Boys.
Not men with beards and broad shoulders, working 12-hour shifts to support their families or standing on the frontlines defending their homeland. Not the ones who carry the weight of responsibility and honor...well, some of them do.
I'm talking about who they were before.
The in-between stage.
The messy, loud, sometimes stupid, but strangely loyal phase...boys becoming men.
When I say "boys," I don't mean the ones yelling "Sigma!" or "Gyat!" every five seconds like they're auditioning for a cringe compilation. I mean the real ones. The ones between 14 and 18 who still have some sanity left.
You know the type:
They roast each other for fun but never cross the line.
They talk about cars like it's religion; arguing over horsepower and who drives better.
They fight over the dumbest things imaginable, but deep down, they'd take a punch for each other.
Those are the ones you call bros for life.
But me?
I'm sixteen. A healthy, average high schooler.
And I still haven't found mine.
"Yo Zack, you there, bud?"
A voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I blinked, realizing I was still sitting at my desk in our plain classroom, staring at the whiteboard like it held the meaning of life.
Was I a loner?
Maybe.
It was just another Friday evening. School was over, and the weekend was finally here. Two days of freedom.
The guy who called me...let's call him Mr. Perfect, stood by the door. light brown hair, lean build, six feet tall, and yeah, the kind of face that probably made half the girls in school swoon. Too bad for them, he already had a girlfriend.
"You're cleaning today, right? All three of us really appreciate you always having our back, bro."
He flashed a grin.
'I know what you're really thinking, you fucker!'
"U-uh, yeah. No worries. I got it," I replied with a fake smile.
"Alright, see you on Monday"
He waved and walked out with his two sidekicks.
"…Fuck."
I muttered, slamming my head onto the desk once they were gone.
By "cleaning," he meant cleaning the classroom.
Teachers assign three students each day to tidy up, but somehow, my group always vanishes when it's time to work. like those Assholes from earlier dump their work on me.
It's not that I'm a pushover or coward.
Okay, maybe it sounds like that.
I checked under my desk, clean.
Then slowly stood up, scanning the room.
Empty.
At least no one was around to snitch on me for cursing.
I started checking desks, pushing in chairs.
Some had banana peels. Others had toilet paper. Mostly paper tho.
Disgusting.
I dumped the trash, thankfully, the bin wasn't full.
The whiteboard was still smeared with notes from our last class.
I wiped it clean, dropped the eraser on the teacher's desk, then crouched down.
Dust. Crumbs. Random junk.
"…You gotta be kidding me," I muttered.
I'd have to hit the storage room for floor supplies.
I cracked open the window to let the dust out and some fresh air in.
A cool breeze drifted through.
Then I stepped into the hallway.
It looked like every other public high school,long corridors, rows of lockers, the faint smell of teenage chaos.
Out of habit, I checked my phone.
2:49 p.m.
Notifications? Just YouTubers and Instagram junk. Nothing new.
I pulled out my wired earphones and plugged them in.
Smirked at how outdated they felt...like I was some old Unc.
Picked a chill song to match the empty halls and started walking.
The school was nearly deserted.
It was Friday, after all.
Everyone had bolted...off to homes, hangouts, or weekend getaways.
The weather was sunny, crisp with autumn air.
I passed a few janitors, some teachers rushing out.
None of them paid me any mind.
Finally, I reached the storage room.
I pulled my headphones out.
"…Sigh. Now I have to find a mop and a bucket again."
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The room wasn't big, but it wasn't small either. Metal shelves lined the walls, cluttered with old electronics, radios, broken TVs. It felt more like a forgotten tech shop than a storage closet.
Spider webs clung to the corners.
It needed cleaning too...but not by me.
I scanned the shelves and finally spotted the mop and bucket.
I grabbed them, ready to finish this chore and bounce.
Tuk!
Something fell.
I flinched, crouching with the supplies still in hand.
I hid behind the iron shelves and peeked toward the noise.
A faint hushing sound.
Curious, I leaned in.
Two figures near a large wooden box. I couldn't see clearly, but I could tell...one was female, the other male.
I held my breath and crept closer.
What I saw made me regret it instantly.
The girl's clothes were loose, her back pressed against the box. The guy was on top of her, kissing her neck.
"…"
'Who the hell does it in a dusty storage room? Get a room, for god's sake!'
Feeling awkward, I backed away.
I wasn't about to be the creep spying from behind the shelves.
Then I heard something that made me freeze...faint words, barely audible, but unmistakably real.
A soft, trembling voice.
"…D-don't…"
I froze.
At first, it looked like they were just making out. The guy was leaning over her, whispering something.
The girl's voice was barely audible, but it was there...hesitant, scared.
I set the mop and bucket down quietly and listened.
"P-please… don't…" she whispered again.
"Shhh," the guy murmured. "It'll be over soon."
My stomach dropped.
This wasn't just some awkward hookup.
Her voice cracked. She sounded like she was crying.
I peeked again. She wasn't fighting, but her hands were trembling, gently pushing him away.
Something was wrong.
Then I saw it...a red light blinking from a phone propped on a shelf.
He was recording.
My heart pounded.
'What the hell is this!?'
I looked at my phone.
'Do I call someone? Run? Step in?'
I didn't have time to think.
The guy pulled back, panting. "Alright… now take off your clothes."
Then, he turned to grab his phone.
And that's when I knew...
This wasn't just a bad situation.
It was a nightmare.
The girl was trembling, her hands wrapped tightly around her shoulders like a human shield.
She wasn't resisting, but she wasn't consenting either.
And he...he was still fiddling with the phone, angling it for a better shot.
"…"
Then I suddenly got a twisted idea, but there's a fifty-fifty chance that it will work.