Jazz looked down at his palm.
A shard of broken pen had sliced the skin near his thumb. Blood welled slowly, not enough to drip – just enough to sting.
"You wait," he whispered.
"Just wait."
The fifteen minutes ended without incident.
Jane straightened and tapped the notebook of the first-bench girl lightly.
"Alright," she said. "Back to work."
The class obeyed.
She continued teaching as if nothing unusual had happened, her voice steady, chalk moving cleanly across the board. Fifteen minutes later, the physics teacher appeared at the doorway from the adjacent classroom.
Her eyes swept XII C.
Noise level.
Posture.
Jane.
Satisfied, she nodded once and left.
Jane didn't notice. Or pretended not to. She kept teaching.
When the bell rang twice – short, sharp – lunch break announced itself.
Jane stepped out first. The physics teacher waited for her near the corridor. They spoke briefly, then walked away together.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Students poured out toward the mess hall in loose waves, hunger louder than gossip now.
Within moments, XII C was nearly empty.
Silvestor remained seated.
So did Jazz.
Jackson stayed too.
Then James and Gilbert walked back in.
The door closed.
Jackson moved first, sliding into the seat beside Silvestor's desk on one side. James mirrored him on the other. Their presence erased escape without touching him.
Gilbert stopped in front.
Close.
Too close.
"You," Gilbert said quietly, fingers curling into Silvestor's collar.
"Who do you think you are?"
He shoved Silvestor's head forward, pressing it against the edge of the desk behind him. Not hard. Not yet.
Jazz stood up slowly.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
"Well," he said lightly. "Look at that."
He tilted his head, amused.
"Gilbert," Jazz continued, "go ahead."
Gilbert hesitated.
Jazz smiled wider.
"Hit him," Jazz said calmly.
"James – help him."
"Jackson – take the leg."
They all froze.
Jazz's voice stayed relaxed.
"Don't look at me like that," he added. "I'm not the boss here."
He took a step back.
"Let him understand something," Jazz said.
"I don't decide everything."
"My words aren't final."
He gestured lazily.
"Go on," he said. "Let him feel it."
Gilbert's grip loosened.
Slowly, deliberately, he released Silvestor's collar.
The room held its breath.
Silvestor straightened slowly.
He adjusted his collar. Smoothed the crease. As if none of them existed.
"Jazz," Gilbert said tightly, "can't you see it? He's playing us."
Jazz didn't respond.
"We can find rank help elsewhere," Gilbert continued. "There are easier ways. Why are you stuck on him?"
Silvestor smiled faintly.
"Gils," he said, "was my house beautiful?"
The question landed wrong.
"When did you even notice?" Gilbert asked.
Silvestor exhaled through his nose.
"Tch. If you're following someone," he said, "don't come in school uniform. And don't use Jazz's bike."
Jackson stiffened.
"And the sudden change in security behavior," Silvestor added. "The silence. The distance. What did you think I'd assume?"
Gilbert scoffed. "We weren't hiding. Why should we?"
"Then why stop across the street?" Silvestor asked.
"Why not come in?"
"And why ask when I found out?"
Gilbert went quiet.
Jazz finally moved.
"Enough," he said. "Mess hall. We eat."
"No," Silvestor replied.
They paused.
"We'll wait," Silvestor said calmly.
"For guests."
James laughed. "You think we're your dogs now?"
"James," Jazz said flatly. "Step back."
James hesitated.
"Step back," Jazz repeated.
Silvestor glanced at the corridor.
"Friday," he murmured. "They're almost punctual."
Footsteps.
Then a sound that didn't belong in a school corridor.
A sob – broken, panicked, pulled apart by breath.
Amaya ran into XII C.
Her uniform was disheveled. Hair clung to her face. Her hands shook so badly she couldn't wipe her own tears. The smell reached them before she spoke.
"Silvie–"Her voice cracked."They– they–"
Her eyes lifted – and landed on Jazz.
On Jackson.On Gilbert.On James.
Her knees buckled.
James frowned. "What's she doing here?"
Silvestor removed his handkerchief and held it out.
"Wipe your face," he said."And stop crying."
No softness. No comfort. Just command.
She hesitated – fear flickering – then took it. Her hands trembled as she wiped the urine from her cheeks, humiliation burning hotter than the sting in her eyes.
"I still hate her," Silvestor said flatly."But my father saved her once."
He looked at Jazz.
"I won't spit on that."
Silvestor tapped the desk once.
"Amaya," he said. "Run."
She froze.
"Run like you always do," he continued. "Panic. Let them take you."
She nodded.
And ran.
They heard it next–the shouting, the hair pulled, the laughter.
"Don't you dare run!"
"Customers are waiting!"
Silvestor walked.
Jazz and the others followed.
At the girls' bathroom, two girls dragged Amaya toward the door.
"Look who showed up," one sneered. "You here for her? Get in line."
"You should book an appointment," the other laughed.
Silvestor stepped forward.
"You two," he said calmly, "look perfect."
They blinked.
"I'm here for her," he continued. "But you can't afford my conditions."
"Fuck off–"
Silvestor grabbed both by the hair and slammed them into the bathroom.
Inside–
Five boys.
Hands on her. Walls pinning her.
They froze when he entered.
"Wrong place," one of them said. "You're not leaving now."
Before Silvestor replied–
"Yeah," Jazz said, stepping in. "He's right."
The exit blocked.
"Relax," Silvestor said.
"They won't touch you."
He looked at the boys.
"Your problem is me."
He glanced back at the girls.
"Sit. Watch."
Then he faced the five.
"One by one," Silvestor asked,
"or together?"
A boy grinned.
"Let's break something."
They rushed together.
Not coordinated. Not smart. Just numbers and confidence, boots scraping wet tiles, shoulders slamming forward. The kind of attack that assumes the other person will freeze.
Silvestor didn't.
The first punch landed on his ribs. He felt it crack through muscle, breath snapping short. He didn't block it. He let it sink in. Let them believe.
The second hit came from behind–an elbow to his spine. Pain flared white. He stumbled forward on purpose.
"Got him!" someone shouted.
That was the mistake.
Silvestor twisted low instead of falling, drove his shoulder into the nearest stomach. The boy folded instantly, air leaving him in a wet cough. Silvestor's fist followed–once, twice–short, ugly punches to the jaw, not clean, not pretty.
Bone met teeth.
The boy went down screaming.
A kick smashed into Silvestor's thigh. Another into his hip. Someone grabbed his collar and yanked him backward. His head struck the wall. Tiles rattled.
His vision blurred for half a second.
He smiled.
Three years of corridors. Of stairwells. Of bathrooms just like this. He knew this rhythm. Knew the delay between confidence and cruelty.
A knee was coming.
He turned into it.
The knee struck his side instead of his gut. He caught the leg with both hands and slammed the boy face-first into the sink. Porcelain cracked. Blood sprayed across white ceramic.
Another punch caught Silvestor's cheek. Warmth spilled down his jaw. He tasted iron.
He spat.
Then he headbutted.
The sound was dull. Final. The boy collapsed like his bones had been switched off.
Two left.
They hesitated now. Just a breath. Just enough.
Silvestor used it.
He stepped forward and took a punch to the shoulder, ignored the pain, and drove his elbow into a throat. Not hard. Precise. The boy dropped, clawing at nothing.
The last one charged in panic.
Silvestor let him come.
The punch hit his chest. Hard. It knocked the air out of him completely this time. His knees bent. His hands dropped.
The boy smiled.
Silvestor grabbed his wrist mid-follow-up and twisted until the scream came. Then he kicked the knee sideways.
The leg folded wrong.
The boy fell. Didn't get back up.
Silence slammed into the bathroom.
Five bodies on the floor. Groaning. Crying. One not moving much at all.
Silvestor stood in the center, chest heaving, blood on his face, knuckles split open. His arms shook–not from fear, but from the aftershock of holding himself together.
Only then did the pain arrive properly.
He inhaled. Deep. Slow.
Behind him, someone whimpered.
Amaya.
He didn't look at her. Instead looked at the remaining girls.
"Stay there," he said. "Don't look."
They obeyed.
Outside the bathroom, Jazz hadn't moved.
Neither had Jackson. Gilbert's jaw was clenched so hard it looked painful. James's mouth was open, but no sound came out.
They had expected chaos.
They hadn't expected this.
Silvestor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Jazz.
Not challenging.
Not proud.
Just finished.
"Now," Silvestor said quietly, voice rough but steady,
"you understand what 'work with me' means."
One of the boys on the floor started sobbing.
"Jazz," Silvestor said, not raising his voice."My bag. Bring it."
"Me?" Jazz asked before he could stop himself.
Silvestor looked at him.
That was enough.
"Jackson," Jazz said quietly. "Bring his bag."
Jackson ran. He returned seconds later and placed the bag in front of Silvestor like an offering. Silvestor opened it without hurry and reached into the second compartment.
A small box came out, wrapped in dried leaves.
He opened it.
The smell hit first.
Five eggs. Raw. Spoiled. Cracked with time, not force.
Silvestor closed the lid and handed the box to Amaya.
"Make them drink it," he said."Exactly the way they made you drink."
Amaya froze. Her fingers trembled around the box.
"I–" Her voice broke.
"Do it."
The word cut sharp. Louder. Different.
She flinched.
Silvestor stepped closer. His face had changed–not anger, not rage–something flatter. Colder.
"They will obey you," he said. "Don't worry."
Amaya swallowed. Then nodded.
She turned toward the girls.
Silvestor didn't look at her again.
He looked at the bullies.
And for the first time, they understood–
this wasn't revenge.