The sleek black limousine glided to a smooth halt, its tires crunching softly on the snow-dusted curb. Bradley didn't need to look out the window to know they had arrived; the familiar, imposing silhouette of the school building was a feeling he carried in his bones.
"We are here, young master," Vuitton's voice, always calm and measured, came from the front seat.
Bradley's eyes lifted to the view outside. The school was a fortress of old money and tradition, built from weathered gray stones that seemed to absorb the weak morning light. Spiked, wrought-iron gates stood open, flanked by two stern-faced guards in heavy coats who watched the arriving students with unblinking eyes. Just the sheer scale of it, the perfectly manicured gardens now blanketed in white, screamed of exclusivity and immense cost.
With a soft sigh, Bradley leaned forward slightly, his gaze passing over his own faint reflection in the window to watch the scene unfolding beyond the glass. A river of students in identical dark blazers flowed towards the gates. Some spilled out of cars as fancy as his own, their laughter sharp and bright in the cold air. Others trudged in on foot, heads bowed against the chill. The sight of them all, mingling and chatting in their little groups, moving like a swarm, sent a familiar wave of irritation through him. It was the mindless, buzzing energy of it all that grated on his nerves.
"I'll see you later, Vuitton," Bradley said, his voice flat, already reaching for the door handle.
"Have a good day at school, young master."
A good day. The words were so hollow they were almost funny. It's been years since I've ever had a good day, he chuckled inwardly, the sound a dry, painful thing in his chest.
Stepping out of the car was like stepping into another world. The insulated silence of the limousine was instantly replaced by the cacophony of student life—shouting, laughter, the scuffling of shoes on cobblestone, and the bite of the winter wind that nipped at his exposed ears. He shoved his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders slightly. He could feel the weight of stares and hear the sudden drop in volume as whispers bloomed around him like poisonous flowers. He was used to it; a familiar, heavy cloak he wore every day.
The guards at the gate were a ritual he endured. They meticulously checked every student's bag, patting down blazers with practiced efficiency. We're not in the US, he thought, a cynical twist to his lips. No school shootings here. But then again, this is England. You might not get shot, but you could get stabbed if you wander down the wrong alley, mate. His mind conjured with an image of some kid trying to hide a comically large knife in his trousers. *Roadman activities, I guess.
Once through the gate, he joined the stream of students on the cobblestone path. The school grounds were vast, with snow-covered gardens stretching out on either side, their dormant flowerbeds and skeletal rose bushes looking like ghosts under the white blanket. The football field was a single, unbroken sheet of pristine white. He kept his head down, focusing on the rhythmic pattern of the stones beneath his feet until he reached the heavy oak doors of the main building.
Inside, the noise intensified, trapped and echoing off the high ceilings and tiled floors of the corridors. The air was thick with the smell of old books, floor polish, and the faint, sweet scent of perfumes and colognes. Bodies jostled against him in the crowded hallway. Tsk, I hate this, he thought, the sentiment was a constant mantra.
[You hate everything,] a voice, identical to his own but laced with mocking amusement, echoed in the quiet space of his mind.
Shut up.
As if on cue, a hushed whisper, sharp as a needle, pierced through the general din from somewhere to his left. "Murderer."
He didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. His expression remained a carefully carved mask of indifference as he continued walking, his destination the door marked 'Class-1A'. But just before he reached it, two figures moved to block his path, their shadows falling over him.
Bradley, who made a habit of never looking anyone in the eye, found himself lifting his gaze. He had to see who was stupid enough to get in his way. One was tall and lanky, with hair as black as ink and cold blue eyes that held a cruel glint. The other was closer to his own height, with a stocky build, straw-colored blond hair, and eyes the color of steel wool.
"If it isn't Mr. Bully himself," the black-haired one, Dickson, sneered. "The one who drove someone to try and kill themselves."
Calling me a bully when you're standing here doing the exact same thing is insane, Bradley thought, the irony bitter on his tongue.
[Well, I guess it's just retribution for what you did in the past,] the other him chimed in, chuckling darkly.
"What do you want?" Bradley asked, his voice dripping with irritation.
"How rude. Is that how you talk to your seniors?" the blond, Adrian, snapped, his face twisting in annoyance. "I guess the beating we gave you last week wasn't enough to teach you any manners."
These were the third-years, the source of the fresh bruises that painted his skin in shades of purple and yellow. A dull, throbbing ache echoed from last week's injuries just at the sight of them.
"Fuck, I don't really want to deal with this," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could push a headache away. "Let's do it another time. I'll be late to class." He tried to sidestep them, but Dickson's hand shot out, clamping down hard on his shoulder. The grip was painful.
"You're not going anywhere."
Bradley frowned, a deep line forming between his brows, and let out a long, weary sigh. He smacked the hand away from his shoulder, the sound a sharp crack in the hallway. He tried to move again, but this time Adrian was faster. His foot lashed out in a swift kick aimed directly at Bradley's chest.
Bradley barely managed to cross his arms over his chest in time, bracing for the impact. The kick landed with a heavy thud, sending a jolt of pain shooting through his forearms and into his torso. He was thrown back, his shoulder blades slamming hard against the cold, unyielding wall behind him. A pained groan escaped his lips. Fuck.
"Let's fuck him up," Dickson growled.
A flicker of disgust crossed Bradley's face. "Sorry, but I'm not gay, mate."
"W-what? We didn't mean it that way, you bastard!" Adrian spluttered, his face flushing red.
"Sure thing, buddy. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Enraged, both boys lunged at him. Bradley just sighed again, the sound full of a profound exhaustion. "Can't I just die already? Dealing with these monkeys is so draining... remember—you guys asked for it."
Dickson came at him first, his body telegraphing the wide, arcing punch he threw at Bradley's face. Bradley simply shifted his weight, stepping smoothly to the right, and the fist whistled harmlessly past his ear. Dickson looked momentarily surprised, his balance thrown off. He swung again, a wild left hook.
"You're full of openings," Bradley observed, his voice calm. He ducked under the swing and drove his own fist straight into Dickson's solar plexus.
"Argh!" Dickson wheezed, stumbling back a few steps, clutching his chest.
"Fuck, my wrist hurts," Bradley mumbled, shaking out his sore hand. He was out of practice.
Seeing his friend hit, Adrian let out a yell and launched into a clumsy jump-kick. Bradley dropped into a crouch, the kick passing harmlessly over his head. As Adrian hung in the air for a split second, Bradley uncoiled, delivering a sharp uppercut that connected solidly with the boy's jaw.
"Ugh!" Adrian crashed to the floor, his hands flying to his sore chin.
"I warned you—" Bradley began, but he couldn't finish. Dickson, having recovered, drove his foot square into Bradley's chest. The air exploded from Bradley's lungs as he was sent flying backward. He crashed through the unlocked door of an empty
classroom, the wood splintering under the impact. He landed hard on his back, skidding across the dusty floor.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he winced, pain screaming from his back and chest. "My back and chest hurt so bad!"
"Did you think just because you got a few lucky hits in, you could breach the gap in strength?" Dickson cracked his knuckles, stepping into the classroom with Adrian, who closed the door behind them. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the sudden silence. "You're just a worm."
"We were planning to go easy on you today," Adrian added, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "But since you decided to fight back, you are dead."
Lock.
"There's nowhere to run now," Adrian said, a nasty smile spreading across his face. "You'll pay tenfold for that punch."
A fight was about to start.