The sharp crack of Dylan's fist against Jayson's face echoed through the classroom. A stunned silence fell over Flynn and Nathan as they locked eyes with Dylan, caught off guard by his fierce reaction.
Then chaos began to swell. A murmur rippled through the air, the scrape of chairs as classmates spilled from their seats. Outside, curious students pressed against the doorway, drawn by the sudden disturbance. The air buzzed with shock and nervous energy.
"Did you just hit me? Do you even know who my father is?" Jayson spat, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear as he slumped against the wall, clutching the corner of his bleeding lip.
"Shit, Flynn... Dylan's in deep trouble. Jayson's father is a manager at one of the biggest companies around," Nathan whispered urgently, his voice laced with worry as he glanced nervously at Dylan.
Flynn didn't answer. He stood frozen, mind racing in disbelief. Did Dylan just... defend me?
Dylan stepped forward, looming over Jayson. He grabbed him by the collar and pulling him up just enough to meet his gaze. His voice was cold, edged with fury.
"I don't give a damn who your father is... No one talks shit about my friends."
The word friends hit Flynn like a jolt.
Without hesitation, Dylan raised his right hand, clenched tight, ready to strike again.
"Take back what you said. Apologize. Now." His words cut through the room, sharp and laced with warning.
Jayson's lip curled, blood streaking down his chin. He smirked, even as his body trembled. "And why the hell would I?"
Dylan's expression darkened because of Jayson's stubbornness. His breathing came sharp, heavy, almost feral. He punched Jayson twice in quick succession. The dull thud of bone on flesh made some students flinch. His once-pristine white uniform was nearly stained crimson, splattered with Jayson's blood like a violent canvas.
The crowd of students thickened, clustering around them in tight circles, whispers rippling through the air like a rising storm.
Jayson lay sprawled on the cold classroom floor, helpless and gasping. Dylan's chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. His jaw clenched as if fighting himself—but then he stomped down hard on Jayson's foot.
The scream that tore from Jayson's throat was raw and guttural.
"This is the last time I'm telling you," Dylan's voice dropped to a chilling calm, pressing his foot harder. "Choose—take back what you said and apologize, or never walk again."
The metallic scent of blood was thick, mixing with the sweat and fear in the room. Flynn's ears rang with it.
"Aaaahhh... enough already!" Jayson cried out, voice cracking. His pride finally broke under the weight of pain. "I'm... sorry. I take back what I said about Flynn!" His words tumbled out desperate, uneven.
Flynn's body snapped into motion, finally shaking off the shock. He rushed forward, wrapping his arms around Dylan from behind, restraining him as much as grounding himself.
"Dylan, that's enough," Flynn whispered, voice trembling but firm. "He apologized."
Nathan scrambled beside him, adding his strength to hold Dylan back.
For a tense heartbeat, Dylan didn't move. His fists were still tight, his body straining against their grip. Then slowly, his shoulders dropped, his chest heaving with each breath.
It wasn't long before heavy footsteps announced new arrivals. Mr. Santos, the school director—and Nicole's father—appeared with Amanda at his side.
The sight that greeted them was brutal—Jayson lay sprawled on the floor, barely recognizable, his uniform soaked in blood. On the other side stood Flynn and Nathan, each holding onto Dylan, who looked shaken but steady.
"Dylan, come to my office," Mr. Santos said, his calm tone carrying absolute authority.
Amanda's voice cut through the restless murmurs, steady and commanding despite the exhaustion in her eyes.
"Everyone, return to your classrooms. Now. It's over."
One by one, the students began to disperse, murmuring as they retreated back to their rooms.
Flynn and Nathan released Dylan reluctantly. Without protest, Dylan followed Mr. Santos, his footsteps steady but heavy, leaving the room wrapped in silence.
Nathan's voice broke it first. "Do you think Dylan will be okay? Will he be able to come back?"
Flynn didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest tightened as he watched Dylan disappear down the hall.
The rest of the afternoon blurred. Flynn sat at his desk, staring at the empty chair behind him. His pen tapped absently against his notebook, but no notes made sense. His mind circled the same thought over and over—what would happen to Dylan?
Every time the classroom door creaked open, Flynn's head jerked up. But it was never Dylan. Anxiety gnawed at him, sinking deeper with each passing hour.
The bell finally rang, signaling the end of the day. One by one, the students filed out, until Flynn was left alone. But Dylan still hadn't returned. Anxiety gnawed at him again, restless and heavy.
Unable to wait any longer, Flynn gathered his things, ready to leave. Just as he was about to step out, his eyes caught something — Dylan's bag still resting on the chair.
Without thinking, Flynn grabbed it. His mind raced — maybe he could find answers in the director's office.
Then, just before he could make a move, a shadow fell across the doorway.
Dylan.
He stood silent, unreadable, his gaze fixed on Flynn. The dim light caught the edge of his features, sharp yet softened by fatigue.
Flynn's breath caught. Relief crashed over him so suddenly it made his chest ache. Almost without thinking, he reached out and grasped Dylan's arm—not to restrain, but to ground himself.
"Are you leaving?" Flynn asked, his voice betraying the tremor of worry he tried to hide.
Dylan's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. "Leaving? No," he said softly, his tone calm and steady. "I'm just here to grab my things, go home... and come back tomorrow."
Flynn blinked, surprise washing over him—a wave of relief so sudden it made his chest feel light. "Really?" he breathed, almost unable to believe it. "You're not expelled?"
"Who told you that?" Dylan's eyes sparkled with a mischievous grin, as though he found Flynn's concern endearing.
"What, afraid I'll disappear on you?"
Flynn let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief.
"No way. I just... I just don't want to owe you anything. You almost got expelled because of me."
Dylan shrugged, his expression softening. "I did it on my own," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Besides, I have my reasons." He held Flynn's gaze for a moment, his smile lingering. "So don't worry."
Before they left, Flynn's eyes caught sight of Dylan's uniform—soaked in blood. Without a word, he took it off Dylan and carefully folded it into his bag. He rummaged through the bag and pulled out an extra shirt.
"Here, change into this first. I'm pretty sure you don't want to go home wearing a bloodstained uniform," Flynn said gently.
Dylan took the shirt without hesitation. A teasing smile ghosted over his lip as his fingers brushed against the well-worn fabric. He brought it to his face for a brief moment, inhaling deeply—it smelled faintly of laundry soap, fresh sweat, and something unmistakably like Flynn.
"Smells like you," he said with a light chuckle, a teasing glint in his eyes as he glanced toward Flynn. "You sure this isn't stolen? It smells too good to be one of yours."
Flynn rolled his eyes, but a faint blush crept up his neck. "Shut up. Just be grateful it's clean," he muttered, trying to hide a smile of his own.
Even as he joked, he handled the shirt with care, slipping it on as though it were something valuable—not just cloth and thread, but a temporary piece of Flynn himself.
As they stepped out of the campus, Flynn's face showed clear signs of sadness and a lack of energy. He was lost in thought, replaying Jayson's words from earlier. Dylan noticed this and decided to invite Flynn to have a drink.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Flynn gave a slow, reluctant nod—a silent sign of agreement to Dylan's offer.
They walked in comfortable silence, weaving through the evening crowd that flooded the sidewalk. The street was a river of people—office workers rushing home with tired but relieved expressions, students in uniform laughing in lively groups, and vendors cheerfully calling out from their stalls.
The air was rich with the scent of sizzling pork skewers, frying garlic, and sweet bubble tea. Under the glow of warm string lights and bright neon signs, the street felt alive with energy. Every few steps, they passed small open-air eateries packed with people enjoying cold drinks and shared plates amid the cheerful noise of clinking glasses and overlapping conversations.
They grabbed a table outside one of the restaurants and settled in. Dylan caught the waiter's attention.
"Ten sticks of pork intestines, ten sticks of pig ears, and ten bottles of beer," he ordered with a calm confidence.
Flynn raised an eyebrow, half-smiling despite the gloom in his eyes. "You really think you can finish all that?"
Dylan shrugged, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Might not be enough once we start drinking."
Minutes passed as they waited. The aroma of grilled meat filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of alcohol and the distant buzz of chatter.
When their food arrived, Dylan grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and took a long pull. Flynn followed suit.
They drank—slowly, deliberately—until the rows of empty bottles began to pile between them.
Throughout it all, Dylan watched Flynn closely. He hadn't expected this quiet, often sleepy guy from class to be so... talkative. Stories spilled out from Flynn like a broken dam—fragments of his life, memories he rarely shared.
At one point, Flynn's voice softened, almost breaking. "You know, what Jayson said earlier... it's true. I don't have a mom. She was gone when I was just a kid." He looked away, biting his lip as if to hold back something deeper. "But never once... never once did I steal someone else's girlfriend."
Dylan nodded, sensing the fragile honesty in the words.
Flynn's eyes flicked up, meeting Dylan's with a mix of curiosity and lingering emotion.
"So... what's your reason?" he asked softly, almost carefully. "Why did you do what you did back there? You said you had your own reason."
Dylan's brows furrowed, hesitation flickering across his face like a shadow. The weight of the question settled between them.
After a long, thoughtful pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and tinged with a sadness that seemed to echo Flynn's own.
"I don't have a mom either," he admitted quietly. "She died when I was fifteen."
Flynn didn't press further. No more words were needed. As if something had finally clicked into place—a silent understanding passing between them—he simply lifted his hand and signaled the waiter for two more bottles.