The hallway outside the counselor's office was dim, the late afternoon light slanting through the barred windows. Jason Anderson leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, one leg crossed over the other with deliberate casualness. The faintest swell in his cheek betrayed the pressure of him biting down inside his mouth, the old habit he slipped into whenever he needed to look harmless.
Kenji Anderson approached quietly. Taller, older, but with a weariness behind his eyes that no sixteen-year-old should carry. He stopped in front of Jason, studying him for a moment before ruffling his younger brother's blond hair with a small, brotherly motion.
Jason flinched, almost imperceptibly, before Kenji's hand rested on his shoulder.
"Kenji," Jason muttered, voice pitched in an innocence that didn't reach his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Kenji pulled him into a hug, his voice low. "You've got that call with the psychologist. I want you to take it."
Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back against the wall again. "It doesn't matter if it's a shrink from the North, South, East, or West. None of them can self-regulate once they get put through the same things the kids here went through. The core of the people, the core of the population—if they experienced that, they'd snap. They'd develop artificial mental health issues, artificial diseases, problems they didn't even have before." His voice carried a sharpness, each word like a blade. "Psychologists need other psychologists just to keep themselves steady. And if they went through what we've gone through? They'd fall apart."
"Why don't you get it?"
"How should I articulate it for you? "Why bother? Doesn't matter if it's a psychologist from the North, West, East, or South. They get put through what the kids here went through, what the core of the people went through—they wouldn't be able to self-regulate. They'd develop artificial mental health diseases, artificial problems they didn't even have before. Psychologists need other psychologists just to keep from cracking. You put them through the same things, they'd fall apart."
Kenji didn't blink. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you're still going to try. Mental health is still important. Even if it annoys you, even if you think it's pointless—you're going to keep at it. I don't care if it's once or a hundred times. Do it for me."
Jason puffed his cheek again, biting down harder. He gave the smallest shrug, the faintest flicker of a smile playing at his lips. "If that's what you want."
He gave a shallow shrug. "Whatever you say, big bro."
But he didn't say he'd behave. He didn't promise anything.
Kenji held his gaze, searching for something beneath the surface. Jason's eyes remained steady, dark, unreadable. For a moment, it was almost convincing—the innocent younger brother act. But Kenji knew better.
Kenji searched his brother's puffed soft face for a moment longer, then exhaled slowly. "Don't make me regret bringing you here," Kenji said quietly.
Jason tilted his head, his smirk growing slightly. "Regret's on you, not me."
Kenji exhaled through his nose, pressing a hand once more against his brother's shoulder before turning away. Jason leaned back against the wall, the innocent mask slipping as his eyes followed Kenji's retreating figure. Coldness flickered across his expression, the predator waiting just beneath the surface.
Jason's eyes hardened, the mask slipping just for an instant.
At Frank Michaels's facility, rules were law: two losses in basketball and you were expelled. The system was merciless, but it forged discipline.
That month, Frank's assistant had added a sharper edge: if Jason Anderson joined a scrimmage and defeated your team, it counted as one loss. Do it twice, and you were gone.
Jason prowled the courts like a predator set loose in a cage. He slipped into games without warning, dismantling entire squads by himself. His movements were efficient, surgical, lacking joy. Every steal, block, and shot was done with a precision that suggested he wasn't there to play basketball. He was there to cut.
One afternoon, the gym reverberated with the slap of sneakers and the whistle of the ball. A full team faced Jason, their eyes tense, shoulders tight. They knew what was at stake.
Jason dismantled them mercilessly. He read every pass, stripped the ball from their hands, and rained shots through the hoop. The game wasn't close. Within minutes, the kids' shoulders sagged, their future in the program dissolving with every score.
The whistle ended it. Two losses. Expelled.
Jason walked off the court with calm steps, his face unreadable, as though the kids he'd just ended had never existed.
Ethan Eldridge stood by the bleachers, arms crossed, his blue eyes narrowed. His jaw was set in quiet anger as he watched Jason leave the court. The sight stirred the same chill he had felt in the woods—the same calculation, the same predatory patience.
Beside him towered Big Mo. His frame nearly swallowing Ethan's smaller build. He cracked his massive hands together with a clap that echoed.
"Slam-damn," Big Mo muttered. His eyes followed Jason, then cut back to Ethan. "You're frowning hard, E."
Ethan's eyes didn't move from Jason's retreating figure. "Because I see exactly what he's doing. He's not playing basketball. He's cutting people out. Testing them. Testing us."
Big Mo's lips pressed tight, his brows drawing down. "That's Professor J for you." He said the nickname with a mix of derision and habit. He had made it months ago, a way to take the edge off Jason's cold presence—calling him "Professor J" because of how Jason always seemed like he was running experiments, treating games and people like test subjects.
Ethan's frown deepened. "He's not just testing. He's enjoying it. Same look in his eyes last night when he set that trap. He's not satisfied with winning—he wants people gone."
Ethan finally tore his gaze from Jason, looking up at Big Mo. "He's not going to stop."
Big Mo placed a heavy hand on Ethan's shoulder, the weight of it nearly buckling Ethan's knees, though the gesture carried steady reassurance. "Professor J's dangerous, no doubt. But don't let him twist you up, pup. You stay sharp, you stay ready—he can't cage you."
Ethan's gaze lingered on Jason as he left the gym, disappearing through the door. "He's not done. Not with me. Not with anyone."
Big Mo grunted, folding his arms. "Then we don't back down. Slam-Damn! I think he's going to leave in two weeks anyways. His dads gonna pick him up. He wants to play Professor J? Fine. But we're not his students. We're wolves too."
Ethan's lips pressed into a hard line. He knew Big Mo meant every word. But as Jason's figure vanished from sight, Ethan felt it again—that chill. The sense that Jason wasn't playing a game anymore.
This wasn't basketball.
This was war.
The rest of the day blended seamlessly into a quiet evening in the Common Room
The fluorescent lights hummed above the common area, casting their pale glow over card games, half-hearted conversations, and the dull shuffle of tired sneakers across linoleum. Ethan Eldridge walked with his usual steady quietness, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead from training. His light blue eyes scanned the space without urgency, the black dot beneath one eye stark under the lights.
"E."
The voice pulled him from his rhythm. Jessica Rivera stood near one of the tables, holding something against her hip. She was fifteen, taller than him, sharp-eyed and unflinching in the way she addressed people.
She lifted the object into view. A jar of peanut butter.
Ethan's gaze lingered on it, his face unreadable.
"Kenji told me to give this to you," Jessica said, stepping closer. "Said he was gonna get you a couple more too. Didn't say why—just told me to pass this one along."
She extended the jar, her expression calm but inquisitive. Ethan accepted it without a word, his fingers closing around the smooth plastic.
Jessica didn't let the silence last. "You wanna tell me why Kenji Anderson is sneaking you peanut butter jars when it's against facility rules?"
Ethan's eyes flicked to hers, his voice low. "That's between me and him."
Jessica crossed her arms, not satisfied. "He's sixteen, E. He's supposed to lead by example. Not play favorites. And definitely not bend rules just so you can have something the rest of us can't. What makes you special?"
Her tone wasn't hostile, but there was a nagging persistence in it, the kind that pressed for answers.
Ethan's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. "He said it was an apology."
"An apology for what?" Jessica pressed.
Ethan shook his head. "Didn't tell me. Didn't tell you either."
Jessica leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. "You realize how that looks, right? You walking around with jars while other kids are getting eliminated left and right? Some of them over the smallest mistakes? People are gonna notice."
Ethan set the jar down on the table between them, his gaze steady. "Then let them. I didn't ask for it. He gave it to me. That's all."
Jessica studied him, her sharp eyes flicking between his expression and the jar. She sighed through her nose. "You're impossible sometimes. Always so calm, like none of this stuff touches you."
Ethan's lips thinned, but there was a trace of something in his voice—quiet certainty. "It does touch me. I just don't let it show."
Jessica tilted her head, catching the weight behind his words. She opened her mouth to push further, then stopped. For a moment, the tension between them was just the buzz of the lights and the soft thrum of conversations across the room.
Finally, she huffed, rolling her eyes slightly. "Fine. Keep your secrets, E. But don't think I'm not watching. And don't think Kenji can keep covering for you forever."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Jessica studied him closely, and though her sharpness was still there, she softened, deciding not to press. Instead, she gave him a small smile.
"Fine. Keep your mystery. But if you're gonna walk around with contraband, at least treat me to some. Seems fair."
Ethan blinked, faintly surprised, then sighed through his nose in quiet amusement. "Alright."
He moved to the small kitchenette tucked in the corner of the common area. Jessica followed, leaning casually against the counter as Ethan pulled out a butter knife from the drawer. With practiced ease, he unscrewed the jar's lid and scooped a portion, spreading some onto a piece of bread from the basket on the counter.
"You first," he said, handing it over.
Jessica accepted, smirking. "Didn't think you'd share so easily."
Ethan shrugged. "No point hoarding it. It's just food."
She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again. "Not bad. Guess Kenji knew what he was doing."
Ethan sat across from her at the small table, cutting himself a portion. They ate quietly for a moment, the fluorescent hum filling the silence.
"Honestly, I have to say" Jessica began, tilting her head toward him, "you're twelve and already eye-level with me. What are you, five-seven?"
Ethan nodded. "Something like that."
"Most kids your age don't even break five-four. You planning to keep growing like that, you'll be taller than Big Mo in no time."
Ethan gave the faintest flicker of a smile. "Not likely. He's different."
Jessica leaned forward on her elbows, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Still, it's impressive. You carry yourself older too. Not like the other twelve-year-olds here."
Ethan's gaze drifted toward the window, where the last light of evening pressed faintly against the glass. "Had to grow up early."
Jessica studied him, noting the subtle weight in his tone. "That wilderness stuff Frank Michaels always hints at?"
"Yeah." Ethan's eyes remained steady, though his voice stayed quiet. "You learn fast when mistakes mean more than losing a game."
Jessica chewed another bite of peanut butter bread, her voice softer now. "That's what makes you different, huh? You don't just train."
Ethan finally looked back at her, his expression neutral. "It's how you survive."
Jessica tapped her finger lightly on the jar, giving him a half-smile. "Well, at least you survive with decent taste."
For a moment, they both laughed quietly—a rare sound in the heavy atmosphere of the facility.
As they finished the slices, Jessica leaned back in her chair. "So, E, you're not going to tell me why Kenji's apologizing with peanut butter, are you?"
"No." Ethan's reply was simple, final.
Jessica smirked. "Didn't think so. But hey, thanks for sharing anyway. Most people here would've guarded this like gold."
Ethan glanced at the jar, then back at her. "Food's just food. I get scarcity though—I get the distinction between scarcity and strategically engineered scarcity and the concern. The people you share it with… that matters more."
Jessica paused, her eyes softening. For once, she didn't press, didn't nag. She just nodded. "Fair point, pup."
Ethan tilted his head slightly at the nickname, but said nothing.
They sat in silence for another moment, the quiet oddly comfortable. Around them, the facility buzzed with the low energy of kids pretending not to feel the weight of elimination rules. But at that table, with the jar between them, there was something different—something lighter.
For one night, the peanut butter war was less about traps and threats.
And more about the strange bonds that formed in the shadows of Frank Michaels's facility.