Classes started the next day like a slap to the face.

I barely walked five steps into the room before all the noise died. Dead silence. Eyes turned. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The entire classroom was staring at me like I had two heads—or worse, like I didn’t belong.

Which, let’s be honest, I didn’t.

The classroom itself looked like a forgotten storage unit. The walls were painted a depressing shade of grey, covered with faded graffiti and weird pencil sketches students had scribbled over time. A busted ceiling fan spun lazily above, making a dull clicking sound that somehow made the silence worse.

And guess what? Nobody—and I mean nobody—was wearing the damn school uniform.

Except me.

Black and white. Neat and tucked. I looked like I’d been dropped here straight from a brochure. And these kids? They looked like they’d been surviving a war.

Chains clinked softly as students shifted in their seats. Every single one of them had a chain—either hanging from their necks or wrapped tight around their wrists. Some were silver, others dull bronze. A few glittered like gold. But all of them had numbers.

Me? Nothing but a collarbone and bad timing.

As I walked past the desks, I caught the smirks, the whispering, the not-so-subtle glances.

Then I spotted one empty seat near a red-haired guy with headphones shoved deep in his ears. He wasn’t yelling or throwing stuff like the others. Just sitting there, nodding slightly to whatever was playing.

So I sat.

He glanced sideways, pulled out one earbud, and frowned. “Seat’s taken.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t see anyone sitting here.”

A tiny smirk tugged at his lips. “Name’s Archer.”

I looked at his outstretched hand, then ignored it entirely. “Camille. Nice meeting you. Now stop bothering me.”

His grin widened like I’d just confirmed something for him.

Before he could say anything back, the teacher walked in—middle-aged, wearing a frayed tie and a forced smile. He made a beeline straight toward me.

“You’re new, right?” he asked, already fishing for drama.

I nodded once. “Yup.”

“Mind introducing yourself to the class?” he said, but the way he said it made it clear I didn’t have a choice.

God, I hated this part.

“Yeah. I mind.”

He smiled like he didn’t hear that. “Introduce yourself, Miss Jones.”

I sighed and stood up, ignoring the stares as I walked to the front. Took a deep breath, then let the sarcasm roll.

“Camille Jones. Pleasure meeting you all. And in advance—don’t bother me.”

A few students let out low whistles. Some actually gasped. Like they hadn’t heard honesty before.

Then came the voice from the back—blond guy with a fake grin plastered across his face. “What’s your cup sugar size?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Like, your bra—”

“Thirty-four—fuck you,” I said sharply, flipping him off before the sentence finished.

His smile dropped.

The teacher stepped in fast. “Miss Jones, language. Go back to your seat.”

I didn’t apologize. I just walked back, face straight, fists unclenched. Archer leaned sideways and whispered with a grin, “We’re definitely gonna be friends.”

I didn’t respond. Because I’d already made a vow before coming to this hellhole:

No friends. No feelings. No strings.

But I needed answers about my brother. And that meant I’d have to break my own rule eventually.

“Thanks for the intro, Miss Jones,” the teacher said dryly.

I smiled without smiling. “You’re welcome.”

---

I barely paid attention in class after that. My thoughts kept drifting. To the chains. The whispers. The number on Archer’s. The smug looks. I didn’t even notice when the class ended until Archer tapped my desk.

“Come on. Cafeteria.”

I didn’t even argue. Hunger beat my pride.

---

The cafeteria was packed and loud, smelling like cheap oil and soggy rice. Voices clashed with clattering trays. We squeezed through the noise until we found a spot at the edge of the room.

“You want pasta?” Archer asked, lifting his tray.

I looked down at my food—white rice, or something that was supposed to be rice. It looked undercooked and overboiled at the same time.

“I want answers.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The chain,” I said, nodding at the number 30 hanging from his neck. “They say it comes with… messy consequences.”

“Kinda,” he said, chewing slowly.

“Kinda?”

He put his spoon down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You don’t have a number, Camille. That makes you... unofficial.”

I leaned forward, voice low. “Define unofficial.”

He scanned the room before answering. “It means people can mess with you. Use you. Hurt you. And technically, it doesn’t count.”

I stared at him.

He sighed. “I got mine in a fight. Won. Barely. Spent two months with a busted leg. Worst days of my life.”

“Have people died for it?”

He froze, brows pulling together. “Why?”

“Can’t I be curious?”

“A few,” he said quietly.

Before I could press him, a loud, rough voice rang out from the front of the cafeteria, slicing through all the noise.

“Yo. I don’t need to waste my time, do I?”

The buzz dropped instantly. Like someone hit mute.

A huge guy—definitely a student—stood on a table like it was a stage. Brown undercut. Smug smirk. Chain with a glowing Number 3 around his neck. Two boys flanked him like bodyguards.

Archer groaned.

“What is this?” I asked, watching the tension ripple across the room.

“This is the dirty part I told you about,” Archer said under his breath. “We should sneak out.”

“Why?”

“No chain makes you a target.”

And like on cue, a line of students—those without chains—started getting up and walking forward like soldiers. Quiet. Afraid.

And then... they all looked at me.

Oh.

Hell no. I didn’t move. I just sat and stared, heart pounding.

The guy on the table—Spencer—scanned the room. “Is that all?”

He spotted me and jumped down from the table, walking over with slow, theatrical steps.

“Weren’t you informed, pretty?” he asked with a smirk that made my stomach turn.

“About what?” I asked calmly.

He chuckled and looked at Archer. “Didn’t tell her?”

“Fuck off, Spencer,” Archer snapped.

“Why do I need to come out?” I cut in, shutting their stare war short.

Spencer raised his chain. “No number means no student. That’s the rule.”

I stood. “Who made that rule?”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “You’re feisty.”

“You didn’t answer.”

He stepped closer, brushing a hand against my cheek. “Do I need to?”

I slapped his hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll break your jaw.”

Spencer tensed—but not out of fear. He looked excited.

Archer moved fast, stepping between us. “She’s new, Spencer. Chill the hell out!”

That’s when it happened.

Spencer punched Archer.

No warning. No hesitation. Just—bam.

Archer’s head snapped to the side, stumbling backward, stunned.

Gasps. Screams. Chairs scraping. Phones recording.

I saw red.

“If you have a problem, take it out on me,” I growled, stepping forward. Cause what I the actual hell!?

Spencer grinned widely .“Gladly.”

Then his hand cracked across my face.

A hot, sharp sting bloomed on my cheek, my head jerking sideways with the force of it. For half a second, everything tilted—sound muffled, lights swimming. My skin burned where his palm landed, and the taste of copper crept into my mouth.

Gasps.

Screams.

Phones up.

Chairs screeched across the floor like a stampede trying to make space for chaos.

I didn’t think.

I lunged.

My fist slammed into his shoulder first—more bone than aim. He stumbled back a step, surprised but not hurt. His smirk returned fast.

“You wanna play?” he said, low and thrilled.

His knuckles came flying—one jab, two, fast and practiced. I ducked the second, but the first caught my ribs, thudding like someone dropped a brick against my side. Pain flared, white-hot and breath-stealing.

I shoved forward, gritting my teeth, letting my elbow drive into his chest. He grunted, but barely flinched. The guy was built like a wall. Still—his eyes gleamed with something close to respect. Or maybe hunger.

We circled each other, breath heavy.

The room was a blur of movement—some kids cheering, others yelling for staff, a few just filming like it was a free pay-per-view show.

Spencer swung again—wild and cocky.

This time I ducked under and landed a hit.

Right hook. Jaw. Hard.

His head snapped sideways, spit flying. I saw the moment his expression shifted—less amused now, more pissed.

He grabbed my wrist, yanked me close, and raised his other hand like he was ready to finish it.

But before he could—

A hand grabbed mine from behind.

Tight. Cold. Immovable.

“Enough,” a voice said. Low. Dangerous. Final.

It wasn’t the slap that silenced the cafeteria.

It was Him.