Alex's POV:
I walked into the locker room, my steps slow and heavy. Every muscle in my body ached, my fists still clenched tight from the adrenaline. Sweat clung to my skin like a second layer. I didn't bother lingering. I stripped off my bloodstained clothes, changed into a clean hoodie and jeans, and walked out of the arena without a backward glance. The crowd's roar faded behind me, replaced by the hum of the night air and the echo of my footsteps on the pavement.
Each step toward my bike felt like a release, a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The fight was over. For now.
I hopped onto my ride and revved the engine. The low growl beneath me soothed the chaos in my head. I rode through the silent streets, letting the cold wind kiss my face. For a few minutes, everything felt still. Calm. Empty—but in a way that didn't hurt.
I pulled into a small convenience store on a quiet street, hood up. Grabbed some noodles, water, bread. The clerk didn't ask questions. Just rang me up. I paid in silence, bag in hand, and stepped back outside.
That's when I saw them.
Leaning against my motorcycle like they owned it—Jason and his little pack. Four of them. All in street clothes. All grinning like they couldn't wait to taste blood.
"Well, well," one of them sneered. "Look who we have here. Pretty boy himself."
I didn't answer. I scanned the group, kept my face blank, and shifted the groceries in one hand. I tried walking past them. Hoped, stupidly, that they'd let it go.
They didn't.
"Hey, hold up," the same guy said, stepping into my path. "We were sent here to give you a message. Jason says hi—and to watch your back."
I didn't get a chance to move.
A fist slammed into my ribs.
Another hit my jaw. The bag slipped from my hand, noodles and bread scattering on the wet pavement. I staggered, vision blurring, but I didn't fight back. I didn't even lift my hands.
They kept coming. Punches to the gut. Kicks to my back. One of them slammed me in the head from behind, and I hit the ground hard. I curled slightly. Not to shield myself—just instinct. I was so tired. Not just in my body, but down in my bones. I'd wanted a quiet night. A meal. Silence.
Instead, this.
"Pathetic," one muttered, spitting near my face. "Let's go. He's not even worth it."
Their laughter echoed behind them as they walked away.
I stayed there a while, my face pressed against the cold pavement. Rain from earlier had left it slick. My body throbbed, my thoughts numb. After a few minutes, I groaned, pushed myself up, and gathered the groceries. Most were torn. Some soaked through. I limped home without a word.
The next morning, I showed up to class.
My face was bruised and swollen, a cut on my lower lip, purple splotches painting my cheek and neck. I moved like every inch of me screamed. Because it did.
The moment June saw me, she shot up from her seat.
"Alex!" she gasped, rushing toward me. "Oh my God, what happened to you?! Who did this?"
I dropped my bag by the desk and sat down slowly. "I'm okay, June," I muttered, voice hoarse. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry?!" she practically shouted. "Look at you! You didn't even put medicine on this, did you?"
She was right. I hadn't. I'd gone home, showered, eaten crushed noodles, and collapsed. When I woke up, it hurt to breathe.
Without warning, she grabbed my arm and pulled me up.
"Come with me."
"Where are we going?" I groaned.
"The rooftop."
She didn't let go. Just marched us upstairs and shoved the door open. The rooftop air was cool and quiet. She sat me down on the bench.
"Sit. Don't move."
I sighed and leaned back, letting the sun hit my face. Didn't help the pain much.
She disappeared for a moment and returned with a first-aid kit and a bag of ice. No idea how she convinced the nurse. She knelt beside me and started unpacking supplies.
"Take off your hoodie," she said softly.
I hesitated. "It's fine. Really."
"Alex."
I looked at her. She wasn't mad. Just… hurting. For me.
I sighed and slowly peeled off the hoodie. My white shirt underneath was ripped at the sleeve and stained with a bit of dried blood. Her face twisted when she saw it.
"You let them do this to you…" she whispered, eyes glossy. "Why?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because I didn't know.
She opened the antiseptic and dabbed it gently on my cheek. I winced.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I'll be gentle."
She worked carefully, her hands soft, her touch so light it barely stung. But it did something else. It chipped away at the cold, the weight inside me. She glanced at me now and then, her eyes checking for pain. My face stayed still. But inside… I was softening.
She held an ice pack to my jaw and frowned.
"You need to stop getting hurt like this," she murmured. "I'm not going to keep patching you up forever."
I met her eyes. "You don't have to."
"I know," she whispered. "But I want to."
Silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… real. The wind brushed past. Somewhere below, someone laughed.
June sat beside me, knees hugged to her chest.
"You never tell me anything," she said. "You always bottle everything up. Why?"
"Because it's easier," I answered. "Because I don't know how to explain what's going on in my head."
"You don't have to explain," she whispered. "Just… don't push me away. I'm here, okay? Even if you don't want me to be."
I didn't say anything. But I didn't move either.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, careful to avoid the bruises.
And for the first time in a long time… I didn't feel completely alone.
Maybe I was still broken. Still haunted. But in that moment—on that rooftop, with the sun on my face and her warmth at my side—I felt something I hadn't in years.
Safe.