The atmosphere shifted the moment the Blue Academy second-year stood there. Bruce walked toward Mark with evident swagger, but Connor stepped in front of him, thumbs still flying across his phone as he texted the guys.
"Get out of my way, first-year."
Bruce's voice was calm. His stature was imposing.
"Not before you tell me what you want with Mark."
Connor slipped his phone into his pocket and looked up at him. Bruce studied him for a moment, then chuckled.
"You're feisty, aren't you? I'm here for some info your boy might have."
He said it nonchalantly and shoved Connor aside. Connor looked shocked — even braced, he'd been moved with relative ease. It was obvious. Bruce was on the level of guys like Adrian and SK. Maybe even stronger.
Bruce pulled out his phone and opened a picture, then showed it to Mark, who was starting to regain his composure. It was the alley. Bodies of Blue Academy students behind him. Mark walking past. In that moment he remembered what his mom told him — operating on a kid whose arms and legs were broken in four different places each.
"This you, right?"
Bruce didn't ask. He told him. Like Mark's answer wouldn't matter. He'd already come to a conclusion.
"Yeah, that's me. But to be clear — I didn't do any of that."
Mark pointed to the picture. Bruce laughed, loud, then put a hand on his shoulder. The hold was heavy and tight, like a vise.
"Of course I know it wasn't you. No offense, but you look like a noodle with zero fighting experience."
Bruce's voice was condescending. Mark knew everything he said was true, but deep down he still took offense.
"What I want from you is info," Bruce continued.
"I don't know who did that," Mark said, as if he'd anticipated the question.
"Now that's not the answer I'm looking for."
Bruce's grip tightened around his shoulder, sending a wave of pain through Mark that made him wince.
"Try again. I don't even need a name. Just a target. If you don't give me one, you and your classmates will be my target."
Bruce's voice carried menace. Mark didn't know what to do. He was quietly panicking where he stood. _What do I do._ The thought rang through his mind, again and again.
Just then, he felt Bruce's grip loosen.
When he looked up, Connor had removed Bruce's hand from his shoulder.
"I'm not gonna sit here and watch you hurt my friend."
Connor's voice showed obvious aggression. Bruce glanced at him, then shook his wrist loose.
"You've made your choice. By the way, your friends will be busy for quite a bit. And so will you, soon."
Bruce turned and exited through the door.
---
The implication of Bruce's words hung in the air long after he left. Mark walked beside Connor as they pushed through the sneaker store doors.
"Do you think he meant what he implied?" Mark said.
Connor opened the door — and stopped.
Five teens waited for them outside. Street kids. Gaunt faces, dirty hoodies, eyes hollow with desperation. Bats and pipes in their hands.
"I think he did," Connor said. He shifted his weight, shoulders squaring, ready to fight.
"What about the cease-fire rule?" Mark's hand was already on the taser in his waistband.
"That only applies to the schools," Connor said, eyes locked on his opponents. "Not to guys without affiliations."
He cracked his neck.
"Well, this should be fun."
---
Back in the east wing, Hakim was checking out car parts, picking up the ones he'd need for his garage. Austin sat nearby, book open, glasses reflecting the store lights.
"Are you almost done?" Austin asked without looking up. "If you are, can we go to the library? I have a book I want to collect."
"No problem, man. I'm almost done."
Hakim slung his bag of parts over his shoulder and headed for the counter.
Fast footsteps rushed toward them.
Austin's phone buzzed. He glanced down — a warning message from Connor, sent a few minutes ago.
He barely had time to open his mouth before something cut through the air, aimed at Hakim's head.
Hakim ducked. Snatched it out of the air one-handed. A bowling ball.
He threw it back to the sender.
It hit the attacker's stomach with a wet _thud_. The guy folded, dropping to his knees, gasping.
"Looks like that guy Adrian told us about has declared war on us," Hakim said.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Four more attackers spread out, circling. Pipes. Chains. One with a wooden bat.
Hakim walked toward them with the grace of a boxer — loose shoulders, light feet, hands relaxed at his sides.
"Do you need assistance?" Austin said, closing his book.
"Nah. I can take these guys out, no problem."
The first one rushed him. Hakim slipped left, drove a short right to the chin. The kid's eyes rolled back. He was out before he hit the tile.
Another swung a wooden bat from behind. Hakim caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing, twisted, and the bat clattered free. An elbow to the jaw dropped him.
The remaining two charged together. Hakim picked up the bat.
One swing.
Both went down.
He set the bat down gently, like it was something expensive.
"Let's go," Hakim said to Austin. "Library's next."
---
In the north wing, inside the jewelry store, Adrian held the wrist of one of the street kids who'd tried to stab him with a knife. The blade was still in the kid's hand, shaking. Behind Adrian, a female clerk pressed herself against the glass display case. She looked new — name tag still glossy, hands trembling. Ten of them circled him. Pipes, chains, two more knives.
One hand stayed in his pocket. Adrian didn't need both.
He glanced back at the clerk. Lollipop shifted from one cheek to the other.
"Don't be scared," he said, smiling around the stick. "I'll protect you, yeah?"
The girl couldn't help but feel reassured. It wasn't his looks, not exactly. It wasn't just charisma either. It was his presence. Like standing behind a wall that didn't move. Like the air got calmer when he was in front of you. She nodded, once, sharp.
Adrian's smile widened a fraction. Then his eyes cut back to the ten.
"Right, guys. Let's take this outside."
He didn't wait for an answer. He kicked the kid whose wrist he was holding — straight through the glass door.
The door exploded outward. Shards rained onto the tile. The kid hit the walkway and skidded, groaning.
The other nine looked at Adrian. Then at the broken door. Then back at Adrian.
He stepped through the frame, glass crunching under his high-tops. Still smiling.
---
Back outside the sneaker store, Connor was handling four guys.
Handling was generous. He was playing with them.
Ducking a pipe by an inch, letting it whistle past his ear. Sidestepping a bat and tapping the guy on the forehead with two fingers as he stumbled by. Grinning the whole time, silver bracelet catching the mall lights.
The fifth guy wasn't playing. He was chasing Mark through the east wing.
"Hey! Stop running!"
Mark wasn't running blind. He cut through kiosks, knocked over a clothing rack, squeezed between two planters — anything to slow the guy down. His lungs burned. His legs were on fire. Five push-ups a week didn't prepare you for this.
After what felt like hours, he ducked into a narrow service passage. Concrete walls. No cameras. No people.
The boy chasing him rounded the corner and smiled. Breath heavy, bat resting on his shoulder.
"Finally."
He pulled the bat back to swing — and stopped. The passage was too narrow. The bat scraped concrete. No room.
Mark didn't think. He didn't plan. He moved.
He shot forward and drove his shoulder into the guy's stomach. Tackled him to the tile. They hit the ground hard. Mark's teeth clacked together. The bat clattered away.
He straddled him and started punching.
The first hit landed on the guy's forearms — he'd gotten his guard up. Mark's knuckles exploded with pain. He'd never punched someone before. It felt like hitting brick. But he didn't stop.
He hit again. And again. Guard, guard, guard. Each punch sent fire up his wrist, into his elbow. But he knew he had to do it. If he stopped, he was dead.
He reared back for another —
The boy's legs shot up. A kick to Mark's chest launched him off.
Mark hit the ground on his back. Air left him in a rush. Stars burst behind his eyes.
The boy was on his feet fast. He stomped forward and drove a kick into Mark's ribs.
Mark curled, coughing. The kick sent him sliding into a stack of empty boxes. People at the far end of the passage shouted and backed away.
The boy grabbed his bat. He came in swinging — wild, overhead, sideways, no technique. Just rage. He didn't care about the people. Didn't care about the cameras. He wanted Mark down.
A woman screamed. A kid dropped his pretzel.
Mark was in pain. Ribs felt cracked. Vision swimming. But he saw the bat coming down and knew: _He's going to hit someone else if I don't stop him._
The bat whistled down. Mark rolled, grabbed the guy's ankle with both hands, and bit.
Hard.
Through denim. Through skin.
"ARGH!!!"
The boy screamed. The bat stopped mid-swing. His whole body locked up from the shock and pain.
"Everyone get away!" Mark shouted, teeth still clamped down, holding the leg in place. His voice was muffled, desperate.
People didn't hesitate. They ran. The passage cleared in seconds.
"Why you little—"
The boy raised the bat high with both hands, face twisted, ready to bring it down on Mark's skull.
Mark's free hand fumbled at his waistband. Found the taser. Thumb found the switch.
He jammed it into the guy's thigh and pulled the trigger.
The current was instant. Violent. The boy seized, eyes rolling back, bat dropping from dead fingers. He collapsed sideways onto the tile, twitching, then still.
The smell of ozone and burnt fabric hit Mark's nose.
"I thought I could win without using the…"
Mark tried to stand. His legs didn't work. The adrenaline dumped out of him all at once. The pain came back — shoulder, ribs, knuckles, everything.
His vision tunneled. Gray edged in from the sides.
Before he passed out, he saw a figure standing at the mouth of the passage. Gray hoodie. Hood up. Staring down at him.
Mark's vision was too blurry to make out a face. Too blurry to tell if it was friend or enemy.
Then the gray took him.
---