I woke up gasping.
The darkness pressed in on all sides. Cold concrete. Rough hands. The smell of mildew and something worse. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't—
Sunlight hit my face.
I jerked upright in bed, chest heaving, and stared at the familiar crack in the ceiling of Grandma Margaret's East LA apartment. The crack shaped like a crooked smile. I knew that crack. I'd traced it with my eyes a thousand mornings in another life.
My hands were shaking.
I pressed them flat against the worn quilt and counted backward from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. The phantom smell faded. Six. Five. Four. My lungs remembered how to work. Three. Two. One.
I was seventeen years old. It was the first day of senior year at Westridge Prep. And I had already lived this day once before.
The kitchen smelled like toast and coffee. Grandma Margaret stood at the counter packing my lunch in the same faded insulated bag she'd used since I was in middle school. She looked up when I came in, her sharp eyes scanning my face the way they always did.
"You sleep okay, baby?"
"Yeah," I lied. "Just first-day nerves."
She smiled and handed me the lunch bag. "You'll do fine. You always do."
I unzipped it and pulled out the folded note tucked beside the sandwich. Her handwriting was neat and slanted, the letters formed with the precision of someone who'd spent thirty years teaching second-graders how to write.
*First day, last year. Make it count. Love, Grandma.*
My throat tightened. I folded the note carefully and slipped it into my jacket pocket, close to my chest.
"Thanks, Grandma."
She kissed my forehead. "Go show them what you're made of."
I walked out the door carrying two lifetimes of memory.
---
Westridge Prep looked exactly the way I remembered. Sprawling campus. Manicured lawns. Kids in expensive clothes laughing in clusters like they owned the world. Maybe they did.
I moved through the crowded hallways like I was mapping a minefield. Every face was a data point. Every exit a potential escape route. I catalogued everything.
Lucien Montgomery stood near the main staircase surrounded by admirers. Perfect smile. Perfect posture. Perfect lie. He said something that made the girls around him laugh, and I felt my stomach turn over.
I knew what that smile hid.
Harlee Salazar held court near the lockers, her clique arranged around her like satellites. She flipped her hair and said something sharp. One of the girls flinched. Harlee smiled.
I kept walking.
First period was English. I found my seat near the window and sat down, every muscle coiled. The classroom filled slowly. Voices rose and fell around me. I didn't look at anyone. I counted the seconds.
Then the door slammed open.
Eren Black walked in like he was crashing a party he hadn't been invited to. Leather jacket. Dark eyes. Dangerous grin. Jay Diaz and Brady Simmons flanked him, laughing at something Jay had just said.
The room went quiet.
Eren's gaze swept the classroom and landed on me.
I stopped breathing.
He sauntered over. Slow. Deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world. The other students watched. Some leaned forward. Some pulled out their phones.
I knew what came next. I'd lived it before.
Eren grabbed my wrist and hauled me out of my seat. I didn't resist. He dragged me to the front of the room and lifted me onto the teacher's desk in one smooth motion. The class erupted in whispers and laughter.
My body screamed with the memory of humiliation. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would crack my ribs.
But I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my face into his chest.
"Please," I whispered against the worn leather of his jacket. My voice trembled. My hands shook. "Please… protect me."
Eren went completely still.
The classroom fell silent.
I felt his heartbeat under my cheek. Fast. Unsteady. His hands hovered near my waist like he didn't know what to do with them.
Then he set me down. Carefully. Almost gently.
He didn't say a word. He just turned and walked out.
Jay and Brady scrambled after him, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and confusion.
I stood there for a moment, my legs unsteady, and then I walked back to my seat.
No one said anything.
---
After school, I headed for the bus stop. My mind was already running calculations. Lucien would approach me within the week. Harlee would escalate within two. I needed to move faster.
The roar of a motorcycle cut through my thoughts.
Eren rolled up and stopped directly in my path. He didn't ask. He just looked at me and jerked his head toward the bike.
"Get on."
I hesitated for exactly three seconds. Then I climbed on behind him.
His back was solid under my hands. I gripped his waist as he pulled into traffic, weaving through the congested LA streets with the kind of reckless confidence that should have terrified me.
It didn't.
At a red light, he spoke without turning around.
"That thing you did this morning. Don't do it again."
I almost smiled. "Which part? The hugging or the crying?"
His jaw tightened. He said nothing.
The light turned green. He drove.
He dropped me at the corner of my block and waited, engine idling, until I disappeared inside the building. I watched from the window as he sat there for a long moment before finally riding away.
---
That night, I opened my laptop and created a new document.
*Evidence.*
I typed the first entry. Date. Time. Location. Lucien's hallway behavior. Harlee's clique dynamics. Every observable detail.
Then I drafted an email to Detective Marcus Ramirez at the LAPD Youth Crime Division. I kept the tone factual. Concerned. Just worried enough to establish a paper trail.
*Dear Detective Ramirez, my name is Blake Nelson, and I'm a senior at Westridge Prep. I'm writing because I've observed some behavior that concerns me…*
I read it twice. Made three edits. Hit send.
Then I closed the laptop and pulled Margaret's note from my pocket. I pressed it between my palms and allowed myself exactly sixty seconds to feel the full weight of what I was undertaking.
Sixty seconds.
Then I went to sleep.
