slipping, and if this continues, you could risk your scholarship. If anything is going on—at home, at school—talk to me. I'm here for you."
Her hand brushed mine. Warm. Maternal. I smiled faintly, hiding my fear. Losing that scholarship could ruin everything. Maeve, Grandma…everything depended on it.
"Oh, and one more thing," she said. "If you know anything about Noah—anything at all—it would help."
Guilt gnawed at me. I told her about the courtyard, Blake and his pack circling Noah, recording him half-naked, laughing as he begged. I asked to stay anonymous.
"I'll investigate," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "I'll speak to your classmates, see if anyone else saw anything. And…thank you for telling me." She handed me a high-quality chocolate bar—Italian, 70% cocoa. I smiled faintly.
That night, I shared it with Maeve and Grandma. Their smiles were a brief reprieve from the dread coiling in my gut.
The next day, I told Blake that I couldn't run errands anymore—scholarship at risk. He didn't push. They all seemed to accept it.
That evening, I stayed late in the library, drowning in textbooks and equations to claw my way back to my scholarship. The school felt different after hours—exhaled and empty, like a held breath. Streetlights flickered outside. I packed up, slung my bag over my shoulder—then realized I'd left it in the classroom. Cursing, I hurried, navigating halls that seemed to stretch into darkness.
I grabbed my bag and turned to leave—but froze. Voices drifted from the staff room, low and secretive. I should have left. Should have minded my business. Instead, I crept closer, heart hammering against my ribs.
I peeked through the cracked door and my stomach plummeted.
Ms. Alstone was buttoning her blouse, her face flushed and satisfied. Across from her, Blake adjusted his belt with the casual confidence of someone who owned everything he touched.
My pulse thundered. Before I could process, Blake spoke.
"Before I forget," he said, producing a test paper. "My tomorrow's exam paper."
Ms. Alstone chuckled, slipping it into a folder. "Pretend to write tomorrow. I'll grade the one you just handed in. And I hope you remembered to get a few wrong—don't raise suspicion."
Blake smirked. "Relax. I wouldn't risk your job. But really…I don't get why the scholarship kid can ace every test and no one blinks, yet if I do, it's suspicious?"
My blood ran cold. Ms. Alstone laughed, a sound that turned my veins to ice. "You should've seen his face. I made him Arabic coffee, held his hand, which was disgusting, by the way, you owe me for that performance. A few crocodile tears here and there. Played the caring teacher. Told him he might lose his scholarship, and he spilled everything—Noah, the empty classroom, all of it. And get this—" she mimicked my voice, dripping with mockery—"'I want to remain anonymous.'"
Blake's grin widened. "Sold us out, huh? I thought money could change him, guess not every stray you feed can be tamed. But he's different—a true hero, standing up for Noah like that. This should be interesting. Let's see if he lasts longer than Noah did. Make it fun, Luck. What good's a toy if it breaks too soon?"
My grip on the doorframe tightened as questions exploded through my mind: How long had this been going on? Was I just another pawn in their game? Had Noah discovered something similar?
Blake's voice cut through my thoughts. "I'll see you tomorrow. My driver's waiting." He kissed her, bold and unapologetic. My stomach lurched.
I have to leave. Now.
My hand slipped on the door handle—click—and I froze. Had they heard? I didn't wait to find out. My body moved before my brain caught up, feet carrying me through darkened halls toward whatever safety I could find.
The next day, I walked into school, face blank, pretending I knew nothing. But the air had shifted. Crumpled papers flew at my desk, taunts disguised as pranks. I buried myself in my book.
At lunch, a sharp crack exploded in my skull. Blake's hand had slammed into my head. "You sold me out, you piece of shit," he hissed. "Come with me."
I didn't move, eyes fixed on my book, willing him to leave.
Crack.
Another blow slammed my head into the desk with sickening force. Stars burst behind my eyes. The world blurred, sounds became distant echoes, and darkness crept in from the edges, Blood trickled onto the wood and the taste of copper flooded my mouth.
"And here I thought we were friends," Blake said, his voice floating through the haze. "The BFF kind."
"What the hell are you doing to him?!" Natalie's scream cut through my fog, fierce as a lioness protecting her cubs.
"You're being fucking noisy. Giving me a headache." Blake replied, walking away as if nothing happened.
Natalie knelt beside me, panic in her eyes. "Luck, you're bleeding." She pressed a handkerchief to my wound, hands trembling. "Come on, let's get you to the nurse."
Her voice softened, full of a warmth I didn't deserve. I let her help me up, head throbbing, world tilting. One thought burned through the haze: Blake wasn't done.