Jazz looked up when Silvestor stirred.
"You finally woke up," he said casually.
Silvestor didn't answer. He pushed himself upright, movements steady, unhurried, as if the bruises under his shirt were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
"Yo…" Jackson muttered, forcing a laugh that didn't quite land. "What attitude is this? We just helped you back there."
Silvestor didn't even look at them.
"Did I ask for that?" he replied.
Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.
The door creaked once as it swung shut behind him.
Silence lingered in the room,
thicker than it should have been.
James scoffed and pointed at the doorway.
"This scum… too ungrateful," he said, glancing at Jazz.
"Did he say anything wrong just now?"
Jazz questioned immediately.
"No."
James frowned.
"But–"
"Hey," he snapped. "Why are you defending him like that?"
Jazz didn't bother responding. His gaze stayed on the door a moment longer, as if calculating something that the others couldn't see.
"Go," he said to Gilbert.
Gilbert blinked. "Go where?"
"Of course to Silvestor," Jazz replied evenly. "Follow him."
"Oh."
Gilbert stood, wiped the dried blood from the corner of his mouth, rolled his shoulders loose, and walked out without another word.
Jazz turned to Jackson and held out his hand.
Jackson grabbed it.
Jazz pulled him up roughly.
"Dumbass," he said flatly to James. "Get up on your own next time and go home."
"Tch!" James spat. "You don't have to say it like that, jerk."
Jazz didn't bother responding. He stepped out of the bathroom with Jackson, leaving James behind with his irritation and his bruised pride.
The fifth-floor corridor stretched out empty and pale under the afternoon light. Dust floated lazily through the open windows, drifting in thin shafts across the floor.
Jazz took two steps.
Then stopped.
His eyes drifted toward the railing.
Jackson followed his gaze.
Both of them froze.
Down below, Silvestor was already on the ground floor.
Walking away.
Calm. Steady. Untouched by gravity or explanation.
James stepped out of the bathroom behind them.
"Huh? J and J, what are you loo–"
He stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes locked onto the same impossible sight.
"What the–" he breathed.
"Didn't he just leave this floor a few seconds ago?" James said slowly. "And he was beaten up too."
"How did he…?"
The words trailed off.
Jazz didn't blink.
"Do you understand now," he said quietly, "why I'm interested in him?"
Jackson forced a grin.
"Haha… maybe he knows parkour."
James snorted.
"Oh, good idea. Then show us yourself."
Jackson flipped him off.
Jazz didn't move.
"Both of you," he said calmly. "Stop fooling around."
They straightened instantly.
"Inform Gilbert," Jazz continued. "Tell him Silvestor is already on the ground floor."
A pause.
"And tell him to take my bike."
James hesitated.
"To follow him?"
"Yes."
"Fine. Fine."
James pulled out his phone.
But Jackson had already done it.
–
Gilbert's phone vibrated hard in his pocket.
Then rang.
He slowed just long enough to pull out one AirPod and shove it into his ear.
"What?" he said between breaths.
"He reached the school ground," Jackson said.
"I know," Gilbert replied, still jogging. "That crazy bastard skipped entire stair sections. Jumped step to step. No diagonals."
He turned the corner of the stairwell and took the last flight two steps at a time.
"Where are you now?" Jackson asked.
"Second floor," Gilbert said.
"Speed up."
"I am."
A pause.
"Oh–shit," Jackson added. "Take Jazz's bike."
Gilbert snorted breathlessly.
"I will. But the keys?"
On the fifth floor, Jackson looked at Jazz and raised his eyebrows.
"Keys," he mouthed, making a weak throwing gesture.
Jazz stared at him.
Then clicked his tongue.
"Jack," he said flatly, "grow up. Do I need to guide you through breathing too?"
Jackson froze.
Jazz leaned over the railing.
"Tell him to come to the ground floor," he said. "I'll throw the keys."
Jackson blinked.
Then nodded fast and turned back to his phone.
"Gilbert," he said quickly. "Go to the ground floor. Look up. He'll drop the keys."
"Got it."
Gilbert burst out through the stairwell door and into the open courtyard.
He skidded to a stop near the bike shed and looked up.
A set of keys flashed in the air.
They bounced once on concrete.
Gilbert caught them on the second bounce.
He straightened and exhaled hard.
On the fifth floor, James leaned over the railing.
"Wow," he said dryly. "Look at that coordination."
Jackson shot him a look.
James grinned.
"Future secretary material, Jack."
Jazz didn't react.
His eyes were already back on the ground floor.
On Gilbert.
–
Gilbert rolled Jazz's bike out of the shed but didn't start it yet.
The final period hadn't ended, but on Thursdays it didn't matter. XII classes had sports for the last two periods, and leaving early wasn't strict on that day.
Silvestor reached the gate.
And stopped.
Two security guards stepped into his path, not for leaving early, but for something they hadn't finished in the morning. Their expressions were familiar. Bored. Expectant.
Gilbert stayed where he was.
Because Silvestor hadn't moved.
On the fifth floor, Jazz leaned against the railing again. He took out his phone and dialed once.
Down in the security room, the desk phone rang.
The guard inside answered.
Then froze.
His eyes flicked to the CCTV screen.
Then to the gate.
He dropped the phone.
And ran out.
"Sir–sir–wait," he said breathlessly, grabbing the two guards and dragging them away from Silvestor.
"What–what is it?" one of them whispered.
The guard didn't answer.
He shoved them down instead.
They bowed.
Too fast.
Too deep.
Silvestor didn't react.
He slowly looked up.
Fifth floor.
Jazz.
Jackson.
James.
He understood.
"Tch."
Silvestor turned around and walked out through the gate.
No thanks.
No pause.
No hesitation.
Gilbert started the bike.
Then stopped again.
Because Silvestor hadn't run yet.
Silvestor crossed the road.
Then broke into a sprint.
Fast.
Too fast for someone beaten earlier.
Only then did Gilbert twist the throttle.
But he didn't chase yet.
He turned toward the security room instead.
Stopped the bike.
Killed the engine.
The guards came out.
All three.
Heads bowed.
Hands shaking.
"Sir–we–we didn't know he was one of you," one of them said. "We're sorry."
Gilbert stepped off the bike.
Spat near their feet.
"Whose idea?" he asked calmly.
No one answered.
Then all eyes shifted.
To the chubby guard.
Gilbert pointed.
"You," he said. "Come closer."
The guard stepped forward.
"A little more."
Another step.
"You smell like trash," Gilbert said quietly. "So I'll call you Junk."
He drove his knee into the man's stomach.
Short.
Hard.
The guard folded and dropped to the ground.
Gilbert leaned down.
"You remember this," he said. "Every time you think about touching him again."
Then he stood, got back on the bike, and started the engine.
The roar cut through the courtyard.
He turned toward the gate.
And followed Silvestor.