The gym is empty, echoing with silence. The smell of sweat and rubber hangs heavy in the air as your sneakers squeak against the polished floor. Except for your footsteps, there's no sound—no voices, no lockers slamming, no basketballs bouncing.

You don't call his name. You don't give him the warning he never gave you all those times—those beatings in the hallway, the bruises you had to hide from your friends, the lies you told to avoid pity. The shame. The rage that has simmered inside you for years now boils to the surface.

He stands there with his back turned—casual, like he's waiting for someone, like he hasn't a care in the world. Like he owns this school. Like he owns you.

Not anymore.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you approach, fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, but your steps are steady, purposeful. This is the moment you've imagined a thousand times.

Your fist connects with the back of his skull with a sickening crunch. A sound so sharp it almost feels like it cuts the silence in half. He stumbles forward, dazed, shocked, a muffled grunt slipping from his mouth as he turns—