Lucas had learned to make himself small.
Small in the hallways. Small at lunch. Small enough that maybe, just maybe, they'd forget he existed. But they never did.
The school restroom reeked of bleach and old pipes.
Lucas stood by the cracked mirror, clutching a plastic bag from the convenience store two blocks away, white bread, a two-liter Coke, and whatever dignity he had left. His knuckles were white around the handles. The fluorescent light above him flickered, buzzing like a trapped insect.
"What's this?"
The voice came from behind him, low and mocking. Lucas's stomach dropped.
He turned. Derek Cho stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. Captain of the junior varsity wrestling team. Crooked smile. Eyes that enjoyed this.
"I got what you asked for," Lucas said, hating how his voice came out thin and reedy.
Derek snatched the bag, peered inside, then let it drop. The Coke hit the tile and rolled toward the urinals with a hollow rattle. "I said *cold* Coke, dipshit. From the vending machine. Not this warm garbage."
"The machine was broken. I went to the store—"
A hand slammed Lucas against the sink. His hip cracked against porcelain. Pain flared white-hot up his side.
"You questioning me?" Derek's breath was hot against Lucas's ear, smelling like spearmint gum and something meaner underneath.
"No, I just—"
The punch folded him in half.
Lucas hit the floor, gasping. Copper flooded his mouth. The tile was cold against his cheek, and he could smell the chemical sting of bleach mixed with something else, sweat, fear, the particular smell of his own humiliation.
Footsteps echoed as the others filtered in. Four more. Jason Park, hands in his letterman jacket pockets. Tyler Reeves, cracking his knuckles. Two others whose names Lucas didn't know but whose faces he'd memorized from a dozen encounters like this.
Five of them. One of him. Same as always.
"Maybe next time," Derek said, circling him like a shark, "you'll remember to say 'yes sir' when I give you an errand. Maybe you'll move faster. Maybe you'll stop looking at me like some kicked dog."
A shoe drove into Lucas's ribs. Then another. The world contracted to points of impact, thigh, shoulder, kidney. He curled into himself, hands over his head, and somewhere in the back of his mind a question surfaced like it always did: Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
But he knew the answer. Nothing. He'd done nothing. That was the point.
He didn't cry. The tears had dried up months ago. Now there was just the dull ache of acceptance, the sense that maybe this was all he'd ever be, someone else's punching bag, someone whose pain made them feel powerful.
Then the door swung open.
"What's going on here?"
The kicks stopped.
Lucas cracked one eye open. Through the blur of tears and pain, he saw a man pushing a yellow cleaning cart. Janitor's uniform, faded navy blue. Maybe fifty, maybe older. Gray streaked through his close-cropped hair. But his eyes, his eyes were sharp and clear, taking in the scene with the kind of attention most adults never bothered with.
Derek turned, annoyance flickering across his face before settling into a smirk. "Nothing you need to worry about, old man. Just handling some business."
"Business," the janitor repeated. His voice was calm. Too calm. "That what you call five-on-one?"
"He had it coming." Derek took a step forward, chest out. "Now why don't you go mop something and mind your own—"
"Stop. Now."
Something in the janitor's tone made even Derek hesitate. It wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was simply… immovable.
Jason shifted nervously. "Come on, man, let's just go."
But Derek's pride was already hooked. He couldn't back down now, not in front of his crew. "And what if I don't? What're you gonna do, old man? Write me up?"
The janitor exhaled slowly through his nose. He set down his spray bottle with deliberate care. Peeled off his yellow rubber gloves, one finger at a time. Rolled up his sleeves.
His forearms were roped with old muscle and older scars.
"Last chance," the janitor said quietly. "Walk away."
Derek laughed forcefully. "Guys, this boomer thinks—"
He swung.
The janitor's head wasn't there anymore.
He'd slipped the punch by inches, not scrambling, not lucky. Clean. Like he'd seen it coming before Derek's muscles even tensed.
Then he moved.
A jab snapped Derek's head back. Sharp. Surgical. Before Derek could process it, a hook came from the other side, catching him on the temple. His knees wobbled.
Tyler rushed in from the left. The janitor pivoted, caught the incoming punch on his forearm, and drove a body shot into Tyler's solar plexus. The air left Tyler in a wet gasp and he crumpled like paper.
Jason threw a wild haymaker. The janitor ducked under it, stepped inside Jason's guard, and delivered an uppercut that lifted Jason onto his toes before he toppled backward into a stall door. The door banged open. Jason slid down, eyes unfocused.
The two others ran.
Derek tried to straighten up, fists raised in some parody of a fighting stance, but the janitor was already there. A straight right jab caught Derek square on the jaw. His head whipped sideways and he went down hard, sprawling on the tiles beside Lucas.
Silence crashed down.
The janitor stood in the center of the restroom, breathing steady, not even winded. His uniform was still tucked in. Not a drop of sweat on his lined face.
Lucas lay there, bleeding, and stared. From Derek's unconscious form to the janitor's scarred knuckles to the casual way he flexed his fingers, checking for damage.
"How…" Lucas's voice came out broken. "How did you do that?"
The janitor picked up the fallen Coke bottle, set it on the counter, and met Lucas's eyes. For a moment, something like recognition passed over his face—the look of a man seeing a ghost of himself.
"Footwork and discipline," he said. "That's all fighting is. The rest is just noise."
Lucas pushed himself up on shaking arms. His whole body screamed protest. But something else was screaming louder now, something that had been buried under months of beatings and years of fear.
"Teach me." The words fell out Desperately. "Please. I can't… I can't keep living like this."
The janitor studied him. Really looked at him, not through him and not past him, but at him. At the blood on his split lip. The bruises already blooming along his ribs. The way his hands trembled but his eyes held steady.
"Boxing's not magic, kid," he said quietly. "It's pain. Every morning, every round, every punch you take and throw. Most people quit when it gets hard." He paused. "You think you got what it takes?"
Lucas glanced down at his torn uniform shirt, at the blood on his hands, at Derek still sprawled on the filthy tiles. He thought about the taste of copper in his mouth. The cold tile against his cheek. The empty years ahead if nothing changed.
He looked back up.
"I already take the pain," he said. "At least this way, I'd learn how to give it back."
Something shifted in the janitor's expression. Not quite a smile. Maybe approval. Maybe pity. Maybe memory.
"Fine. Five a.m. tomorrow. Behind the gym." He turned back to his cart, grabbed his gloves. "Don't be late."
"Tomorrow?" Lucas's voice cracked with disbelief and something that might have been hope.
The janitor glanced back over his shoulder. "Champions don't sleep in. Now get out of here before I have to mop your blood off my floor."
Lucas stumbled into the hallway. The noise of the school hit him like a wave—lockers slamming, voices echoing off cinder blocks, the ordinary chaos of three o'clock dismissal.
Students flowed past him. Some glanced at his bloody face and quickly looked away. Others didn't notice at all.
But Lucas felt different.
For the first time in two years, he didn't feel invisible.
He felt awake.