The morning sun cast long golden streaks across the manicured lawns of Crestwood High. Birds chirped lazily, and the students shuffled in with their usual groans and tired eyes.
But Ryan Sinclair, as always, walked in silence, a few paces behind John, careful to avoid attention. Or at least, as much as someone like him could.
Despite his efforts, whispers still followed him.
"That's the guy who stood up to Abel..."
"Did you see him with John again?"
"He looks too soft to be dangerous…"
Ryan ignored it. He had learned long ago that silence was more powerful than explanation.
As he passed by his locker, something odd caught his eye. A small envelope, carefully folded, tucked just between the vents of the locker door. Cream-colored, sealed with a wax crest shaped like a lily flower.
He blinked, glancing around cautiously.
He opened it.
Inside was a delicate letter written in careful cursive.
*"I don't know what it is about you, but you always seem like you're carrying a weight that no one else can see.
This fountain isn't the same without you. Maybe... we could talk again?
Yours,— L."*
Ryan exhaled softly.
Lily.
The one person in school who wasn't afraid to speak to him without motive. She didn't know who he really was — not yet — but somehow, she always looked at him like she saw him, not his name.
He smiled faintly and folded the letter neatly into his pocket. There was a warmth in his chest he hadn't expected to feel today.
But the calm didn't last long.
Just down the hall, John was standing at the vending machines — when Abel approached him with two of his goons. Eyes sharp, voice low.
"Big guy," Abel sneered, stepping into John's space. "You've been playing hero lately. Taking sides with Sinclair now?"
John turned, unfazed, cracking his neck.
"I don't play hero," John replied. "But I don't like bullies. And you? You're the definition."
Abel narrowed his eyes. "You protecting that kid now? You think that makes you someone?"
"I think it makes me the only one here who knows not to pick a fight he can't win," John said, voice cool as steel. "So unless you want to test that theory… back off."
One of Abel's cronies moved as if to step in.
John raised an eyebrow.
And in that instant, the hallway seemed to tighten with pressure — the kind that made even passing students slow their steps.
Abel scoffed but didn't push.
Not yet.
"This isn't over," he muttered, backing off.
John watched them go, then turned to see Ryan, still standing near his locker — arms folded, having seen the whole thing.
Ryan gave a faint nod of approval.
"I see why Uncle Zeek had his eye on you," he said.
John grinned. "And I see why people keep whispering about you. You're not just a quiet kid."
Ryan held up the folded letter. "And you're not just a fighter. People like us… we hide in plain sight."
They began walking toward their next class — tension slowly slipping away.
But none of them noticed the new student sitting alone by the windowsill — eyes sharp, taking mental notes of every movement, every exchange. His uniform was perfect, his posture too composed, his smile too rehearsed.
And in his hand was a notebook filled with names.
At the top:"Ryan Sinclair."