The final bell of the day at Aresia Metro Secondary wasn't just any sound; it was a signal. For most, it meant chaos-slamming lockers, shouted plans, the slow bleed of freedom.
For Avenger, it was the first beat in a carefully sequenced rhythm.
He was already moving to its tempo, threading through the crowd with a dancer's efficiency. His bag had been packed ten minutes before his last class ended. His route was mapped.
"Whoa, look who's practicing for running track tryouts," a voice called, holding back a laugh. Leo, his deskmate, grinned as he fell into step beside him. "What's got your panties in a twist?"
"The only thing twisting will be the ankles of anyone who can't keep up with my dance routine," Avenger said, a slight smile touching his lips as he adjusted the strap of his gym duffel. "Just a tight schedule. Volunteer shift at the Community Center starts in twenty. Teaching the little kids basic Afrobeat steps. They want to connect with African American and African culture—they're pretty demanding and excited. That makes me happy."
"Again? You're gonna turn them into pros before they're ten."
"Someone's got to. Then it's a hard cut-off at 5:45. MMA gym by six. Coach will have me doing sprawls until I puke if I'm late."
Leo whistled, shaking his head. "Man, between that, your classes, and the junior league… you ever just… breathe?"
Leo's face distorted in fear for a split second, worry flashing in his eyes. There was silence for a few seconds before Avenger continued.
"This is breathing," Avenger said, the smile reaching his eyes. It was true. The rhythm of it—school, dance, fight, study—was what held him together. It was the structure he'd built, the proof he was here, he was capable, he was more than what he came from. He stopped at the main doors, turning to Leo. "And don't worry. Saturday. Your birthday. I'll be there! I cleared my whole schedule for you. I'll be there smelling like pizza, not sweat. Promise."
A smile broke through Leo's worry, the tension evaporating from his face.
The promise was solid, etched into his mental calendar. Leo beamed. "You better! Now go, before your sensei turns you into a rug."
---
With a final nod, Avenger pushed into the afternoon light of the dome-filtered sun. The air in the residential sector was always cycled, carrying a faint, sterile tang. He took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears to the joyous chaos of the kids' dance class.
The shortcut through the quad was less crowded. His mind was already half-listening to the music he'd play for the warm-up. That's why he almost missed it.
A sharp, tense energy pricked at his awareness. Not a sound, but a silence amidst the ambient noise. Near the old utility shed, three older students from the tech class had a younger boy cornered. Their body language was a classic, ugly tableau: loose, aggressive stances, the victim pressed against the wall, head bowed.
Avenger's feet stopped. The schedule in his head screamed. You have 18 minutes.
His body turned toward the shed.
He spotted Maya, a shy girl from his physics and biology class, walking by with earbuds in. He stepped into her path with a soft, genuine smile, gently waving a hand. She pulled one bud out, an eyebrow raised.
"Hey Maya. One second," he said, his voice calm. He slid his heavy gym duffel off his shoulder. "Can you hold this for me? I'll be right back."
She blinked, looking from his face to the scene by the shed, understanding dawning. A flicker of concern, then a shrug. "Don't get your face smashed. You have nice bone structure."
In Maya's head she was screaming: "Nice bone structure?! Really, trying to be a weirdo, I see!"
Avenger gave a slight giggle. "Thanks. Aiming to keep it that way."
He handed her the bag with a wink, the weight of his schedule, his water, his gear, passing to someone else. For a moment, he felt lighter. Then he turned, and the lightness was replaced by a focused, solid certainty as he walked toward the three.
---
"Hey," Avenger called, not loud, but firm. It cut through the low taunts. Three heads swiveled. The leader, a guy with a shaved head and a perpetual sneer named Dax, looked him up and down.
"Fuck off. This isn't your business. Keep walking."
"It becomes my business when you disrupt the peace and make it everyone's business," Avenger said, coming to a stop a few paces away, hands loose at his sides. He looked past Dax to the younger boy. "You okay, buddy?"
A mute nod.
Avenger's focus returned to Dax. "I don't get it. You want to fight? I know a place. The Iron Chimera gym, down in the lower sector. My coach loves new sparring partners. Dozens of guys and girls there who would happily go a few rounds with you. Actual rules. Actual respect, with tournaments to win big! Why do this?"
Dax's sneer deepened. "Think you're a therapist? Piss off."
"It's not therapy. It's logic, it's growth, it's opportunity," Avenger persisted, his voice even. A part of him was counting down the minutes. Fifteen until class with the kids. But a bigger part was here, in this ugly little silence. "You get your fight. He gets to not be a punching bag. Everyone wins. There's always an alternative to just being a jerk."
"Or what?" one of the other boys, lean and twitchy, chimed in. "You'll give us a speech about community spirit?"
The third laughed, a short, harsh bark.
Avenger felt the first spark of real irritation cut through his calm. It was a hot, familiar spark. He usually channeled it onto the mats. Fourteen minutes.
"Or you prove him right," Avenger said, nodding to the younger boy. "And you stay small."
The boy contemplated Avenger's words.
Dax took a step forward, into Avenger's space. "You know what I think? I think you're a pussy in a white knight costume. All talk about 'alternatives.' Why don't you make us stop?"
The spark flared. The careful schedule in his mind blurred. The rhythm broke.
Avenger's expression went flat. All the reasonable warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by a cold, assessing focus. He looked at Dax, then at his two friends, as if measuring them for something.
"Okay," Avenger said, his voice now quiet, devoid of all persuasion.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. He put it on speaker. The ringtone was absurdly loud in the tense quiet.
[Aresia Emergency Services. What is the nature of your emergency?] a dispatcher's crisp voice answered.
"Yeah," Avenger said, his eyes locked on Dax's. "I need three ambulances at Metro Secondary quad, utility shed. Three male adolescents, approximate ages seventeen to eighteen. Suspected injuries: multiple broken bones. Possibly concussed."
He paused, listening to the confused sputter from the dispatcher. Dax and his friends stared, their bravado cracking into confusion.
"I just sent the coordinates. Thank you, ma'am, for your service." Avenger ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, Avenger moved.
---
It wasn't a street brawl—no, he was raised better, trained better than that. What followed was something far more clinical.
Dax's face flushed crimson, the insult burning through him. "You think you're tough? You're nothing!" He shoved Avenger hard with both hands.
In his mind: First move. Aggression without technique.
Avenger absorbed the push, his feet shifting seamlessly to redistribute the force. He didn't stumble. He simply flowed backward, creating two meters of space as Dax swung a wild, over-committed haymaker.
Second move. Striking without balance. Wide open.
Avenger dipped beneath the arc of the punch, the air whistling harmlessly over his head. When he straightened, his face was a mask of pure disappointment.
"Fucking useless idiots, just watching?!" Dax snarled at his friends, spittle flying. "Surround him!"
The other two bullies released the younger boy and fanned out, forming a loose triangle around Avenger. Dax grinned, a nasty, triumphant thing. "Good. Don't let the runner escape."
Avenger actually smiled back—a small, cold curl of the lips that never reached his eyes.
Enraged, Dax charged again, telegraphing another overhead punch. Avenger's combat brain dissected it in milliseconds: Feet off-center. Core unstable. Chin exposed. That's strike three.
As the fist descended, Avenger didn't retreat. He advanced.
He stepped forward and low, inside the punch's trajectory, his left forearm rising to deflect the blow harmlessly outward. At the same moment, his right hand shot upward in a brutal, rising palm strike that caught Dax cleanly under the nose.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly crisp. Dax's head snapped back, eyes glazing with shock and pain. Avenger's striking hand didn't retreat; it clamped over Dax's face, fingers digging in, while his foot stamped down, pinning Dax's forward foot to the ground.
Now immobilized, Dax was a perfect target.
Avenger's body coiled like a spring. His left fist drove into Dax's upper thigh—a thunderbolt to the quadriceps that deadened the leg. Before Dax could even scream, the second punch detonated into his liver. A wet, grunting whoosh of air escaped him, all fight leaving his body. The third and final strike was a short, devastating hook to the temple.
Dax's eyes rolled back. He dropped like a sack of stones, unconscious before he hit the packed earth.
Time, which had seemed to slow, snapped back. The two remaining bullies stood frozen, mouths agape. The younger boy stared, one hand clamped over his own mouth.
Avenger turned his head slowly toward the other two. "Who's next?" His voice was calm, almost conversational.
The lean, twitchy one—Bully 1—found his voice, high and reedy. "W-we were just playing around, right? We didn't mean anything!"
Avenger shook his head once. "Nope. I gave you a chance. You're going to the hospital in a cast."
"Man, fuck this! He's just one guy!" Bully 2 screamed, fear transforming into reckless fury. He rushed forward, throwing a wild punch. "Help me kill him!"
Bully 1, spurred into action, tried to flank Avenger, swinging a clumsy fist at his back.
Avenger didn't panic. He flowed. He twisted at the waist, letting Bully 2's punch graze past his shoulder, and used the momentum to roll forward and out of the encirclement. He came up in a balanced stance a few paces away, his eyes calculating.
"That's the spirit," Avenger said, a hint of that cold smile returning. "It wouldn't be as fun if you didn't struggle."
He didn't wait for them. He became the attack.
Bully 1, desperate, launched a wide, telegraphed roundhouse kick aimed at Avenger's ribs. Avenger didn't dodge. He lifted his left leg, turning his shin into an iron bar.
THWACK.
The impact wasn't flesh on flesh; it was flesh on conditioned bone. Bully 1 howled, clutching his now-throbbing foot. Before he could retract his leg, Avenger's right arm hooked behind the knee, trapping it. In one brutal, continuous motion, he drove his elbow down onto the side of the trapped knee joint.
A sharper, more pained scream tore through the quad.
Avenger didn't stop. His left hand shot out, clamping around Bully 1's throat. With terrifying strength and leverage, he lifted the now-helpless bully clear off the ground, one leg still locked in his grip, and slammed him down onto the hard ground. The air left Bully 1's lungs in a final, choked gasp before he fell still.
Bully 2 saw his last friend fall and shrieked, charging in a blind rage. He leapt, aiming a knee at Avenger's face.
Avenger caught it. Not with a block, but by intercepting the leg mid-air with his forearm, arresting its momentum completely. In the same instant, his other hand shot down and hooked behind Bully 2's standing ankle. A sharp tug upwards.
Bully 2 crashed to the dirt on his backside, confusion and terror wiping the anger from his face.
Avenger didn't give him time to think. He grabbed the boy's raised leg with both hands, stepped back for leverage, and began to spin.
It wasn't slow. It was a whirlwind. Bully 2 became a human projectile, screaming as centrifugal force lifted him horizontally off the ground. Avenger spun twice, three times—building terrifying momentum—before slamming the bully into a thick tree.
Bully 2 helpless arc and crashed back-first into the thick trunk of an old shade-tree with a sound like a dropped melon. He slid down the bark and did not move.
---
Total elapsed time: One hundred and seventeen seconds.
Breathing steadily—a controlled in-and-out from his diaphragm—Avenger looked down at the three unconscious forms. He walked over to the younger boy, who was trembling, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
With a smile that was meant to be reassuring but didn't quite reach the coldness still lingering in his eyes, Avenger said, "Go home now. And next time, avoid secluded areas. Just in case."
Then he turned, walked back to a stunned Maya, took his gym bag from her silent, slack-jawed grasp, and slung it over his shoulder.
Eleven minutes late for the dance class.
As he broke into a sprint, the ghost of a smile returned, genuine this time. He'd make up the time. He always did. He had a rhythm to keep, a birthday party to attend, and a championship to train for. The world, for all its small, ugly moments, still made sense.
He didn't know of he's future fate