Kellan Wicks was drowning.
Not literally—though that might have felt preferable.
Everywhere he turned, there were whispers. Looks. Gaps in conversations that closed just as he arrived. His phone, once a constant hum of validation, now sat quiet for hours at a time.
Even Reese—smug, always in control Reese—had started glancing at him like dead weight.
Kellan paced his room that night, eyes bloodshot, fists trembling.
He knew who was doing this.
Kai Mercer.
That quiet little freak was playing some kind of twisted game—gaslighting him, turning people, planting things, breaking him.
And the worst part?
It was working.
Kellan had always ruled through noise, power, image.
Kai was killing him in silence.
He couldn't take it anymore.
So he did what cowards do when they feel their power slip.
He bought more.
A friend of a friend. A burner phone. A meetup behind a pawn shop.
Four guys. Older. Greasy. Scarred.
Former dropout punks turned muscle-for-hire. They weren't martial artists. They didn't need to be. They had pipes, knives, fists like bricks.
Kellan paid in cash. Gave them the time and place.
"He's just a kid," he said.
"Quiet. Wears black. Looks soft."
"Make sure he can't stand after."
Two nights later, it went down behind the old paint factory—east of the river where cameras didn't reach and screams echoed off tin walls.
Kellan waited in the shadows, watching through the cracked frame of an old loading dock.
He saw Kai arrive. Alone.
No hesitation. No fear.
He didn't even bring a bag.
Just walked into the lot like he knew exactly what was coming.
"Evening," Kai said, hands in his pockets.
The four thugs stepped out of the dark.
Pipes. Crowbars. Knuckles cracked and necks rolled.
Kai didn't flinch.
Kellan's fingers tightened around the railing above.
"Say goodnight, freak," one of the men growled.
They moved in.
The fight lasted less than forty seconds.
Kai ducked the first swing with preternatural calm. A sweep of his foot sent one attacker sprawling.
The second swung a pipe.
Kai caught it.
With one hand.
He twisted. The pipe bent like plastic. A palm strike to the solar plexus sent the man flying into the side of a dumpster with a crack that silenced the others.
The third hesitated.
Too late.
A spinning back elbow to the temple dropped him cold.
The fourth man drew a knife.
Kai exhaled. Sidestepped. Slid inside the reach like smoke and struck three times—
Throat. Ribs. Jaw.
The man hit the pavement and didn't move.
Kellan stumbled back.
Heart pounding.
This wasn't fear anymore.
It was terror.
He turned to run—
But Kai was already there.
Like he'd moved through shadow.
Kellan slammed into the wall behind him.
Kai grabbed his jacket and threw him to the concrete.
Then he knelt beside him, one knee pinning his chest.
And he looked at him.
Eyes calm.
Breathing steady.
Like this wasn't rage.
It was a routine.
"You don't remember, do you?" Kai whispered.
Kellan struggled beneath him. "Get off—!"
"You locked my bag in the janitor's closet. Made me miss three tests. Got me suspended."
Kai's voice didn't rise.
"You shoved my brother down the stairs because he refused to do your homework."
"I didn't—"
"You stole my phone, posted fake texts, made me a laughingstock. Called me names I still hear in my sleep."
Kai leaned closer.
"And when my mom died, you told people it was for the best—that I didn't belong here anyway."
Kellan's face twisted.
He tried to spit.
Kai slapped him—once.
Not with anger.
With finality.
"You ruined my life."
Kai stood.
"Now I'm returning the favor."
Kellan coughed. "You gonna kill me?"
Kai turned away.
"I don't have to."
He gestured at the unconscious bodies around them.
"You've already done that to yourself."
Kai left him there.
Broken. Alone.
Drenched in sweat and shame.
The cold night air swallowed Kellan's sobs like they weren't even worth echoing.