The day after I’d taken Jack to the nurse, I made sure he got home safely. He didn’t say much. Just a quiet “thank you” before slipping into his apartment, head low like he feared even the walls might whisper his secret. I didn’t push. I knew that kind of fear. I lived with it once.

  The next morning felt like any other—until I stepped out of class and found a crowd gathered near the courtyard.

  Students stood in a half-circle, hushed whispers buzzing like static. Something was wrong. I pushed past them, my gut already tightening.

  Jack was on the ground.

  Two of the underlings—wannabe lapdogs of the Kings—hovered over him. His face was already bruised, lip bleeding. One of them kept kicking him, asking again and again, “Who helped you, huh? Who gave you the guts to crawl to the nurse’s office?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Not a word.

  I should’ve walked away. This wasn’t my fight. But something in me snapped. Maybe it was the blood. Maybe it was the way he trembled but refused to betray me.

  One of the underlings dragged a chair out of a classroom. Laughter erupted as he lifted it over his head, ready to bring it down on Jack.

  I moved.

  In one swift motion, I stepped in front of him—just as the chair came crashing down.

  Pain exploded across my back, but I didn’t flinch. I gritted my teeth and stood tall, shielding him.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said, helping Jack to his feet, ignoring the searing ache in my spine. His wide eyes met mine, confused, but grateful.

  The crowd was silent.

  The underlings stood frozen, unsure of what to do next.

  I turned to them, my voice calm but sharp as a blade. “Do you want to be a murderer?” I asked. “Because if that’s what you’re going for, I can hand him over and you can keep going. If not…” I glanced at the blood dripping down Jack’s arm. “Let me take him to the nurse before he bleeds out on your hands.”

  No one moved.

  I didn’t wait for permission. I took Jack’s arm and started walking.

  And for the first time since I arrived at this school, all eyes were on me.

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  The nurse’s office smelled like antiseptic and peppermint. I hated both.

  I lowered Jack onto the nearest bench, my back still burning from the impact. He winced as he moved, but his eyes darted to me immediately.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, panic rising in his voice. “You shouldn’t have—Kira, you shouldn’t have stepped in like that.”

  “I’ve had worse,” I muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing, even though my body disagreed.

  Jack shook his head. “You’re a girl. You shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t,” I interrupted gently, meeting his gaze. “Don’t say I shouldn’t because I’m a girl. Pain doesn’t check gender.”

  He was quiet for a moment before whispering, “But you didn’t have to.”

  “Neither did you,” I said. “You could’ve given me up. Saved yourself another beating.”

  Jack looked away. “You helped me. That matters.”

  The nurse came rushing in, alarmed by the blood on both of us. “Good lord, what happened?”

  “Jack first,” I said quickly, waving her off when she reached for me. But Jack grabbed her wrist.

  “No. Her first,” he insisted. “She took the hit. Please.”

  Our eyes met again. A silent conversation passed between us—of respect, of shared pain, of something that might, one day, resemble trust.

  Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as invisible anymore.

  I sat on the steps outside the nurse’s office, fingers gripping the edge of the stone. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the pavement, and the campus buzzed in the distance like nothing had happened.

  I rolled my shoulders, wincing as a sharp ache reminded me of the chair slam. Stupid move. Necessary, but stupid.

  Jack was still inside. The nurse hadn’t let me leave without cleaning me up first, scolding both of us like a pair of reckless kids. He kept glancing at me through the curtain every few minutes, as if checking to make sure I hadn’t vanished.

  People usually did.

  I wasn’t used to this—being cared about. His concern caught me off guard. The way he defended me, even when he could barely sit up straight... it stirred something in me I wasn’t ready to name.

  I’ve spent years in a world where survival meant silence, betrayal came dressed in smiles, and loyalty was currency. But Jack... Jack reminded me of something else. Of simpler rules, where kindness didn’t come with conditions.

  And that unsettled me more than the pain in my back ever could.

  Because for the first time in a long while—I didn’t feel alone.

  By the time the sun dipped beneath the skyline, I’d barely made it through the rest of the day without wincing every time I moved. My back ached like hell. Jack had insisted I go home, texting me every hour since, asking if I was okay.

  I told him I was fine.

  I wasn’t.

  But I’d had worse.

  Now, leaning against the cool metal of the rooftop railing, I waited for Elijah. Our usual meeting place—high above the city, where no one cared to look. The wind tugged at my hoodie, and beneath the fabric, my skin throbbed.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs.

  “You look like hell,” Elijah said by way of greeting, tossing a bag of takeout between us.

  I smirked. “You should see the chair.”

  He didn’t laugh. He never did when it came to me getting hurt.

  “I heard,” he said quietly, scanning my face. “Kira, you said you’d keep a low profile.”

  “I did. Just couldn’t walk past a kid getting his face smashed in.”

  He ran a hand through his messy curls, sighing like a disappointed parent. “You getting soft on me?”

  I looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t push it.”

  Elijah settled beside me, eyes on the glittering lights below. “We’ve got a problem. Bigger than I thought.”

  Of course we did. We always did.