The concept of education is misguided. At least, from my perspective.
High school especially.
Seriously, who was the genius that decided to cram a bunch of snot-nosed teenagers into a stuffy room, toss in one adult who gave up on their own future years ago, and call it "shaping the next generation"? If hell had a waiting room, I was pretty sure it would look a lot like my school's homeroom.
With my hands in my pockets, and bag strap slung diagonally across my shoulder, I walked through the open iron gates along with a stream of other half-awake students.
Shoes scuffed against pavement. Laughter mixed with yawns. Phones were already out, thumbs moving faster than brains.
The only good thing about waking up early every morning and coming to this godforsaken place was the walk in.
The morning breeze brushed against my face, feeling cool and gentle, like it was apologizing on the world's behalf. And above the path lining the school grounds, cherry blossoms.
They were in full bloom.
Soft pink petals drifted lazily through the air, catching the sunlight just right. For a brief moment, everything felt… quiet and peaceful. Almost worth it.
I breathed in and smirked. Yeah. I could deal with this.
"Haha! Let's throw him inside the trash!"
The words sliced through the atmosphere like a brick through glass.
Peace never lasts.
I sighed before I even saw what was happening. As soon as I stepped past the gate, the scene unfolded exactly the way I already knew it would.
Seven familiar guys.
Six of them were holding someone I recognized immediately, Peter. My 'close' friend. Skinny, nervous, and permanently unlucky Peter.
The seventh was pulling a large garbage can on wheels toward them, grinning like he was about to win a medal for creativity.
I stopped walking.
Of course.
This—this—was the reality of our education system. Put together a bunch of kids who think they own the world, lock them in the same place for years, and watch the egos inflate until they start thinking cruelty is entertainment.
Honestly, I felt like helping Peter.
But I'd seen this exact situation play out so many times that I'd grown tired of it.
That probably made me a bad person. Or a realistic one. Hard to tell these days.
They grabbed Peter's limbs and started lifting him, headfirst, toward the open trash can.
"No—no, please—please don't! I'll give you money!" Peter's voice cracked. "Not the trash, please!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears.
They laughed. Sneered. Took their time like this was a performance.
Idiots. All of them.
A sizeable crowd had already formed, students slowing down, pretending not to stare while very obviously staring. Most just walked by like it was another normal morning.
I sighed again.
My bag slipped off my shoulder and hit the pavement with a dull thud.
"Fuck it," I muttered.
For some reason, I was feeling oddly heroic today.
I already knew I was going to regret this. Or someone else was going to make me regret it. Probably both.
God, I'm such an idiot.
My feet moved before my brain finished listing all the reasons I shouldn't get involved.
They never saw me coming.
Percy was holding onto Peter's left leg. I stepped in and drove my fist straight into his gut.
"Ooof!"
The sound he made was deeply satisfying. His eyes went wide, face folding in on itself as he staggered back, completely unable to process what had just happened—or who would dare.
Oscar had his arms hooked around Peter's shoulders. I swung my leg at his feet, kicking them out from under him, and drove my elbow into his chest as he fell.
He hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Two down.
The rest finally realized something was wrong.
They dropped Peter and the trash can, spinning toward me with curses and wide eyes.
"Jack?! You're dead!" Tryne shouted. "Trying to save your buddy?!"
His words didn't slow me down. They never could.
Unlike what they probably believed, I hadn't watched them bully Peter for two years because I was afraid of them.
I was just lazy.
Absolutely complacent and unbothered by everything around me. I don't act unless I feel like it.
Today?
I felt like it.
Andrew rushed me. My fist met his cheekbone, and I might have felt a crunch. Hard to say.
"Ahhh!"
He went down clutching his face, rolling across the pavement in pain.
A hand grabbed for my shoulder. I ducked beneath it instinctively.
Ray.
The broad-shouldered, muscle-brained captain of the school's football team.
He swung again. I caught his wrist, yanked hard, stepped in, hooked my leg behind his, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first into the ground.
Four down.
Tryne came at me next, fury written all over his face.
I was ready.
His face crashed into my waiting fist.
Crunch.
The sound made my stomach twist, but his nose definitely broke on impact. He collapsed, screaming, blood already pouring between his fingers.
That left one.
Quinton.
The guy with the trash can.
He hadn't even finished moving by the time six of his friends were on the ground. To him, I probably looked impossibly fast—like I was skipping frames of reality.
He stood there frozen, eyes wide, pupils trembling.
"What the fuck…?" he whispered.
"Hooo…" I breathed out slowly and walked toward him.
He took a step back, tripped over his own feet, and landed hard on his ass. Panic took over as he started crawling backward on his hands.
Lucky for him, I couldn't be bothered.
I turned away and helped Peter to his feet.
"I got you," I said.
He stared at me like I'd just crawled out of a horror movie.
"Jack…" His voice shook. "Holy shit."
I smiled—or at least what I thought was a smile. Judging by his expression, I probably looked like the devil incarnate.
"You beat the crap out of them," he said weakly.
That was when I finally noticed the silence.
And then the phones.
Hundreds of them.
All pointed at me.
"Great," I muttered. "Looks like I'm going to be on everyone's Insta today."
Whispers erupted instantly.
"Did you see that?"
"That guy's crazy."
"He beat all of them in seconds."
What's worse—every single one of them was still filming.
There goes my peaceful day.
Behind me, the seven guys I'd put down were already starting to groan and stir. I doubted they'd try anything else—assuming they had enough brain cells left to realize they were completely outmatched.
I exhaled and rubbed the back of my neck.
Yeah.
This was definitely going to come back and bite me.
I just didn't know yet that this stupid decision—this single moment of impulsive heroics—was the last normal morning I'd ever have.
And that by the end of the day, Zack Morrison would no longer belong to this world at all.