Jazz slipped his phone from his pocket without breaking stride. His thumbs moved once, twice. A single line of text was sent–nothing dramatic, nothing traceable. Then he vanished into the crowd flooding the basketball court, just another student dissolving into noise.
On the balcony rail, Jackson felt his phone vibrate against his palm. He didn't look at the screen. He didn't need to. A slow, crooked smile crept across his face as he pushed himself away from the railing and melted into the moving bodies below.
Gilbert's phone chimed a soft water-drop notification. He paused mid-step, eyes flicking down for half a second. Then he turned sharply and headed the opposite way, his grin already forming, shoulders rolling loose like a man warming up for something physical.
James was still leaning too close to a girl's desk, laughing too loudly, enjoying the attention. His phone beeped. His smile vanished. He didn't explain. Didn't apologize. He just straightened, turned, and walked out, leaving confusion hanging in the air behind him.
They regrouped on the fifth-floor corridor.
Each of them carried a baseball bat in his right hand. Not hidden. Not rushed. Their steps matched unconsciously, bodies swaying in the same rhythm, the hollow thud of shoes against concrete syncing like a slow drumbeat. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
They were heading for the boys' bathroom.
–
Inside, the air was already thick with rot and damp heat.
Six boys stood spread across the cracked tiles, uniforms worn loose, collars open, sleeves rolled up. Chains dangled from two of their hands. Brass knuckles glinted faintly on another's fingers. Someone twirled a steel rod lazily, letting it scrape the floor on purpose.
Pen-drawn tattoos crawled up their necks in crooked lines–names, skulls, obscene symbols. Cheap ink. Ugly marks. Loud proof of ownership over their own stupidity.
Silvestor stood near the sinks.
Not kneeling.
Not moving.
The one with long hair tied back stood slightly apart, arms folded, expression calm. His body was lean but solid, gym-built without excess. He didn't talk. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The others moved around him instinctively, like dogs orbiting a handler.
"Yo, jerk," the boy with the chain said, stepping close enough that his breath hit Silvestor's face. "Kneel."
He lifted his boot and pressed it lightly against Silvestor's shin.
"Go on. Lick it."
Silvestor didn't kneel.
The boot pressed harder.
His jaw tightened.
"Max," one of them snorted, pulling out his phone. "This dog's acting brave. Take his photo. Frame it. We'll make him eat it after."
"Tch," another laughed, leaning in close to Silvestor's ear. "Eat it? No, Bane. We'll make him take it in another hole."
They laughed louder this time.
Someone shoved Silvestor's shoulder.
"Look at him shaking," Bane said. "This mutt thinks he's grown teeth."
Another circled behind him and yanked the collar of his uniform backward, choking him just enough to make his breath hitch.
"Dogs behave better when they're chained," the boy with the chain said, lifting it slightly. "We'll fix his attitude today."
Silvestor's hands trembled.
Not dramatically. Not visibly enough to save him.
But enough that he felt it.
He wanted to swing. He wanted to drive his fist into someone's throat, someone's eye, someone's mouth. The images flashed sharp and violent through his head, fast enough to scare him.
But his body didn't move.
Three years of humiliation had trained it better than fear ever could.
His muscles locked.
His knees refused to bend or straighten.
His heartbeat roared in his ears while the rest of him stayed frozen–obedient, useless.
"Look," one of them said softly, pressing a knuckle into Silvestor's chest. "He's trying not to cry. That's cute."
Another slapped the side of his head–not hard enough to knock him down, just hard enough to humiliate him.
"Don't look at us like that," Bane snapped. "You don't get eyes here."
He grabbed Silvestor's chin and jerked his face upward.
"Say something," he mocked. "Come on. Bark."
Silvestor's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The boy with the chain grinned and lifted it higher, letting the links clink softly.
"That's what I thought," he said. "Good dogs don't talk."
–
The bathroom door slammed inward with a dull, violent thud.
It cracked against the wall hard enough to make the mirror above the sinks shudder, spiderweb fractures crawling farther across the glass. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. The echo lingered just long enough to make every head snap toward the doorway.
Jazz walked in first.
Gilbert, Jackson, and James followed him. Each of them held a baseball bat down at their side. None of them rushed. None of them looked surprised by what they saw.
"You're right," Jazz said calmly.
His gaze slid past the five boys surrounding Silvestor and locked onto the long-haired one standing behind them.
"Good dogs don't talk."
He tilted his head slightly.
"That's why your leader is silent."
Mike didn't respond.
He didn't shift his weight.
He didn't say anything.
Jazz let out a small breath.
"But your five dogs won't shut up," he added.
"They bark too much."
Gilbert stepped further inside and wrinkled his nose.
"This place stinks," he said.
"And they smell worse."
James glanced at the boys near the sinks.
"Like shit," he said.
Max tightened his grip on the chain.
"Jazz," he snapped. "This isn't your business. Walk away."
Jazz whistled once.
"Max," he said.
"Stay."
Max's jaw tightened.
Jazz's eyes dropped to Silvestor's boots.
"Your boots are dirty," he said.
"If you feed stray dogs properly, they lick what you point at."
He stepped closer.
"Gilbert," he said without turning,
"didn't you buy dog biscuits today?"
Gilbert pulled a small packet from his pocket.
"For my dog," he said.
"Give it here," Jazz replied.
"I'll buy you another one."
He took the packet and placed it into Silvestor's hand.
"Feed them," he said quietly.
Silvestor didn't move.
The plastic crinkled faintly in his fingers. His grip was weak. His breathing had gone shallow. His body didn't respond.
Jazz studied his face for a second.
Then sighed.
"Fine," he said.
"Watch."
He opened the packet and flicked a biscuit into Max's face.
It smacked against his cheek and dropped to the floor.
Max didn't react.
Jazz tossed another at Bane.
It hit his forehead.
Bane's jaw tightened.
Jazz turned back to Silvestor.
"Your turn."
Silvestor's fingers twitched.
Nothing else.
Jazz stepped closer.
"I'll help you," he said.
He grabbed Silvestor's wrist and forced his fingers to hold a biscuit. He lifted his arm.
"Just throw," Jazz said.
Silvestor's heart hammered. His vision blurred.
Jazz guided his hand forward.
The biscuit struck Mike's forehead and slid down his chest.
The room went dead quiet.
Mike lifted his eyes slowly.
Not at Jazz.
Only at Silvestor.
The five moved at once.
Chains lifted. Bodies surged forward.
They didn't reach them.
Jackson swung his bat into a knee.
Gilbert kicked someone in the ribs.
James shoved another into the wall.
Two went down hard. Another tripped over them.
But they kept coming.
A chain cracked against Jackson's shoulder. He swore and swung again.
Gilbert took a punch to the mouth and spat blood.
James went down to one knee after a kick to the stomach.
Jazz cracked his bat across someone's face.
Then someone tackled him low.
He hit the floor hard.
Mike still hadn't moved.
Silvestor stood frozen near the sinks.
He watched Jazz take a boot to the ribs.
He watched Jackson stagger.
He watched Gilbert get slammed into a stall door.
He watched James fall again.
"Get up!" Jazz shouted through clenched teeth.
Silvestor didn't move.
Three years of silence crushed down on his chest.
Then Jackson screamed.
Not loud or dramatic.
Just sharp.
Something inside Silvestor snapped.
Someone lifted a chain and swung it at Jazz's head.
Silvestor moved.
He didn't think–aim–plan.
He lunged forward and slammed his shoulder into the boy's chest.
The boy flew backward and hit the wall hard enough to dent the metal panel.
Silvestor grabbed the next body he saw.
Lifted.
And threw.
The boy crashed into another and both went down.
Someone punched Silvestor in the face.
He didn't block it.
He just turned and drove his fist into the boy's stomach.
Not clean.
Not technical.
Just full weight.
The boy folded and dropped.
Another rushed him with a chain.
Silvestor grabbed it barehanded.
The metal sliced into his palm.
He didn't let go.
He yanked the boy forward and smashed his forehead into his own.
Once.
Twice.
The boy collapsed.
Someone kicked Silvestor in the ribs.
He staggered.
Then grabbed the boy's shirt and slammed him face-first into the sink.
The porcelain cracked.
Water exploded outward.
Silvestor was breathing hard now.
Blood ran from his knuckles.
From his palm.
From his lip.
He didn't care.
He swung again.
And again.
Not precise and skilled.
Just violent.
The bathroom fell quiet.
Five boys were on the floor.
Not unconscious.
Not dead.
Just broken enough not to stand.
Mike finally stepped forward.
He stopped in front of Silvestor.
They stared at each other.
Silvestor's hands were shaking.
Not with fear.
With exhaustion.
With rage that had nowhere left to go.
Mike looked at the bodies on the floor.
Then back at Silvestor.
"You hit like an animal," he said.
Silvestor didn't answer.
Mike stepped back once.
"Get up," he said to his boys.
None of them did.
Mike turned and walked toward the door.
He stopped once.
"Next time," he said without looking back,
"I won't let you swing first."
Then he left.
Jazz slid down the wall and sat on the floor, breathing hard.
Jackson dropped his bat.
Gilbert wiped blood from his mouth.
James leaned against the sink and laughed weakly.
"You're insane," James said.
Silvestor stood in the middle of the bathroom.
Hands still shaking.
Chest rising and falling too fast.
Jazz looked up at him.
"You finally woke up," he said.