Tony watched from his spot near the hallway, a bucket of water hanging from each of his already reddened palms. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the faint hum of distant chatter from the classroom. His rival was inside, probably sulking or trying to act innocent, but Tony knew better. This wasn't just about silly arguments anymore—there was something darker beneath the surface.

It started with little jabs, the usual teasing about who was smarter, who got better grades, but then the tone shifted. His rival's eyes would flash with something harsher, like he was holding back a storm. Sometimes, he'd throw a sharp comment that made Tony want to punch him right then and there, but instead, they'd escalate into shoves or punches, reckless and angry.

The teachers didn't see much—just two lads causing trouble. That's why they always made them stand in the hall during recess, wiping tables or holding buckets of water, pretending it was some kind of punishment. Tony never told them that it felt more like a badge of honor for them, a way to keep score.

Today, Tony could feel the tension hanging thick in the air even before the bell rang. They wouldn't talk much after school either—not unless it was to throw blame back and forth while they walked home, which unfortunately was in the same neighborhood. It's like they were caught in this cycle, each blaming the other for the hate simmering just below the surface. And deep down, Tony wondered if it would ever really go away.