Gilbert shifted where he stood.
The air in the bathroom felt heavier now, thicker with smell and consequence. His jaw tightened, eyes sliding away from the girls kneeling on the floor. He had seen fights before. Broken bones. Blood. That didn't bother him.
This did.
"Jazz," he said quietly, unease edging into his voice. "I'm leaving."
Jazz didn't look at him at first.
"No," he said. "You're not."
Gilbert frowned. "This isn't–"
Jazz turned then. His expression wasn't amused. It wasn't cruel either. It was instructional.
"What you're seeing isn't harassment," Jazz said evenly. "It's repayment. With interest."
Gilbert's eyes flicked back to Amaya, to the girls shrinking under her shadow.
"They gave something once," Jazz continued. "Silvestor is just returning it. Every piece. Plus interest."
He gestured faintly toward the scene.
"You know ants, right?" Jazz said. "Small. Weak. Individually nothing. But they don't attack alone. They endure. They accumulate. And when they move together–"
His mouth curved slightly.
"–they strip the giant down to bone."
Gilbert swallowed.
"This," Jazz said, "is accumulated strength. Nothing sexual. Nothing excessive. Far less than what they did to her."
James exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I hated her," he admitted. "Still do."
Then, after a pause–
"But… you're right."
Amaya stepped forward.
Her hands trembled–not with fear, but with something older. Something stored too long.
She stopped in front of Sia.
"You're a girl too," Amaya said. Her voice wavered once, then steadied. "And you laughed. Every time. You watched while they–"
Her throat closed.
She didn't finish.
The slap landed sharp and clean.
Sia's head snapped sideways. Blood spilled from her nose, her lip splitting instantly.
"How dare you–" Sia started.
She didn't finish either.
The spoiled egg was shoved into her mouth mid-word.
The shell cracked. The smell exploded.
Sia gagged violently, coughing, vomiting as the rot filled her throat and face. Her body folded forward, helpless, humiliating.
Amaya crouched beside her.
"Do you remember," she asked quietly, "how many times I threw up like this?"
She leaned closer, voice steady now.
"Now you know how it tastes."
Amaya stood and turned.
Lily staggered back instinctively.
"D-don't come near me," Lily stammered. "I'll sue you. I'll kill you."
Amaya didn't slow.
"Go ahead," she said flatly. "Let's see who gets sued first."
Lily's fear twisted into desperation. Her eyes darted to the box in Amaya's hand. She lunged forward, kicking for it–
BANG.
The bathroom door shook violently.
The sound cracked through Lily's nerves like a gunshot.
She froze.
Her eyes lifted.
Jazz stood by the door, his palm still resting against it. He hadn't stepped closer. He didn't need to.
Recognition hit.
Authority. Consequence. No escape.
The kick never came.
Amaya stopped in front of Lily.
Her hands were steady now.
"You liked watching me," Amaya said quietly, "when they forced spoiled eggs on my face. You made me do it myself. Again and again."
She took one egg from the box and placed it into Lily's trembling palm.
"Show us," Amaya said. "Do it to yourself."
Lily's fingers shook violently. The egg slipped once, nearly falling. She caught it, breathing fast, eyes darting to Jazz.
He didn't move.
She had no one left to look at.
She crushed the egg against her face.
The shell broke. The smell burst instantly. Lily gagged, choking, tears streaming down her cheeks as the rot slid down her skin.
"You remember the rule you made," Amaya said, voice tight but controlled."If I gag or vomit, I had to swallow another egg. Along with my lunch."
Gilbert's breath caught.
A shiver ran through him – slow, deep, sickening.
Three years, he realized.
Three years of this.
Lily gagged harder but didn't stop. She smeared the filth across her own face, swallowing back bile with broken breaths.
Hina didn't wait.
Before anyone spoke, she grabbed an egg and smashed it against herself – hair, cheek, collar – the motion frantic, desperate to end it faster.
Silvestor watched.
"Two more," he said calmly.
The words broke something.
Amaya's shoulders shook. Tears spilled – not relief, not victory – something heavier. She looked at her hands as if she didn't recognize them.
"I'm no different from them," she whispered.
Silvestor didn't contradict her.
Instead, he asked, "Amaya. There were others, weren't there? Girls who registered."
She nodded once.
"Yes."
Silvestor exhaled slowly.
Then – almost casually –
"I have an idea."
"Jazz," he said. "Bend down."
Jazz snorted. "Don't get clever now."
"Just do it," Silvestor replied. "Explanation later."
Jackson bent instead.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Silvestor pointed upward.
"The ventilation above the door. We'll place the remaining eggs there. Tie them with a paper strip. Other end glued to the door."
Jackson frowned. "So when the door opens–"
"They fall," Silvestor finished. "This bathroom always smells like this on Fridays. Right now, these three won't return to class. When rumors spread, the only ones who'll come to check…"
"…are the ones who did it," James muttered.
Silvestor nodded.
"The door's already tight," James added. "What if they kick it?"
"They won't," Silvestor said. "Paper makes it jam more. Kicking won't work. They'll push with their body."
Jazz stared at him for a long moment.
"You're vicious," he said quietly.
Silvestor didn't deny it.
"Thank you."
He opened his bag again and pulled out his jersey.
"Amaya," he said. "Change. Wash up first."
She hesitated.
He held it out anyway.
"Tell the teachers you slipped near the waste dumping area after lunch," Silvestor added. "Food waste. Nothing suspicious."
She nodded.
Minutes later, she emerged clean, changed, shaking – but upright.
They set the trap.
No rush. No laughter.
Then they left.
The bathroom door closed behind them.
The bell rang.
Students returned in waves–voices loud, chairs scraping, life resuming as if nothing had fractured beneath the floor. XII C filled again, ordinary and unaware.
At the back bench, Silvestor sat between Jazz and Jackson.
From the open window, they watched two girls step out of XII A and head down the walkway–toward the bathroom.
Jackson stiffened.
"What the hell?" he muttered. "They're from XII A. You're telling me… they were part of this?"
"You sound surprised," Silvestor said quietly.
Jazz leaned back, eyes following the girls until they disappeared around the corner.
"XII A," Jackson went on. "Top section. Rankers. They never skip class."
Silvestor smiled faintly.
Jazz glanced sideways at him. "You've got a nickname, right?"
"Silvie," Silvestor replied.
Jazz snorted. Jackson laughed under his breath.
"Alright, Silvie," Jazz said, turning serious. "You could've handled all of them alone. Why bring us into it?"
Silvestor didn't answer immediately.
He leaned back, eyes still on the corridor.
"Fifth floor," he said at last.
"Every classroom has cameras. Two more on the stairwell–both sides. They cover the stairs, the fourth floor, the fifth floor walkway."
He paused.
"But not the stretch beyond the stairs. Not the path leading to the bathrooms."
Jackson's smile faded.
"Five boys and five girls missing from class," Silvestor continued.
"Among them–students from XII A. The school's pride."
Jazz's fingers stilled.
"If I went alone," Silvestor said, "I'd be finished. Expelled at best. Sued at worst."
He glanced at Jazz.
"But now?"
He lifted his chin slightly.
"The cameras show me walking toward the bathroom corridor. Empty-handed. Alone. And then leaving–before any of you did."
Silence thickened.
"Jackson," Silvestor added calmly, "you carried the bag."
Jackson swallowed.
"So now," Silvestor said, "you're involved."
Jazz exhaled slowly.
"Meaning," Silvestor finished, "when questions come–and they will–you don't get to stand aside. You'll deal with what follows."
Jazz stared at him for a long moment.
"…So that's what you meant," he said quietly. "By work with me."
Silvestor turned to him.
"No," he replied. "This was something else."
Jazz raised an eyebrow.
"A test," Silvestor said.
He leaned closer–not threatening, not proud.
"You wanted me to be your dog," he said evenly.
"But a dog checks one thing first."
Jazz didn't interrupt.
"Whether the owner is loyal," Silvestor finished.
The laughter from the corridor drifted in.
Somewhere down the hall, a bathroom door creaked open.
Silvestor leaned back.
The game had already moved past violence.
And none of them could step out of it now.