POV: Mikey
Goldridge Academy was quieter than usual.
Not in the comforting, early-morning kind of way, but the tense kind—like the silence before a storm. The air felt like it was holding its breath, and every hallway echoed louder than it should. Even the usual clatter of students unloading books and cracking lame jokes felt muted.
And it all started the night before.
Zion's message.
It dropped in the general student group chat with all the flair of a ticking bomb.
"I'm not one for theatrics, but I don't feel safe anymore.
It's become obvious that someone out there is obsessed with pulling me down—plotting, waiting, always in the shadows.
Tomorrow, I'll let you all see what I've seen for a while now.
You'll know just how low some people are willing to go."
At first, it didn't even make sense to me. Zion rarely posted anything—he barely used his phone unless it was something important. The guy was as lowkey as they came. But the tone of his message wasn't scared. It was something else.
Prepared. Calculated. Cold.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to blow. And man, did it ever.
When I got to campus this morning, the entire school was buzzing. Students were swarming around locker bays, taking photos of something plastered along the walls. Rumors zipped through the corridors like fire ants.
Then I saw it.
Dozens of printouts. Zion's family record.
Or... what looked like it.
It was fake, I knew that instantly. I mean, Kevin might've thought he was slick with the edits, but Zion's dad wasn't a deadbeat, and his mom hadn't vanished. I'd met them both at the Parent-Achiever Ceremony last term. Good people. Quiet, polished, dignified.
Kevin screwed up. Big time.
And Zion?
Zion knew he would.
That's what kept echoing in my mind all morning. Not the stunt itself, but the fact that Zion had predicted it. Warned us. Told us exactly what to expect.
He even got the timing right.
I kept playing it back—how nonchalant Zion was at the awards ceremony, how he didn't even flinch when Kevin gave him that smug little stare after joining the taekwondo club. Zion was always five steps ahead, like he was playing chess while the rest of us were fumbling with checkers.
Now Kevin was public enemy number one.
You could see it in how the halls parted for him—not out of respect, but disgust. People glared. Some whispered, some didn't even bother whispering. The seniors shook their heads. The juniors mocked him.
Then came that moment.
The slap.
Mabelle's palm cracked across Kevin's face with the kind of sting that left the whole hall gasping. You didn't need to be close to hear it. She didn't shout. Just leaned in and said, "You're a dick."
And then she walked off, lacing her fingers through Zion's as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Zion didn't even look back—he gave Kevin one glance. Just one.
Smug smile. Cold eyes. Almost pitying.
And that was it.
No threats. No yelling. No "how could you" speech.
Just that look. And Kevin folded.
Now here I was, sitting on the bleachers during free period, watching Kevin sulk alone under a tree like the ghost of a bad decision.
Everyone else had drifted toward Zion's circle more than ever. Even the girls who used to fawn over Kevin wouldn't even look his way.
But I still had one question echoing in my head:
How did Zion know?
He'd always been sharp, but this wasn't just intuition. This was surgical.
And if Kevin thought he could break Zion down with dirty tricks, he was messing with the wrong kind of genius.