Alex's POV
"Jason! Jason! Where is that bastard?!"
My voice ripped through the hallway like a blade. Sharp. Loud. Unapologetic. I didn't care who heard me—hell, I wanted them to hear. Let the whole school know I was looking for him. Let them scatter like insects. My fury wasn't something I could hide, not today.
I stormed forward, my steps heavy with rage, and shoved a smaller kid out of my way. He barely had time to register my presence before I had him by the collar. I slammed him into the lockers with a loud metallic bang that echoed down the corridor, the sound ringing like a gunshot.
"Where is that idiot? Where did he go?" I growled, my face close to his, breath hot with fury. I could see the panic in his eyes. Poor kid probably thought I was going to snap his neck right there.
He stammered, struggling to say something, anything. My grip tightened until my knuckles turned white. The storm inside me refused to calm—if anything, it was growing.
Before the kid could blurt out a single word, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, Alex, calm down!" Jack. Of course it was Jack. Voice steady but nervous, like he already knew I wouldn't take kindly to being told what to do.
I turned to glare at him, sharp and sudden. One look from me, and Jack stumbled back a step. He knew better than to push.
Jack hesitated for a second, swallowing. "H-he's on the roof."
I let go of the boy. He slid to the ground like a broken doll.
Without another word, I spun on my heel and stalked away, boots pounding against the floor as I made for the stairs. I barely noticed the students pressed flat against the walls, watching me go with wide eyes. Good. Let them watch. Let them remember.
Each step up the stairwell only fed the fire in my veins. My fists were clenched, jaw tight. I could feel the fury surging behind my ribs, building to something volcanic.
I reached the rooftop door and slammed it open. It crashed against the wall with a satisfying bang. The boys hanging out on the roof turned, startled. Their laughter died the second they saw me.
And then I saw him—Jason.
Leaning against the railing, laughing with his stupid friends like he hadn't done anything. Like he hadn't crossed a line he never should've touched.
I didn't waste a second.
I crossed the distance in a heartbeat and drove my fist straight into his cheek. The sound of the impact was beautiful. Jason hit the ground hard, his face twisted in shock and pain.
He spat blood and tried to push himself up. "Who the hell are you?! How dare you punch me?! You got a death wish or something?!"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Everything I had to say was already in my eyes—cold, unwavering, merciless.
He barely got to his feet before I kicked him in the ribs. Hard. He went down again, gasping for air.
That's when his friends jumped in.
"Get him!" one of them shouted.
The first guy lunged at me from the side. Sloppy. Predictable. I stepped aside and drove my elbow into the side of his head, sending him sprawling into a pile of crates.
Another one grabbed my arm, trying to hold me back. I twisted hard, breaking his grip, then slammed an uppercut into his face. Blood burst from his nose as he staggered backward.
A third charged, fists swinging like a madman. I ducked under the first punch and drove a fist into his gut. He folded. As he gasped for air, I grabbed his head and hurled him to the ground.
Jason groaned behind me, dragging himself up again. His face was already swollen.
"You bastard!" he screamed, charging at me with wild, angry fists.
I dodged everything. He was all rage, no control. It was almost pitiful. Almost.
I stepped inside his reach and buried a fist into his stomach. He doubled over, gagging. I followed with a sharp knee to his chin that sent him flying backward.
More footsteps. More bodies.
I didn't stop.
One got a sweeping kick to the legs—I felt the air shift as he flew.
Another rushed me and caught a hook to the jaw. Lights out. He dropped instantly.
In minutes, it was over.
They were all down. Groaning. Bleeding. Useless.
I stood over them, chest heaving, fists throbbing with pain and blood. The wind on the rooftop brushed against my skin, cool and gentle, almost mocking. My heart pounded like war drums in my ears.
And then I heard a voice.
"What the hell happened here?"
I turned slowly.
A tall guy—older, probably a senior—was standing at the edge of the rooftop. He looked from me to the pile of bodies, disbelief etched on his face. He stepped forward cautiously, like he wasn't sure if I was going to hit him too.
"What did you do?" he asked, voice low but serious.
I didn't respond. My fists were still clenched. My body still humming with rage. His presence didn't matter to me.
He came closer, placing a hand on my shoulder like he was in charge.
I spun fast and punched him square in the face. The sound of it was satisfying. He stumbled backward, clutching his jaw, stunned.
"You'll regret that," he growled.
Maybe I would.
But not today.
I turned my back on him and walked away.
I didn't look at the bodies. I didn't say a word. I just walked—down the stairs, through the empty hallway, my breath heavy but steady.
I didn't stop until I found the restroom. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they couldn't make up their mind.
I approached the sink, fists still clenched. My knuckles were torn, skin raw and broken. Blood clung to my hands, dried in patches and wet in others.
I turned the tap and let the cold water run.
When I finally placed my hands under the stream, it stung like hell. I didn't flinch. I watched the blood swirl down the drain in thin red trails.
Steam fogged the cracked mirror in front of me.
I exhaled, long and slow, and lifted my head.
I looked like hell. Face blank. Eyes empty. Like something hollow was always staring back at me.
The fight was over, but the weight never left. It never does.
You're probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Why I'm out here breaking bones like it's a sport. Why I didn't stop when they begged.
Well... stick around, and you'll find out.
Here's what you need to know.
Nobody—nobody—messes with June and gets away with it. I don't care who they are. I don't care how many of them there are.
Another thing?
People think I'm a guy.
I don't correct them. Why would I? My documents say Alexzander, not Alexandria. My clothes don't help. Neither does my voice.
Even my best friend thinks I'm just some weird quiet dude. She had a crush on me once. I told her I wasn't into girls, and she figured I was gay. Let her think that. It's easier.
It's my little secret.
And secrets? I'm full of them.