The final bell rang, and students spilled from the academy's doors like fish released from a net—laughing, chatting, phones in hand, bags slung lazily over shoulders. Damon moved through the crowd without a word, his steps measured, steady. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting warm streaks of orange across the pavement as he turned down a quieter path that wound between the back of the gym and the old fencing court—his usual route home.
The air was cooling, and for a moment, it felt peaceful.
Then he heard footsteps.
Heavy and deliberate, boots scraping against pavement, the sound of a soda can being kicked aside.
He didn't stop. Not right away.
But when the shadows stretched long and blocked the sidewalk ahead, he slowly came to a halt.
There were four of them.
And at the center, as Damon expected, stood Sean Donovan.
His academy jacket was half-zipped, fists clenched, a faint bruise still darkening his jaw—faint, but unmistakable. The same one Damon had left there.
"Going somewhere, champion?" Sean asked, stepping forward.
Damon's eyes flicked over the group, then settled calmly on Sean. "Home."
Sean smirked. It wasn't a friendly one.
"Not yet, you're not."
Damon sighed inwardly. Of course.
He'd known this would come. Sean was too proud, too loud, and too obsessed with image to let what happened yesterday go unchallenged. And here they were—his little court of loyal followers, none as talented, but all eager to share the heat of Sean's misplaced fury.
"You think you're hot shit now, huh?" Sean continued, pacing in front of him like a wolf deciding which leg to chew off first. "One lucky win and suddenly you think you're better than me?"
Damon didn't move. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to," Sean snapped. "You humiliated me in front of everyone. You made me look like a damn joke."
"You made yourself look like a joke," Damon said quietly.
One of Sean's boys stepped forward, jaw tight, but Sean held up a hand to stop him. His eyes never left Damon.
"You know what burns me the most?" Sean said, voice low. "It's not that you won. It's that now they want you to represent the school. The inter-school tournament—my spot. That's mine."
"It has always been like that" Damon replied, still calm.
Sean let out a bitter laugh, stepping closer. "You stole it. That was supposed to be my future. My spotlight."
Damon looked at him then, really looked. The puffed-up chest, the clenched jaw, the wild frustration in his eyes. It wasn't just anger. It was fear. Fear of fading into the background. Of no longer being the big name in the halls.
"You're pissed because you lost," Damon said simply. "You're a sore loser."
Sean's face twisted.
"I said let me go," Damon continued, his voice quiet but firm. "It's over."
Sean scoffed. "Over? You think this is over? This isn't just about a damn match, Graves. This is about respect. About reputation. You think I'm gonna let some quiet nobody with a stick-figure body take everything I built?"
Damon's fingers twitched at his side, just once.
Still calm.
But underneath that stillness, something sharp was starting to rise.
"I don't care about your reputation," Damon said, his voice like a low tide. "And I didn't take anything. I earned it."
Sean took a step closer, their faces inches apart now. Damon didn't flinch.
"You think you're better than me?" Sean growled.
"No," Damon replied. "I know I beat you."
Sean's nostrils flared.
"You're a sore loser," Damon said again, slower this time. "A scared little boy who can't handle being second."
Sean's fists clenched at his sides, his glare burned like the sun. His chest rose and fell in quick bursts, his fists trembling with restraint—or rage.
The others stood behind him, silent but ready. Their presence wasn't just for intimidation. They were there in case things got out of hand. But Damon wasn't focused on them. His eyes stayed locked on Sean.
And for a second—just a second—he saw past the bravado.
Past the ego.
He saw the weight behind Sean's fury.
Because Damon understood.
He really did.
Sean wasn't just angry that he lost. He was angry because this year was supposed to be his crowning moment. The fourth year in a row. No one had ever done that before. Three wins already under his belt. Everyone had said it—teachers, students, even the damn school newspaper: Sean Donovan, the future legend. The first student to represent the academy four consecutive times in the interschool karate tournament. And maybe… just maybe… the first to win all four.
He was so close.
Damon understood the kind of pressure that built around that kind of expectation. The spotlight, the whispers, the need to keep proving yourself again and again. The weight of being the symbol of strength. The face of the school.
Then Damon came along.
Quiet, lean, and unexpected.
And just like that—everything Sean had built came crashing down.
He could see why Sean was pissed.
But understanding it didn't mean he had to like what Sean was saying.
"You stole my future."
Those words rang in his head louder than they should have.
Damon didn't reply. Not right away.
He just stood there, jaw set, a quiet breath pushing through his nose.
He didn't like that word—stole.
It twisted the truth.
Made his victory sound like a crime.
He hadn't stolen anything.
He had earned it.
Every bruise. Every hour spent training while the world thought he was nothing more than the quiet boy in the back of the class. Every lesson in discipline, every painful fall, every moment of doubt he had swallowed in silence.
Sean's future wasn't taken.
It was lost.
And Damon… well, he was simply the one who showed up ready.
But still, the way Sean said it…
Like Damon had broken something sacred.
Like he didn't belong.
Like he was just some thief in the night.
It sat wrong with him.
Deeply.
Because if anyone knew what it meant to fight for something—to really fight for it—it was Damon.
He had fought in silence his whole life.
And he wouldn't apologize for finally being seen.