Jazz walked ahead, just far enough to make it clear this wasn't a request.
Silvestor followed without hurry.
Near the staircase turn, Jazz reached back casually and dropped his hand onto Silvestor's shoulder—as if claiming familiarity, as if testing ownership.
Silvestor stopped.
Not abruptly.
Not aggressively.
He simply lifted Jazz's hand and pulled it down.
Jazz turned, eyebrows lifting.
"Yo… man," he said, half-smiling. "You're bold. Pulling my hand off your shoulder like that."
Silvestor didn't reply.
That silence followed them into the bathroom.
The door swung open with a tired creak. The smell hit immediately—stale water, rot, old urine clinging to cracked tiles. The kind of place rules avoided on purpose.
Jazz stepped in first and shut the door behind them.
"Why did you call me?" Silvestor asked.
"Hey," Jazz said lightly, waving one hand. "Don't rush."
He walked to the sink.
The mirror above it was streaked and spotted, but Jazz didn't look at his own reflection. His eyes stayed on Silvestor's image behind him.
"Relax," he said. "I didn't bring you here to bully you."
A pause.
"I don't bully someone's dog," Jazz added, voice calm. "I've got dignity."
Silvestor remained near the door.
Jazz turned the tap.
Water burst out hard, louder than necessary. It splashed against the basin and began pooling almost instantly. The drain was clogged—chewing gum mashed deep into the hole, bits of plastic, torn foil, crushed drug packets jammed together like deliberate sabotage.
The water level rose fast.
Jazz watched it.
Then bent forward and splashed his face with it anyway, not caring as it overflowed and ran onto the floor.
Straightening, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"See this sink?" he said, nodding at the mess. "That's you."
Silvestor didn't react.
"Blocked," Jazz continued. "Doesn't matter how clean the water is. Doesn't matter how long it runs."
He tapped the porcelain lightly.
"You won't clear the path unless you've got two hands doing the work."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
Held it between his fingers.
"Got a lighter?" he asked casually.
Silvestor looked at him.
"Did you call me here to ask for a lighter?"
Jazz snorted.
"Jerk," he said, irritation flashing briefly through his eyes. "Don't push me to hit you."
He reached into his other pocket and took out his own lighter.
Click.
The flame flared.
He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, smoke filling the already suffocating air. He exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving Silvestor's reflection in the mirror.
The water kept running.
The sink kept filling.
Nothing moved to stop it.
Smoke hung between them.
Jazz leaned against the sink, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Water still ran, overflowing now, dripping steadily onto the floor. Neither of them moved to stop it.
Silvestor shifted first.
He stepped toward the door and reached for the handle.
"You know why you're here," Jazz said behind him.
Silvestor stopped—but didn't turn.
"No," he replied.
Jazz chuckled softly and took another drag. The smoke curled thick and bitter, cutting through the already foul air. It settled in Silvestor's throat.
He didn't cough.
Didn't blink.
Jazz noticed.
"Chairman," he said.
"Assembly."
"Lexus."
A pause.
"That was you."
Silvestor stayed quiet.
"That car," Jazz continued, voice even now, calculated, "isn't about driving."
He tapped ash into the flooded sink.
"It's about weight."
Silvestor turned slightly—not fully. Just enough to listen.
"You already study," Jazz went on. "You already grind like a monk. So here's the deal."
He stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not rushed. Close enough to feel the heat of the cigarette.
"You make micro-notes," he said. "Clean ones. Perfect."
"For me."
"And for my people."
Silvestor met his eyes for the first time.
"And in return?" he asked.
Jazz spread his hands.
"No more nonsense. No bathrooms. No guards. No street clowns."
He tilted his head.
"Till exams end."
Silvestor absorbed it.
Then shook his head once.
"No."
The word landed flat. Final.
Jazz straightened slightly.
"Think again."
"I already did."
Silvestor turned back to the door.
The cigarette dropped.
It wasn't an accident.
Jazz's foot came up fast—aimed low, vicious, meant to catch kidney.
Silvestor moved.
Not back.
In.
The kick sliced past empty air.
Jazz's balance shifted for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Silvestor's knee drove forward—short, controlled—into Jazz's abdomen.
No wind-up.
No anger.
Just precision.
Jazz folded instantly, choking on breath that wouldn't come. The cigarette hissed out in the pooled water. He dropped to one knee, then both hands, gagging hard, eyes wide in shock.
Silvestor didn't follow up.
He stepped past him.
Paused.
Looked down once.
"Don't touch me again," he said quietly.
Then he opened the door and walked out.
"May I come in?"
The teacher paused mid-line.
"Yes," she said without looking up. "Come in."
Silvestor stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him.
"You're late," she added, eyes still on the page. "Don't tell me you have kidney stones or something that makes it difficult to keep time."
A few students snickered.
Silvestor didn't answer.
He walked to his seat and sat down, posture unchanged, eyes forward. The poem continued—lines about longing, distance, words heavy with metaphor and unnecessary beauty.
He listened.
Not because he cared about the poem.
But because listening required nothing from him.
–
In the bathroom, Jazz was still on the floor.
His back pressed against the tiled wall, one hand braced on the sink pedestal, the other resting uselessly on his knee. His breathing had steadied, but standing was still impossible. Every attempt sent a sharp reminder through his abdomen.
He swallowed hard.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
The smell was worse down here—stagnant water, smoke, old filth—but he barely registered it. Pride burned hotter than pain.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket.
A phone.
Not allowed.
Never was.
He unlocked it with his thumb and opened WhatsApp.
Three contacts.
One tap.
Conference call.
–
In XII B, a phone vibrated under a desk.
In XII C, another buzzed faintly between books.
In XII G, a screen lit up inside a blazer pocket.
The sound was small—but sharp enough.
Heads turned.
The teacher in XII B stopped mid-sentence.
"Phones," she said flatly. "Switch them off. Immediately. Or action will be taken."
In XII C, the English teacher paused, eyes scanning the room.
"You know the rules," she said coolly. "No devices. Don't make me repeat myself."
In XII G, chalk froze mid-board.
Silence followed.
Students stared.
Not accusing.
Not surprised.
The looks said something else entirely:
We have them too.
Don't get us caught.
One by one, hands rose.
"Ma'am, may I go to the washroom?"
In XII B.
In XII C.
In XII G.
Different voices.
Same excuse.
Teachers hesitated—just long enough to weigh inconvenience against protocol.
"Quickly."
"Don't waste time."
"Come back immediately."
Permission granted.
–
Jazz ended the call and locked the screen.
He leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled slowly, pain still pulsing low and deep.
Footsteps echoed outside.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Help was coming.
In the classroom, Silvestor sat quietly.
The poem ended.
The explanation began.
Words filled the room again—analysis, meaning, intent.
Silvestor wrote nothing.
His expression didn't change.
He didn't look toward the door.
Didn't check the clock.
The bell would ring when it rang.
In the bathroom, Jazz closed his eyes.
For the first time that day, the weight shifted.
Not power.
Not dominance.
Something else.
Dependence.
And that—more than the pain—was what stayed with him.
Footsteps reached the bathroom almost together.
The door opened.
Three figures stepped inside.
They stopped.
The sight froze them for a second longer than they expected.
Jazz was on the floor.
Back against the wall. One knee bent awkwardly. One hand braced near the sink. His face wasn't pale—but tight, jaw clenched, breath controlled the way it was when pain hadn't fully decided whether it was finished.
Jackson from XII C moved first.
"Damn, bro…" he muttered, dropping down in front of him. "Who did this?"
Jazz inhaled slowly before answering. Each breath still carried resistance.
"That scumbag…" he said, voice rough. "…Silvestor."
The name landed wrong.
Jackson stiffened.
Gilbert from XII B stared.
"What the fuck," he said. "You're not joking, right?"
He ran his fingers back through his long, multi-braided hair, disbelief written openly across his face.
James from XII G snorted.
He stepped forward and nudged Jazz's side lightly with his foot—lazy, careless.
"Yo, jerk," James said. "Can you stand up by yourself or what?"
Jazz didn't look at him.
"I'll answer that later," he said evenly. "Just help me up, James."
James shrugged. "Fine."
He grabbed Jazz under one arm. Jackson took the other.
Together, they pulled.
Jazz stood—but not cleanly. His body resisted, muscles tightening too fast, breath catching once before he forced it back under control.
As soon as he was upright, Jazz turned.
Without warning, he drove his foot forward—short, sharp—into James's side.
Not as clean.
Not as powerful.
Nothing like Silvestor's.
But enough.
"Fuck—bro!" James snapped, stumbling back half a step. "What the hell was that for?"
Jackson looked between them. "You good?"
"He earned it," Jazz said flatly.
No explanation.
Gilbert stepped forward then, seriousness replacing his earlier shock.
"So," he asked, "what's the plan for that scumbag?"
Jazz leaned back against the sink again, testing his weight carefully. His breathing had evened out now. The pain was still there—but it had stopped arguing.
"I have a plan," he said. "But you three follow it exactly."
They waited.
"And before we start," Jazz continued, eyes lifting to Gilbert, "I've got a job for you."
Gilbert nodded once. "What is it?"
Jazz's mouth curved—not a smile, but something close.
"Follow him."
"Silvestor?"
"Yes."
Jazz's gaze hardened.
"That knee kick," he said. "Raw. Crude. No technique."
He paused.
"But the force behind it?""…Not normal."
Silence stretched.
"I want to know," Jazz finished, "what kind of animal hits like that without trying."
Gilbert didn't hesitate.
"I'll do it," he said.
Jazz closed his eyes briefly.
Pain pulsed.
Plans settled.