The aftermath in the hallway was a public spectacle of private grief. Strangers from the dance slowed to stare at the sobbing woman on the floor, the crying girl, and the furious one kicking a classroom door, but no one intervened. It was too raw, too messy.

  Two of Jeremy’s friends, lurking near the exit, witnessed the explosion. Grinning, they slipped outside to where Jeremy sat brooding on the school steps, glaring at his phone. Ava had finally read his message. And left him on ‘Read’.

  “Jer, you gotta see this,” one snickered. “Your boy Martin’s having a full meltdown inside. Family drama. It’s hilarious.”

  Jeremy barely glanced up. “Whatever.”

  But as he lifted his eyes from the glowing screen of rejection, he saw a lone figure walking away from the school grounds, head down, moving with a heavy, defeated gait. Martin.

  His friends followed his gaze. “Oh, look at that. Walking wounded. Wanna go… help him cool off? Might make you feel better.”

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  Jeremy stared at the retreating back, then back at his phone—at Ava’s silent, digital dismissal. A cold, familiar anger, seeking a target, found one. He shoved his phone in his pocket and stood up. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Martin walked without direction, the cold night air doing little to clear the toxic cocktail of punch, shame, and truth in his system. The streets of Woodblock at night were quiet, almost desolate. He thought about going home, but the image of Loria’s tear-streaked face stopped him. The park? Just another empty space to be alone with his thoughts.

  He was weighing the lesser of two emptinesses when he saw him. Jeremy, standing under a flickering streetlight ahead, blocking the path.

  Instinct said run. Martin turned to take a side street, but another of Jeremy’s friends stepped out from the shadows there, cutting off his retreat. They had him cornered.

  Martin stopped. “What do you want, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy took a step forward, his friends closing in from the sides. “Just wanna play. You’re gonna be my stress toy tonight. Think you can handle that?”

  The old fear, the urge to flee, surged in Martin’s chest. But a newer, darker thought surfaced. Run where? Home to the lies? To the hospital to die? If I run, this follows me. It all follows me until the end.

  The exhausting weight of it all—the disease, the pity, the secrets, the humiliation—congealed into a single, stark realization: he was tired of running from things that would catch him anyway.

  Slowly, he turned to fully face Jeremy. He didn’t speak. Instead, He raised his fists, settling into a clumsy, desperate fighting stance he’d seen in movies. His heart hammered, but not just from fear. From a terrible, weary kind of resolve.

  He was done being the prey.