Tuesday Night
The dorm room was glowing in soft ambient lighting from the ceiling fixtures and the slim vertical lamps set at either end of the room. A sleek modern space, white walls, soft pine flooring, chrome-edged furniture, state-of-the-art, just like everything at Moonstone. Two beds sat on opposite sides of the room, divided by a large study table with built-in chargers and a sleek touch-screen monitor mounted to the wall behind it. The mini fridge hummed quietly beneath one of the closets, and near the tall window overlooking the dorm courtyard sat a low leather couch with a view of the moonlight reflecting off glass rooftops.
Adam sat on the edge of his bed, shirt off, torso bruised. The swelling around his ribs was beginning to turn a deep violet. He flinched as Bryce dabbed antiseptic against one of the cuts on his shoulder. Hakeem Morris, the student council president, sat across from them in one of the two grey beanbags, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching them both with that calm, commanding presence he wore like a tailored suit.
No one said anything at first. The air was filled with the quiet hum of the room, the scent of ointment, and the distant rumble of dorm chatter echoing through the hall outside.
Bryce broke the silence. "You know," he muttered, tapping the cotton swab against Adam's skin, "for someone who walked into a room full of pissed-off gorillas, you held your own."
Adam exhaled. "Yeah, until I didn't."
Bryce shrugged. "Still counts. Most guys would've pissed themselves the second Harris looked at them."
Bryce gave Adam's shoulder one last gentle pat with the bandage wrap, then stood and tossed the empty wrapper into the trash.
"Okay," Adam muttered, still wincing. "There's something I need to ask…"
"Shoot."
"How the hell did the student council president show up when he did?" Adam asked, hand pointing to a familiar face sat opposite to him.
Bryce smiled at him from over the mini fridge as he pulled out a drink. "Ah. That."
Adam blinked. "That what?"
"Flashback time." Bryce cracked the can open dramatically and raised an eyebrow. "Remember what you did before heading to the old gym?"
A pause. Then Adam remembered. A Couple Hours Ago, Just Before the Fight.
He had been standing at the edge of the campus' east wing, his eyes locked on the dark hallway that led to the abandoned locker room. He felt the weight of the folded paper in his pocket, Harris's threat, the blackmail. The air was thick with tension, the kind that pressed down on your chest and made your thoughts race.
He pulled out his phone. Hands trembling slightly. He stared at the screen. Thought for a second.
Then typed.
"Going to check the old locker room. Might be stupid. Just in case, I thought you should know."
He hovered over the send button.
Then hit it.
The screen lit up with "Delivered."
He exhaled and stuffed the phone in his pocket, every step after that like walking toward a storm.
Bryce was still at the rooftop with Aiva when the message came in.
He stood up straight the second he read it.
"Shit," he whispered under his breath.
No hesitation.
He unlocked his contact list and dialed. "Come on… pick up…"
"Yeah?" a deep voice answered on the second ring.
"Hakeem. It's Bryce. I need a favor." Bryce explained to Adam.
Adam stared at Bryce like he'd just grown horns.
"You called the president?" he asked.
"Pulled my one get-out-of-jail card," Bryce replied casually, slouching back into one of the beanbags with a satisfied stretch. "Told him it was urgent. Told him it was about Harris."
"And he actually listened?"
"You think I helped that man win the presidency for free?" Bryce grinned. "I did the dirty work. Campaigned. Dug up dirt on other candidates. Got students to swing votes. He owes me."
From the chair near the desk, the council president gave a small shake of his head and finally spoke.
"You make me sound like a corrupt politician," he said dryly.
Adam turned toward him. "And you are…?"
The man still seated, raised his hand in a simple wave.
"Hakeem Morris. Class 3A. Council president."
Adam accepted the greeting, surprised by the strength behind it, not aggressive, just assured. Hakeem's ebony skin and buzzcut caught the soft glow from the room's overhead strip lights, and the tailored fit of his school blazer made him look like a soldier dressed in formalwear.
"I didn't know what to expect," Adam admitted, "but... you don't look like a politician."
"I'm not," Hakeem said calmly. "I'm a leader."
Bryce rolled his eyes. "You've been rehearsing that line since the elections."
"Damn right I have," Hakeem replied with a faint smirk.
The three of them shared a small laugh. The mood in the room lightened just enough to breathe.
"Still," Adam said, settling deeper against the pillows propped at the head of his bed, "why'd you come, Hakeem? You didn't even know me."
Hakeem's gaze lingered on him a moment. "I owe Bryce. And more than that... I don't like cowards who hunt in packs."
A beat passed. Then, as if the very thought triggered it, Adam leaned back, eyes growing distant, the room around them began to fade into the shadows of memory of earlier today.
The moment the door creaked open, Harris had raised the bat, his arm swinging back like a whip. Adam saw the blur of motion, the glint of wood under the dim ceiling light, and then it froze.
Not because Harris changed his mind.
But because a voice cut through the locker room like a razor.
"Put the bat down."
It was quiet. Controlled. But laced with a cold pressure that halted every muscle in the room.
The eight boys turned. Adam, dazed and on his knees, strained to see.
Standing just inside the doorway was Hakeem.
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He simply stepped in, tall, dark skin reflecting a faint sheen under the old light. His posture was straight, hands by his side. His presence alone sucked the rage out of the air like a vacuum.
Even Harris, all muscle and ego, lowered the bat slowly. His face shifted from aggression to caution, and then to something that looked very much like fear.
"Morris…" he muttered.
"Office. Tomorrow morning. You and your crew," Hakeem said. "Expulsion's on the table If any of you are even a minute late,"
None of them argued. No threats, no grumbling. Just silence.
As they slowly filtered out of the locker room, Harris shot Adam one last look, not rage this time. Something else. Maybe calculation. But he didn't say a word.
Then Hakeem walked over, offering a hand.
"Adam, right?"
Adam took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
"Yeah. Thanks for... saving my skull."
Hakeem smiled faintly. "Try not to let idiots like that decide your future."
Back in the Dorm, Adam blinked, the memory melting into the soft lamplight around them.
He looked at Hakeem again, thoughtful. "I didn't expect Harris to back down so fast."
"He didn't," Hakeem said, reaching for the bottle of water Bryce passed him. "He submitted. There's a difference."
"That guy's terrifying," Bryce added. "Looks like a bloodthirsty Viking half the time, but you walk in like some kind of general and suddenly he's a house cat."
Hakeem sipped his water. "Power only respects power. If you don't project it, they walk all over you."
Adam nodded slowly. "So what's going to happen now? Are they getting expelled?"
A long pause.
"No," Hakeem said finally. "Not Harris, anyway. His father owns too much of the school. I'll suspend the others, but him?" He shrugged. "We need a cleaner case. One we can't ignore."
"That's messed up," Adam muttered.
"Welcome to Moonstone academy," Bryce said dryly. "Where the stakes are high and your grades are just half the story."
Adam sighed. "So we let him go?"
Hakeem looked him in the eye. "No. We wait. We document. And when he messes up again, and he will, we'll bury him."
Bryce leaned back with a sly smile. "Told you we've got a plan."
Before Adam could reply, the door clicked open again and Brandon strolled in, carrying two canned drinks and a wrapped tray of protein bars.
"Alright, serious faces," Brandon said, tossing a can to Bryce and another to Adam. "What'd I miss?"
"Just talking about your inevitable expulsion," Bryce grinned.
Brandon scoffed. "Better be a scandal then. If I'm going out, I'm going viral."
Laughter filled the room again. The tension, for now, dissolved into the safety of shared space.
Adam leaned back, letting the cold drink rest against his temple. His bruises still ached, but the warmth of the room, the weight of gratitude in his chest, it was enough.
For tonight.
***
Thursday morning
The hallway was buzzing with life. The late-morning sunlight bled through the glass ceiling panels above, filtering down in golden streaks that gave everything a dreamlike softness. Footsteps echoed faintly against the polished stone floors, overlapping with laughter, murmurs, and the occasional clang of lockers snapping shut. Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower sang out, signaling the start of homeroom.
Adam turned the corner with his bag slung casually over one shoulder. He looked tired, but lighter than he had the night before. The bruises had dulled to a less aggressive color, and while his left shoulder still ached when he reached too far, he moved with a bit more confidence in his step.
He approached his locker, the soft hum of nearby conversations forming a sort of ambient comfort. Nothing felt particularly urgent. For once.
Click.
He spun the lock open and reached inside, pulling out a tablet and a thin black notebook labeled Geometry. He paused a moment to glance at a sticky note he had slapped inside the door, a scribbled quote from a philosopher he forgot:
"Justice is found in the balance between power and restraint."
Adam stared at it for a beat, not quite sure what to make of it. Just as he began to close the locker—
"Where'd you get the scar?"
His spine stiffened. His fingers froze on the locker door. The voice had come from directly beside him, low and precise. Cold.
He turned, and nearly flinched. Luna was standing there. She had been there the whole time, silent like a shadow.
Her gaze was on his exposed collarbone. The neckline of his uniform shirt was slightly open, revealing a faded, pale scar just at the edge of his left shoulder.
"Oh. That?" Adam rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Honestly, I don't really remember. Got it when I was a kid, probably. One of those dumb accidents you never forget but also... never really remember, you know?"
She didn't smile. "Looks old."
He nodded, unsure of what else to say.
Her eyes flicked down, noting the fading bruises along his jawline and arm. "And those? Are they new?"
Adam hesitated. "Uh. Yeah. Yesterday." Then, reluctantly, "Got into a bit of a fight."
Luna tilted her head just slightly. "Harris?"
That made Adam pause.
The way she asked it, not a question, not quite a statement. It was as if she already knew.
He blinked. "Yeah. How'd you—?"
"You're not very subtle." She turned to leave, her steps deliberate. "Keep this up and you'll be expelled by next week."
Before he could reply, she was already walking away, her silver hair catching the light behind her like strands of quicksilver.
Adam stood there for a second, blinking after her.
Did she… care?
It was hard to tell. Her tone had been flat, unreadable. But something in her voice, or maybe the way she lingered beside him, made him wonder if there was more beneath that glacier-cold surface.
A little later in Classroom 2-C
Adam slouched in his chair as the last period ended, watching students file out of the room in twos and threes. Some were laughing, some were already discussing lunch plans. He stayed back a moment, just collecting himself. The weight of the day was catching up to him.
This morning had been... something. As he remembered second period with Abigail
He'd sat beside Abigail, as usual.
She hadn't said hello. Just glared down at her tablet and furiously scribbled notes in the margins of the digital textbook.
"So," Adam tried, "you're really going to kill him?"
Abigail didn't look up. "I'm deciding between blunt trauma or dismemberment."
"Charming."
"He tried to hurt you," she said simply, like that explained everything.
"Okay. But there's still, you know, laws. Rules."
She finally looked at him then, slowly, and he saw it: a flicker of real anger beneath the calm, that quiet storm that always brewed in her eyes but rarely broke the surface.
He forced a small smile. "C'mon, we both know you're too classy to go full John Wick."
She held eye contact a moment longer than necessary.
Then she looked back at her tablet. "Maybe."
He spent the rest of the period trying to keep her from planning Harris' fictional murder, which was oddly exhausting, like trying to convince a cat not to knock over a wine glass.
Adam rose and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his back from yesterday's fight. He grabbed his bag and headed toward the door when something caught his attention.
The class was… loud.
More than usual.
Clusters of students were bunched up, whispering excitedly. Even the quiet ones were glancing at their screens or exchanging looks. A buzz was spreading like caffeine in the bloodstream.
Adam spotted Brandon leaning against a desk, his arms crossed and a grin playing on his face.
He headed over.
"Yo, Brandon. What's going on?"
Brandon grinned. "Dude, where've you been? There's a party."
"A party?"
"Yeah. Big one. This Saturday. Rumor is, it's gonna be insane. Even the rich kids are showing up."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we all considered rich kids?"
Brandon laughed. "Fair point. But you know what I mean. The legacy kids. Old money. Corporate heirs and silver spoon brats. Apparently one of the Class A students is hosting it off-campus. Some fancy manor or something."
Adam blinked. "Do we… get invited? Or is this like a secret society thing?"
"Don't worry," Brandon clapped him on the back. "You're coming. Everyone in our class is. Besides, you've already got more gossip points than half of Class A right now. People are talking."
Adam didn't like the sound of that.
"Talking?"
Brandon just smiled and walked off, leaving Adam in the middle of the room, students brushing past him like a stream.
He stood still for a moment, the chatter fading into white noise. His thoughts drifted, to the fight, to Luna's strange concern, to Abigail's fury, to Hakeem's steady voice and Bryce's usual jokes.
There was so much happening. So many moving pieces.
And now… a party.
He exhaled slowly.
Shouldering his bag, he stepped out into the hall, blending into the crowd. The sunlight hit him through the tall glass windows, casting long shadows behind.
And for a brief moment, he wondered—
What kind of night would Saturday become?
***
The stairwell was quiet, lit only by narrow strips of artificial ceiling light that hummed faintly above. Adam climbed the last few steps, one hand still gripping the strap of his backpack slung loosely over his shoulder. His legs felt heavy, part exhaustion, part something else he couldn't quite place.
Abigail had been pushing him harder lately. Their study sessions, once filled with bits of dry humor and casual teasing, had gotten... intense. Focused. She rarely looked up from her notes anymore unless it was to test his understanding or offer that signature unreadable glance from across the table.
Midterms were around the corner. Everyone was tense. He was tense.
As he reached the landing, he paused and glanced down at his watch.
5:04 PM.
He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing over the edge of the digital face.
Plenty of time before curfew.
His mind flickered briefly to Aiva. He hadn't seen her much since the incident on the roof. After what had happened with the bullies, he'd expected her to be shaken, maybe withdrawn. But she hadn't missed a single class. Still calm, still quiet, still showing up.
He was... curious.
Worried, maybe. But he didn't want to call it that. Not out loud.
He reached out, fingers gripping the cool handle of the rooftop door. There was a moment's hesitation, like something sacred lay behind it, and then he pushed the door open, letting in a gentle gust of late afternoon air. It brushed over his cheeks like the breath of a quieter world. He stepped through, and paused.
The garden looked nothing like it had about a day ago.
The broken pots were gone. So was the wreckage left behind after Harris and his friends had stormed through. In their place: rows of flourishing plants, reborn. Lavender, chrysanthemums, ferns, and marigolds stood proud in polished clay planters, each one perfectly arranged. The trellises had been rewoven with ivy. Water glistened on leaves, catching amber sunlight in glassy droplets.
Everything was alive again.
He took another step in, slower this time, letting it all sink in.
It smelled like mint and moist earth. Like something from another world entirely.
She was there too, kneeling near a patch of succulents at the far end, her back to him, humming faintly to herself. Her long cardigan swayed slightly as she shifted to water the next row. There was something... peaceful about her presence. Centered. Not passive. Just anchored.
Before he could speak—
"You came," Aiva said, without looking back.
Adam blinked. "How'd you know it was me?"
"Because," she said, rising slowly, "you walk like someone carrying a lot more than just a backpack."
'Did she just call me fat?' He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can't comment on that one"
She turned toward him, her expression bright. "I'm glad you came."
But then she tilted her head, hands on her hips. "But don't you have clubs or something? Hobbies? People to hang out with?"
Adam shrugged. "None as interesting as this garden."
She squinted at him, mock suspicious. "You always checking on me like I'm some helpless bird."
Adam hesitated, realizing. "That's not what I meant—"
"I know," she smiled, softening. "But you don't have to worry. I'm not as breakable as I look."
"Still," he said, "I did want to talk. Actually."
She raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yeah," Adam said. "But only if you let me help water."
Aiva smiled at that, warm, kind, and real. "Then grab the spare watering can. You're on hydrangeas duty."
'Should i tell her i have no idea what that means?' Adam wondered as he grabbed the watering can.
They worked together in sync, the silence between them easy and unforced. From time to time, Aiva explained what each plant was, how much sunlight it needed, how she'd saved one from near death. Adam found himself oddly invested.
The whole rooftop buzzed with the quiet hum of life, distant birdsong, the soft rush of wind against the glass barrier, the gurgle of water being poured over roots.
Finally, they reached the handrails at the edge of the garden.
Adam leaned against it, glancing out, and felt the breath catch in his throat.
From up here, Moonstone Academy looked like a city carved from elegance. The soccer field was bathed in orange glow, boys still kicking a ball around like they had all the time in the world. Beyond that, the dorm buildings stood tall and refined, their windows catching the sun like glass fire. And just past that, the forest, dense, mysterious, swaying like a living sea in the wind.
"You've been busy," he said quietly.
"I needed to fix what they broke," Aiva replied. "This place matters to me."
"I can tell."
A breeze swept through, lifting a few strands of her hair.
"I heard there's a party this Saturday," Adam said, breaking the silence.
"Yeah," she replied, resting her arms on the railing beside him. "Class A's throwing it. Off-campus. At a cabin Near Manchuri River."
"A river cabin?" Adam raised a brow. "Sounds more like a camping trip than a party."
She laughed softly. "It's the aesthetic. Nature. Seclusion. They rented it for the weekend."
"Why not just throw it in one of those big estates some of the rich kids have?"
Aiva's gaze lingered on the forest. "Honestly? I think people are leaning into that whole supernatural vibe these days… maybe the woods feel more right now. Like home."
He let that sit for a while. Something about her tone was too calm to be joking.
Then, casually, she asked, "Would you… want to go with me?"
Adam turned to her. "What?"
"To the party," she clarified. "As in... together. Not like a date-date," she quickly added, cheeks tinged pink. "Just, Bryce isn't going, and I thought it'd be nice to go with someone who won't ditch me halfway."
Adam blinked. "Bryce said he's not going?"
"He's busy with something else. And I don't want to go alone."
"You sure he's cool with that?"
Aiva glanced away. "He's the one who told me to ask you."
Adam frowned slightly, trying to read her tone.
"I mean, it's not a big deal," she continued quickly. "I just figured… you're the only other person I can talk to without pretending to be someone else."
He didn't know what to say to that.
The sun dipped a little lower behind the trees, painting the forest canopy in deep crimson and gold. It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that asked you to stay.
Adam looked out over the view.
And then back at her.
"Alright," he said. "I'll go with you."
Aiva smiled, a bit bashful.
"But only if you promise there won't be any haunted woods stuff."
She laughed. "No promises."
Meanwhile, Farren's office buzzed with the hum of fluorescent lights and the steady clack of keyboards, a hive of urgent activity high above the city's sprawling maze.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a panoramic view of gleaming skyscrapers reflecting the late afternoon sun, golden light slicing through glass and steel. Inside, Alexander Farren's team moved like a well-oiled machine, assistants coordinating calls, strategists huddling around sleek tablets, the air thick with rapid-fire ideas and half-formed plans.
At the center of it all, Farren stood tall behind a polished mahogany desk, the faintest curl of a confident smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His tailored suit hugged him perfectly, and his eyes gleamed with that calculating spark, charisma sharpened to a weapon. Every gesture, every nod, radiated control.
"We need a game changer," he told his team, voice smooth but edged with urgency. "Polls don't lie. We're in last place. No excuses. Tomorrow, we host the fundraiser, no matter what it takes. Understood?"
A chorus of affirmations filled the room, papers shuffled, calendars checked. The momentum was building, a tidal wave of determination set to crash through the political landscape.
Then, his phone buzzed against the desk, a sharp intrusion slicing through the energy. Farren's hand moved swiftly, lifting the device with practiced ease. The screen glowed with an unfamiliar number.
Without hesitation, he tapped the screen, signaling his team to clear the room with a sharp gesture. Voices hushed; chairs scraped back as assistants slipped out, the once vibrant office suddenly feeling cavernous and cold.
Alone, Farren's posture shifted. His charismatic mask faltered, just barely. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the silent voice on the other end.
The vibrant glow of the city outside seemed to dim behind the glass.
"Are you sure?" he muttered, voice low and unsteady, a ghost of the confident man moments before.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone tighter.
Finally, the words came, weighed with reluctant acceptance: "Fine. I'll do it."
The line went dead.
Farren's breath hitched, and he slowly lowered the phone, his face now pale, no longer the man who commanded rooms, but a man haunted by a choice he feared.