Chapter 2: The Broken Rules
Taarush woke with a start, his body aching. The faint ticking of the wall clock sent a jolt of panic through him.
Late for school.
He splashed water on his battered face, forcing the swelling down. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, pale skin, and a boy who'd already seen too much. He pulled off his hospital gown, changing back into his school uniform.
Before leaving, he glanced at the stray dog lying peacefully on the cot. Bandaged, breathing evenly. Safe.
The doctor noticed him hovering by the door.
"Go," the man said softly. "The dog will live. Don't worry."
Relief flickered in Taarush's eyes before he turned and left.
The classroom door creaked as he slipped inside. Heads turned briefly, then back to their books. But before he could take a step further, a hand clamped onto his shoulder.
He froze. Slowly, he turned.
Sam.
"I missed you, my friend," the bully sneered.
Taarush's stomach dropped. He staggered back, but Sam's smirk widened.
In seconds, the room fell silent. Every student stopped what they were doing, eyes fixed on the unfolding storm.
Sam's fist shot forward. Taarush blocked high, desperate to shield his face. Another hook came, and another, his arms straining to absorb the blows. His ribs screamed with every movement, old wounds tearing open.
Then Sam feinted right—and drove his left fist deep into Taarush's stomach.
The air left Taarush's lungs. He collapsed to his knees, coughing blood, the classroom gasping around him.
Sam crouched slightly, that wicked smile returning. He was enjoying this.
"Pathetic," he whispered, pulling back for another strike.
Taarush raised his trembling arms, too slow this time. The punch was aimed for his face—until—
CRACK.
A pen whistled through the air and buried itself into Sam's fist. Blood dripped onto the floor.
Sam roared. "WHO THE HELL—?!" His eyes scanned the room like a predator.
And then they all saw him.
A slim boy, long hair falling over pale skin, yawning as if he'd just woken from a nap at his desk. He stretched casually, eyes half-lidded.
"Why are you making such a fuss?" he drawled. "I thought we agreed on the rules—us four don't interfere with each other's prey."
Sam's lips twitched into a sinister smile. "You're right… we did agree."
The pale boy shrugged. "Then don't drag me into your fun. Continue. I'm going back to sleep." He laid his head back down, already ignoring the chaos.
But the damage was done. Sam's ego had been pierced deeper than his hand. Slowly, he yanked the pen free, blood trickling down his knuckles. He inhaled sharply, and the entire room felt the temperature drop. A wave of fear chilled their bones.
Taarush, barely conscious, could only feel the sharp sting of his wounds reopening.
The door creaked open. This time, it wasn't just Sanya standing there—her class teacher was beside her.
"Are you gangsters? Grow up!" the teacher's voice cut through the heavy silence.
Sam froze, then turned his head toward Taarush. His expression didn't falter, but his eyes were full of something darker than rage. He clenched his bleeding fist, leaned slightly, and signed a message only Taarush could read:
"There will be no help coming. Dead meat, my friend."
Taarush's heart pounded, his body aching, his wounds tearing open again.
Sanya's breath caught in her throat. She stared at Taarush—his knees trembling, blood dripping, his face pale but still trying to stay upright. Her stomach twisted with guilt. She hadn't been there. She hadn't helped him when he needed her most.
Sam's whisper from the day before still haunted her ears, chilling her spine. Fear had stopped her. Fear had chained her down while Taarush was suffering. And now he was bleeding before her eyes.
If only I'd come sooner…
Her fists clenched tightly by her sides. Her guilt gnawed at her chest, louder than the whispers filling the room.
But when Taarush's swollen eyes met hers, he managed the faintest smile—fragile, but enough to pierce through her. As if to say, Don't blame yourself.
That only made her guilt worse.
He's suffering because of me… and still, he smiles.
Sam walked past her with a wicked grin, his gang trailing behind. The classroom air was thick with fear, but for Sanya, it was heavier than that. It was guilt—sharp and suffocating.