The sun blazed down on Africa, a bright, warm light that seemed completely out of place as my stomach twisted into tight knots. Surrounding me in the courtyard of Shalu Academy were students laughing, chatting, and strolling in groups, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing just a few feet away.
A cold breeze cut across my face, but instead of refreshing me, it left me feeling exposed.
Right in front of me stood three ridiculously tall guys, blocking my path like predators circling their prey. Their presence alone was enough to send a chill down my spine, and in that moment, the strongest emotion I felt wasn't embarrassment or anxiety—it was fear.
Not the kind you get from watching a horror movie. Not from the nerves of confessing to a crush. Not even the dread of bringing home a report card that screams "you're screwed."
No, this fear was deeper, heavier, primal. The kind that grips your spine and whispers, You might not walk away from this.
There they were—three muscle-bound monsters, their eyes boring into me like I was already halfway buried.
"YOOO GUYS—!" I shouted, throwing my hands up instinctively, as if I could physically stop what was coming. "I DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING I SAID BEFORE GRADUATION! YOU'RE ALL SMART, BRIGHT INDIVIDUALS!"
Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Then one of them grinned—a grin that was anything but friendly. It was the kind that belonged in a nightmare.
"Nah," he said casually. "We're not beating you up yet."
Yet?
My heart skipped a beat. The tension swelled like a balloon ready to burst.
"We'll wait until orientation," he continued, cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop. "Just to give you something to remember us by."
Context was key here. Before I got accepted into Shalu Academy—this prestigious, totally-not-a-death-trap school—I may have… hypothetically… annihilated a group of guys online. You know the type: all muscle, no brain, swaggering around like they owned the place and bulldozing anyone who dared to breathe in their direction.
Apparently, they had a name—a group name. And they remembered me.
"Well, you can't blame me," I said, my mouth moving faster than my brain. I shot a middle finger at one, and suddenly my instincts kicked in—Stop talking! "You used to go around bullying everyone. And also…"
I regretted it immediately.
"YOU'RE ALL UGLY AS SHIT."
Why am I like this?
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?!" One of them—Paul, that's right—lunged forward, veins bulging in his neck like they were ready to burst.
The other two grabbed him, barely managing to hold him back.
And that's when it hit me—they weren't restraining him to protect me. They were holding him back so they could choose when to break me.
Just like that, they turned to leave, as if I wasn't worth their time yet. But just before disappearing into the crowd, one of them glanced back with a smirk.
"Remember the name," he said. "The Muscle Head Hightop Group."
I stared at them, processing their ridiculous name. Then I scoffed, a defiant spark igniting within me. "Your group name is just as dumb as your haircuts! Seriously—who gets a hightop with no fade? Not even prison camps punish people like that!"
They stopped.
All three of them.
Slowly.
Turned.
…Yeah, I messed up.
"Wait," I stammered, raising my hands defensively. "I'm sorry! Let me make it up to you by getting—"
I never finished that sentence.
Because Paul moved.
So fast that he left an afterimage burned into my vision.
By the time my brain processed it, his fist was already buried in my stomach.
The world folded in on itself, and air exploded from my lungs as my body lifted off the ground like I weighed nothing. Pain didn't come first—shock did. Then came everything else.
"You must've forgotten," Paul's voice sliced through the ringing in my ears, "we're Flow users."
Flow.
My mind scrambled to catch up. Everyone at Shalu Academy knew what that meant. Power. Blessings. People who could bend reality just enough to make normal fights look like child's play.
And then—
"There's levels to this," another voice said.
I was grabbed mid-air by Chris, who slammed me into the ground with such force that the impact rattled through my bones.
"Third blessing," he finished.
The pavement cracked beneath me—or maybe that was just my ribs. I couldn't tell.
I tried to breathe.
Failed.
Tried again.
Nothing.
My vision blurred, and my body wouldn't listen.
Get up.
It didn't move.
Get up.
Still nothing.
A shadow fell over me, heavy and final.
I forced my eyes open, and there stood Marcel, his fist glowing. Purple energy coiled around it like it was alive—hungry.
The air warped. Loose papers and dust lifted from the ground, swirling toward him like he was the center of a storm.
And his face? There was no hesitation. No doubt. Just raw, unfiltered anger.
And for the first time since this started, I understood—they weren't trying to scare me. They weren't trying to "teach me a lesson." They were going to end this. End me.
His arm pulled back, energy screaming through the air. The world narrowed to that single, glowing fist, and as it came crashing down, a single thought echoed in my mind, clear and terrifying.
Am I… GOING TO DIE OVER A DAMN JOKE?