Chapter 3

After that day, the school went quiet for two days.

But I knew warnings only worked on people who cared about consequences. Noah and his friends clearly weren’t that type.

So I didn’t let my guard down.

Sunday night, when I walked out of the public library, most of the shops on the street were still lit.

This place wasn’t close to the school. It sat on the edge of the old district—narrow streets packed with a convenience store, a pizza joint, a dusty record shop, and a small bar with a blue-violet neon sign.

The library closed at nine. I shoved two borrowed reference books into my bag and went down the steps. Wind poured in from the corner of the block, carrying a damp chill.

Night was always kinder to me than day.

The lights weren’t as harsh. There were fewer people.

I followed the sidewalk. As I passed the bar, its door burst open from the inside.

A tall figure stumbled out, lurched to the entrance, braced a hand on the brick wall, and vomited right there.

The stench of alcohol spread instantly, mixed with bile and tobacco—sour and thick.

Two or three people stood near the doorway. Someone swore at him for getting too close to their shoes. Someone else leaned on the frame and laughed, like this was a familiar show.

I frowned without thinking, but I didn’t stop. I angled to pass around him.

After he finished, he lifted his head, squinting down the street—straight at me.

Brian.

His face was flushed red, his bangs a mess from sweat and wind. The dark hoodie on his back was wrinkled, and there was still a smear on his chest he hadn’t bothered to wipe clean.

His eyes were unfocused—post-vomit haze, drunken blur—but the instant he recognized me, his expression snapped sharp.

“...Adrian?”

He froze like he couldn’t believe it, then jerked himself upright, still holding the wall, spitting out a curse as his voice rose.

Brian looked like he’d just found a target.

He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and took a couple steps toward me. His feet wobbled, but the alcohol clearly made him bolder than usual.

I stopped and looked at him. “Move.”

“Move?” Brian acted like I’d told a joke. He glanced back at the people by the bar door, as if gathering an audience. “You hear that? He told me to move.”

Someone at the entrance laughed.

I didn’t plan to waste time on him. But Brian was more fired up than I expected. The moment I tried to slip past, he grabbed my arm.

“I’m talking to you.”

I looked down at his hand clamped on me. My voice stayed flat. “Let go.”

“What, scared of me?” He flashed a grin—ugly, crooked. “Too bad. Teacher’s not here now.”

The people at the bar kept watching.

Brian was enjoying it. He stared at me like he was determined to make me lose face right here in the street.

He yanked me.

I frowned. I didn’t budge.

Brian looked down at his own hand, like he’d just realized I hadn’t stumbled the way most people would. His expression darkened immediately.

“You really think you’re something, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I simply ignored him and stepped away.

“Stop.” He muttered it like a threat and followed.

I kept walking, trying to shake him off.

Brian decided I’d embarrassed him. He refused to drop it, chasing after me, cursing under his breath the whole way.

I didn’t respond once. Only when we passed the corner—where the streetlights thinned and the shadows deepened—did I stop, turn, and look at him.

“Enough,” I said. “Go back.”

Brian stopped too, chest heaving—either from the short run or the alcohol.

“And who the hell are you?”

“Brian. Go back to the bar. That’s it for tonight.”

“That’s it?” He laughed like the words entertained him. When the laugh died, what remained on his face was uglier. “I haven’t even started.”

He came at me, shouldered into me first, then grabbed a fistful of my collar and shoved me back into the wall. The brick was cold and hard. My back hit with a dull thud. Then his hand shot for my bag.

“Give me your money,” he said. “Phone too.”

I looked at him. “So now you’re robbing me?”

“Quit talking. Hurry up.”

I didn’t move.

Brian’s face sank inch by inch, anger climbing up his throat.

“You—”

He swung.

I tilted my head aside. His fist scraped past my ear and slammed into the wall with a heavy crack. The impact threw him off balance for a beat, but before he could recover, I lifted my hand and locked onto his wrist.

His movement froze.

I didn’t use much strength—just enough to hold him suspended, steady, unable to pull away.

Brian stared, stunned. Then his face changed hard.

He jerked once. Didn’t get free. “Let go.”

I didn’t.

“I said let go!” He yanked backward violently. His other hand dove into the pocket of his hoodie and came out with a switchblade. The blade snapped out.

I looked at the knife. For the first time, irritation edged in.

“Brian,” I said. “Don’t do something stupid.”

“Fuck you!”

It was like the words lit him. He drove the knife at me.

If I’d wanted to dodge, he wouldn’t have touched me.

But I was a half-beat slow—because I didn’t expect him to actually commit. For a normal high school kid, carrying a knife was already stupid. Stabbing someone with it was something else entirely.

The tip punched into my abdomen.

My jacket split. My shirt tore open in a clean line. Cold metal slid straight into flesh.

Brian locked up first.

He stood there gripping the handle, eyes blown wide, like he’d sobered in an instant. Even his breathing stopped for a beat.

His mouth opened. His throat bobbed. His face drained pale.

“I—” His voice started shaking. “I didn’t... I wasn’t trying...”

He stumbled back, finally afraid—too late.

I raised my head and looked at him. I didn’t say anything. I just wrapped my hand around the knife handle and slowly pulled it out.

There was no blood on the blade.

There was no blood on my shirt, either.

I lifted the hem and glanced at the wound.

It was closing—healing, visibly, right in front of his eyes.