"Maria, don't worry. Since I went ahead and did it, I've got the confidence to handle whatever comes next."
Barry could sense the emotions spilling out from Maria's soul inside him—they were churning like crazy, which showed just how freaked out she really was.
He had no choice but to keep reassuring her.
"What if I buy some gifts as an apology and beg them to forgive me? Could that smooth things over? Everyone wins, and we just pretend like nothing ever happened."
Maria was thinking so innocently, the poor girl—always approaching things from that underdog perspective, like she was still the little nobody nobody cared about.
"I don't think that'll fly. If you actually did that, it might just scare them into dropping to their knees, begging you to let them off the hook and stop humiliating and messing with them."
Barry reasoned it out from his own point of view, piecing it together step by step.
Maria was out of ideas.
"Barry, is there any way to fix this mess? Please help me out—I'm begging you."
She was pleading, and what he'd done for her already went way beyond what she could wrap her head around.
"Why fix it? Didn't I handle it pretty well?"
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
"They started the whole thing, so getting their asses kicked is just what they deserved."
Barry finally figured out where the disconnect was.
Turns out Maria's mindset hadn't shifted yet—her worldview was still stuck in that small, timid box, always seeing the world through scared, shrinking eyes.
The crap she'd dealt with at this stage in life? To an adult, it was barely a blip—nothing that could derail your whole damn existence.
And for Barry? It was small potatoes.
He'd seen rivers of blood in his time; a little scuffle like this was everyday stuff, like grabbing a coffee run.
"Maria, you gotta have some faith in yourself. You're not that overlooked little girl anymore. I'll take care of you—just leave it to me."
"All you need to do is trust."
Barry's words carried that rock-solid certainty, and they finally calmed Maria down, washing over her like a wave of pure relief.
"So, what's your plan? Can you at least promise me no more elbows? Please?"
Maria was terrified it'd blow up even bigger—not just for the drama, but for her own rep. She whispered her plea to Barry.
"I've got my own rhythm, Maria. Relax—everything's gonna turn out fine, I promise. Alright, gotta focus on class now. Mic's off, no more chatting. Catch you after the bell."
In the classroom, "Maria" propped up an upside-down book on her desk—just to give a nod to the teacher up front—then slid over to her phone, scrolling through videos.
Ding-ding-ding!
The bell rang, signaling the end of class.
Lunchtime at last.
Time to grab some grub.
"Maria" strolled down the path all casual-like, catching folks sneaking glances, whispering and pointing behind her back.
Barry knew the word was out—his morning handiwork on the school bus had spread like wildfire.
Maria's rep as the "elbow queen" was out in the open now, no hiding it.
The whole grade was buzzing: she'd trained her ass off in revenge mode, binge-watching UFC fights every day, turning into this badass fighter chick who'd been low-key for ages... until she exploded onto the scene this morning.
Barry had scoped it all out on the school forums and group chats.
"Hold up—your doomsday's here, Maria."
Halfway down a sunny white corridor, four familiar faces blocked her path: Mark and his three buddies—Beck, Moore, and Anton.
But they'd leveled up their gear this time.
Black helmets on, decked out in black hockey jerseys, each gripping a hockey stick like it was going out of style.
They fanned out, cutting off her escape routes front and back. The bruises under their helmets from earlier hadn't even faded, but here they were, charging in for round two.
That morning's humiliation? It'd gone viral across the school—they were the punchline of every joke floating around.
So they'd teamed up, faces be damned, hell-bent on payback.
"Yaaah!"
Screams erupted as the crowd parted like the Red Sea, clearing space for the showdown.
This was prime-time entertainment—way better than the usual boring campus grind.
Onlookers weren't rushing off to lunch; nah, they planted their feet, snagging the best vantage points.
Phones flipped to camera mode, ready to capture the gold and blast it to their feeds.
"Flatten her, boys!" Mark snarled through his crooked mouth—the shameful souvenir "Maria" had left him with. He hated that stupid twist more than anything.
As the one who despised her most, Mark charged first.
He swung the hockey stick overhead, vowing to bash her face into a matching mess.
"You pathetic losers— even all four of you couldn't take me."
"Maria" tossed out the taunt all chill, sidestepping the swing with a quick foot pivot, then snapped a kick right into him.
Mark crumpled sideways, helmet or not, his skull cracking against the wall. Blood trickled from his nose anyway, the poor guy's luck running dry.
No time to mourn Mark—the next up was Beck, banking on his stick's reach. He gripped it tight and jabbed straight for Maria's gut.
"You're trash too."
With a smirk, "Maria" lifted her leg smooth as silk, timing it perfect to stomp down on the incoming stick.
Busted, kid!
Beck couldn't brake in time—the momentum yanked him forward. "Maria" drove her knee up, and boom—Beck ate the same fate as Mark.
A yelp, helmet flying off, body slamming the opposite wall with a thud, then bouncing back to flop face-first on the floor.
Two left.
Moore and Anton locked eyes, then bolted in opposite directions, legs pumping like mad.
"Hmph—trying to rabbit?"
Thwack!
Her shoe tip flicked up a stray helmet from the ground, popping it into the air. "Maria" juggled it a couple beats, then unleashed a killer mid-air volley.
Goal!
The helmet arced like a pro shot, nailing Moore's helmet dead-on.
Collision city—Moore dropped like a sack.
Over on the other side.
A hockey stick whirled like a chopper blade, low and fast, chasing down fleeing Anton.
Right foot up, left foot snagged by the pursuing stick.
No shocker—the last guy went down too.
He sprawled out in a heap, skidding across the slick floor for a good few yards.
"Anyone else?"
"Maria's" challenge hit the air like a mic drop, and the crowd lost it—screams, cheers, flashes popping non-stop.
"Kung fu!"
"That was badass!"
"So cool—teach me!"
"..."
Nobody gave a damn about Mark and his crew's wipeout. They weren't exactly saints to begin with—hell, some folks secretly rooted for them getting tuned up, clapping like it was justice served.
What was supposed to be their big redemption arc? Just piled on more epic fails.
Humiliated to their cores, they slunk off without so much as a tough-guy line.
With a cocky hair flip—style still flawless—"Maria" sauntered toward the cafeteria.
She was strutting like she owned the place, every eye glued to her.
Along the way, a bunch of students who'd just witnessed the live show came up, dying to know who taught her those moves, what style it even was.
Some were straight-up asking when she'd go pro—they'd front the ticket price to cheer her on.
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