The halls smelled the same.
Bleach, cheap deodorant, and too many teenage lives packed into too little space. The moment I stepped through the gates of Eastwood High, it was like being thrown into the cold again.
Same cracked tiles. Same bulletin board filled with empty promises. Same lockers dented from fists and frustration.
But I wasn't the same.
The last time I walked these halls, I was prey.
Now I was something else.
Something they hadn't seen coming.
I arrived early, before most students filtered in.
The first bell hadn't rung yet, but already I could hear the familiar rhythms—early chatter, locker slams, shoes squeaking on waxed floors. Every echo was a memory, every corner a landmine of old trauma.
But I had control now.
I walked slower, shoulders relaxed, eyes calm but watchful. I wasn't here to start a fight.
Not yet.
I was here to start dismantling them.
The student council posters were up again—smiling faces, bright slogans.
At the center of them: Reese Langford.
The golden boy.
The ringleader.
Son of Councilman Langford. Handsome, charismatic, unreasonably well-liked.
The kind of person who shook your hand while twisting a knife into your ribs.
He stood at the top of the stairs, surrounded by his usual court—four of the others. Older now. Stronger. Arrogant.
But I wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
As I passed by, I caught Reese's voice.
"Fresh meat season again, boys. Who's ready for a little team-building?"
Laughter.
Same old performance.
He didn't see me yet.
But he would.
First class was homeroom.
I sat near the back—window seat, third row. It gave me vision, privacy, and an escape path. Old habit. New strategy.
Students began trickling in. Familiar faces. Familiar laughs.
Some glanced at me. Some didn't recognize me.
But one of them paused.
Kellan Wicks. One of Reese's lapdogs.
His eyes narrowed. Then widened just a fraction. He recognized me.
"Kai Mercer," he muttered.
There it was.
Recognition.
A flicker of disbelief.
And behind it… something else.
Was that fear?
Good.
The teacher walked in and began roll call. I ignored her voice, instead watching the body language around the room.
The hierarchy hadn't changed.
Reese still ruled the school like a prince with a golden blade.
The weak still looked for corners to disappear into.
The loud still barked to cover insecurity.
But a new player had entered the board.
One who remembered everything.
Lunch came fast.
I sat alone by choice. Observed. Listened.
Reese passed through the cafeteria with his entourage, arms draped around two girls. Everyone laughed at his jokes. Teachers smiled too wide when he passed by.
But I saw it.
The cracks.
The impatience in his eyes.
The strain in his smile.
He was already under pressure—student council election coming up. Grades to maintain. Image to protect.
He was playing a high-wire act.
Perfect.
All I needed to do was shake the wire.
As I left the cafeteria, someone shoulder-checked me.
Hard.
I turned slowly.
Cole Vance. One of the original five.
Bigger now. Built like a linebacker. Grinning like he just won something.
"Well, well," he said. "If it isn't the ghost. Didn't think you'd crawl back here."
I stared at him. "I'm just here for class."
He sneered. "You know, we were talking about you the other day. Wondering if you'd show. You gonna cry again?"
I didn't blink.
"You're right," I said quietly. "We will talk soon."
Then I turned and walked away.
Behind me, I heard him scoff.
But he didn't follow.
That hesitation?
It was mine now.
After school, I didn't go home right away.
I waited.
Behind the gym building.
Where the teachers didn't check. Where rumors were born and bones were sometimes broken.
And sure enough, around 4:15 PM, I found what I was looking for.
Three seniors from the basketball team were roughing up a freshman. The kid was thin, scared, pinned against the fence.
They laughed, pulled at his bag, flipped his books into the dirt.
One of them grabbed the back of his neck and pushed.
Hard.
I walked up behind them.
"Let him go."
They turned.
One raised a brow. "You lost?"
"No," I said. "You are."
He stepped toward me. "You got a death wish, freshman?"
I answered with a fist.
It wasn't clean.
Fights never are.
The first one rushed me—sloppy. I ducked, hammered my knee into his stomach, and drove my elbow across his temple. He crumpled.
The second tried to blindside me. I let him get close.
Too close.
I shoulder-checked him into the wall, then spun him into a choke. He thrashed, swung wildly—caught my jaw once—but I held. And squeezed. Until he dropped.
The last one backed away, hands raised.
"You're psycho."
"No," I said.
"I'm focused."
I let him run.
The freshman just stared at me, eyes wide.
I offered no words. Just a nod.
Then I left.
At home, I stood in the shower, bruised, bleeding, smiling.
I'd tested my edge.
I knew what I was.
Not a savior.
Not a victim.
A weapon.
And soon…
I'd be aimed at their hearts.