Then Jasper's instinct screamed.
His body moved before his mind caught up. He ducked low, twisting to the side. A massive hand cut through the air where his head had been half a second before, close enough that he felt the displacement of air against his cheek.
He spun around.
Dickson.
The guy was a mountain. Six-foot-three, shoulders like a linebacker, chest and arms packed with muscle that strained against his designer polo shirt. His neck was thick as a tree trunk, veins visible beneath tan skin. Hands the size of dinner plates. The kind of build that came from both genetics and a personal trainer most people could not afford.
Everything about him screamed wealth: the custom-fitted clothes that cost more than Jasper's entire wardrobe, the Rolex Explorer watch that cost about eight thousand dollars glinting on his wrist, the fresh fade haircut that probably cost a hundred dollars, the spotless white sneakers that would have been scuffed to hell within a day on anyone else.
But it was his face that made people fear him.
Square jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Cold gray eyes that never blinked first. A smile that did not reach those eyes, the kind of smile that said he had never faced a consequence he could not buy his way out of.
Dickson Hale. Son of Mayor Raymond Hale. The most powerful man in Newhaven City.
And Dickson knew it.
He stood there now, fist still hanging in the air where Jasper's head should have been, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. Then that smile spread wider.
"Well, well," Dickson said, voice booming across the classroom. He straightened, rolling his shoulders like a boxer between rounds. "Look who has got reflexes now."
The entire class was frozen. Students half-standing from their desks, conversations dead mid-sentence, eyes locked on the two of them.
Dickson stepped closer, close enough that Jasper had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes. The size difference was brutal. Jasper felt like a child standing in front of a grown man.
"Everyone!" Dickson suddenly shouted, spinning around with arms spread wide like a showman. "Guess who is back!"
A few nervous laughs rippled through the room.
Dickson turned back to Jasper, that grin still plastered across his face, but his eyes were ice. "The ghost himself, Jasper Brooks."
He leaned against the desk beside Jasper's, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "So, Brooks. How did the funeral go? Must have been real touching." His tone dripped with false sympathy. "Two coffins side by side. Your grandma and grandpa together forever. Poetic, really."
Jasper's chest tightened. His eyes narrowed. How does he know that?
Dickson noticed the look and his grin widened. "Oh, you are surprised?" He laughed, short, sharp, cruel. "Come on, man. Your cousin Ronald? Yeah, he was at the country club yesterday. Could not stop running his mouth." Dickson mimicked holding a drink, voice rising in mock-enthusiasm. "'You should have seen it! The little parasite just sat there while we divided everything up. Did not even fight for a scrap!'"
A few students snickered. Someone whispered, "No way."
Dickson's eyes gleamed. "Ronald thought it was hilarious, how you sat there and watched them carve up your grandparents' estate like a fucking Christmas turkey. Farms, land, houses, and you?" He snapped his fingers. "Not. One. Dollar."
Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers exploded.
"Wait, seriously?"
"They gave him nothing?"
"That is brutal."
Jasper's hands curled into fists so tight his nails drew blood from his palms. His jaw locked. His breathing came shallow and fast through his nose.
Ronald. That bastard was bragging about it.
Dickson pushed off the desk and started pacing slowly in front of Jasper like a prosecutor working in a courtroom. "But here is the best part." He stopped, turning to face the class with theatrical timing. "Ronald inherited the house Jasper was living in. You know what he is doing with it?"
Silence. Everyone leaned forward.
"Tearing it down." Dickson spread his hands. "Sports center. Gym equipment, turf, the works. Gave Brooks here a weekend to pack his shit and get out."
Laughter erupted. Loud. Vicious.
Phones came out, no longer hidden. Students openly recording now, angling for the best shot.
Dickson stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound intimate, confidential, but still loud enough for the front rows to hear. "Ronald said you looked like a kicked dog when he told you. Just stood there, nodding like a good little charity case." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "That true, Brooks? You just take it?"
Someone in the back snickered. Another whispered something to their neighbor.
Jasper's vision blurred at the edges. The rot in his chest, the anger, the humiliation, was boiling now, pressure building like a volcano about to blow.
"And the cherry on top," Dickson said, voice rising again, playing to the crowd, "guess where our boy Jasper is sleeping now?" He paused for effect. "The Smiths' storage room."
More laughter. Someone muttered, "Charity case for real."
Dickson leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper only Jasper could hear. "Ronald could not stop laughing about it. Said you looked so pathetic, he almost felt bad. Almost."
All Jasper could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
His fist twitched.
One punch. Just one. Break his jaw. Make him choke on those fucking words.
But Dickson straightened, clapping him on the shoulder, hard enough to make Jasper stumble half a step. His hand stayed there, heavy as a lead weight, fingers digging into muscle.
"You know what I like about you, Brooks?" Dickson's grip tightened, pressing down until Jasper's shoulder screamed. "You know when to shut up."
He squeezed once, hard enough to make stars burst behind Jasper's eyes, then let go.
Dickson turned away, swaggering back toward his seat at the back of the class like a king returning to his throne. A few of his friends dapped him up as he passed. A girl giggled. Someone whispered, "Savage."
The laughter doubled. Phones were definitely recording now, multiple angles, zoomed in on Jasper's face.
Jasper stood rooted in place, fists trembling, staring at nothing.
Ronald. He told them. He fucking bragged about it.