POV: Kevin
It wasn't easy, but it wasn't hard either.
Zion's locker was more vulnerable than his ego.
All it took was slipping a copied key — courtesy of a maintenance kid he bribed with concert tickets — and a well-timed distraction during lunch hour. No one even looked his way.
The file folder sat right at the top. Neat. Clean. Too perfect.
He knew Zion wouldn't leave anything important at school, not really. But Kevin had done his research — schools kept certain confidential documents in hard copy for "parole" students.
And there it was.
Zion A. Crosswell. Emergency Contact 1: Rebecca Crosswell. Emergency Contact 2: N/A.
Parent/Guardian Status: Divorced. Father absent.
Kevin blinked. Reread it.
Again.
He leaned back against the metal lockers, lips curling into something between a grin and a sneer.
"No wonder he acts like he's better than everyone else."
He scanned the next few pages, a few clinical notes scribbled by the school counselor — one sentence stuck:
'Student exhibits signs of emotional repression and displacement linked to parental fallout.'
Gold.
That night, he printed ten copies.
Not too many — just enough to set a spark to dry grass.
He slid them into the gossip lockers. Slipped one between the announcements. Left one on the teacher's desk with no name.
Then he went home and slept better than he had in weeks.
The next morning?
Hell broke loose.
But not the way he wanted.
People didn't rush to laugh at Zion.
They didn't whisper behind Zion's back.
They glared at Kevin.
Isla walked by without her usual nod. She didn't even look at him.
Celeste muttered under her breath, just loud enough:
"Snake."
Even Mikey — loud, stupid Mikey — gave him a look like he wanted to slam him into the lockers.
What the hell?
By third period, his name was all over social media.
"You crossed a line, Kevin. This isn't rivalry. This is psychotic."
"Imagine being so obsessed with a guy you dig into his trauma???"
"If anyone talks to Kevin after today, just know we're not friends."
His ears rang.
But the worst was yet to come.
He saw them at the courtyard.
Zion and Mabelle.
They sat together under the giant willow tree, Zion's head tilted as he murmured something in her ear. She laughed — a genuine laugh, the kind that burned Kevin's insides like acid.
He stormed up to them, fists clenched.
"You think this is funny?!" he barked.
Zion didn't answer. He just glanced up — eyes cool, expression unreadable.
But Mabelle stood.
And without hesitation, without ceremony —
smack.
Right across the face.
The sound echoed like a gunshot in his skull.
"You're a goddamn dick," Mabelle hissed. "A petty, insecure little boy with nothing going for him but desperation."
Kevin's face stung. His pride throbbed.
"He ruined me—!"
"No," she cut in. "You ruined yourself."
Zion stood, finally. He didn't say a word — just slung one arm around Mabelle's shoulder, leaned in like he was whispering some joke only she would understand.
Then he looked Kevin dead in the eyes...
...and smiled.
That smug, calm, nonchalant smile that made Kevin want to scream.
He wasn't just losing the battle.
He'd already lost the war.