Mr. Peterson hadn't been on campus the day before.
A family emergency had pulled him away just after third period. But before he left, he made a quick stop by the gym office.
"Keep an eye on Liam Cooper today," he told Coach Daniels. "Just in case."
Daniels barely looked up from his clipboard. "Yeah, sure."
Peterson paused. His fingers tapped twice against the doorframe before he turned and walked off. There was an unease behind his usual composure. Something he couldn't quite put into words.
But when gym class rolled around and Adam shoved Liam into the lockers—hard enough for the sound to echo through the room—Coach Daniels stood at the far end of the court, lazily scribbling notes on a clipboard. He didn't even glance up.
After school, Liam didn't walk home alone.
Ryan, Theo, and Anika were already waiting on the front steps of the school, bags slung over their shoulders, expressions set.
"We're coming with you," Ryan said, casually, though his jaw was tight.
"Strength in numbers," Theo added, adjusting the straps on his backpack.
Liam gave a tired nod. He didn't argue. He couldn't.
They took the long way home—through quieter streets and over cracked sidewalks, deliberately avoiding the strip mall and alley where Adam's gang usually hung around. They talked about everything except what lingered between them.
By the time they reached Liam's house, the tension had faded—just slightly. His mother wasn't home, so they microwaved leftovers and gathered around the kitchen table, the sunlight casting long shadows through the window.
A plate of spaghetti turned into a full-blown debate.
"You guys seriously underrate Iron Man," Ryan said, gesturing with a fork.
"Overrated," Theo replied. "Peter Parker actually struggles. Tony just throws money at his problems."
"Into the Spider-Verse is literally art," Anika said, brushing spaghetti crumbs off her notes.
Liam laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. He forgot, for a little while, that there were people out there plotting his humiliation. That he was a walking target in someone else's kingdom.
For a few hours, he felt like a regular kid.
But the threat didn't vanish.
It waited.
And it was watching.
The next morning, something felt… off.
Liam could feel it the moment he stepped onto campus. Eyes lingered on him longer than usual. Conversations cut off mid-sentence when he passed by. Even the sound of his footsteps seemed louder in the hallway.
Someone muttered just loud enough as he walked by: "Shouldn't have opened your mouth."
His locker, which had been untouched since the start of the year, now bore a fresh Sharpie scrawl on the inside:
RAT.
He didn't react. He just closed it quietly and walked away.
During recess, Liam sat at the far edge of the soccer field, his chemistry notes resting uselessly in his lap. He didn't read them. He didn't need to. His focus was elsewhere—on the weight in his chest, on the knot in his stomach that hadn't loosened since yesterday.
He didn't hear Mr. Peterson approach until the man was standing beside him, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead.
"Hey, Liam," the teacher said evenly. "Can I ask—did anything happen yesterday during gym?"
Liam didn't answer right away. His lips parted, then closed again. He wanted to tell him—God, he wanted to. He wanted to spill everything. The shove. The threats. Coach Daniels' indifference. The laughter. The look in Adam's eyes.
But all he could see was Adam leaning in close, whispering: This isn't over.
"No, sir," Liam said finally, voice low. "Nothing happened."
Peterson didn't respond right away. He looked down at the boy, reading between the lines.
"You sure?"
Liam nodded once. His hands gripped the notebook in his lap.
Peterson stared for a moment longer. "All right," he said at last. "But if that changes… you come to me. No excuses."
"Yeah," Liam murmured, eyes on the grass.
Mr. Peterson walked away.
But someone had seen them talking.
A junior named Cole—eager to score favor with the popular crowd—spotted Liam sitting with Mr. Peterson and thought it worth sharing. By the time he reached the cafeteria, the story had grown legs.
"He was totally tattling."
"Peterson's his new daddy now."
Harper rolled her eyes when she heard it. "Figures. Kid can't even get shoved without crying to a grown-up."
She passed it to Oliver, who chuckled and relayed it to Jeremy. By last period, the story landed in Adam's lap—just in time to sour his mood.
"So he did go crying to the new teacher," Adam muttered, lounging in his desk chair.
Jessica snorted beside him. "Can't even take a shove without snitching."
By the end of the school day, the group had made their decision.
There would be no more warnings.
That afternoon, Liam's friends had club meetings and tutoring.
For the first time in two days, he walked home alone.
He kept his head down, earbuds in, trying to appear casual. Every shadow felt longer. Every face, a little more suspicious. He passed the gas station, the bookstore, the laundromat—
And then the alley.
He didn't see them at first.
But then—footsteps. The unmistakable shuffle of shoes behind him. Laughter. Low, and too close.
He turned.
Oliver was behind him. Jeremy to the left. Harper and Jessica leaned against the chain-link fence nearby, phones out, already recording.
And in front of him—blocking the sidewalk—stood Adam.
"I thought we had an understanding," Adam said, stepping forward like a villain from a movie. "You don't talk. We don't talk."
"I didn't say anything," Liam said quickly, backing up. "I swear—"
Adam got close. Too close. Nose to nose.
"Funny," he said, voice dangerous and calm, "because I heard you had a nice little heart-to-heart."
Oliver cracked his knuckles. Jeremy smirked. Harper flipped her camera sideways for a better angle.
"No more warnings," Adam whispered. "This time, you learn the lesson."
His fist curled.
Liam's chest tightened.
But—
Across the street, parked half-hidden behind a row of hedges, sat a dark gray car.
From the shadowed driver's seat, someone was watching.
Eyes behind tinted windows. Engine idling.