Chapter 57 Fifty seven
The hallway near the art wing was quieter than the main corridor—fewer lockers slamming, fewer voices overlapping. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching dust motes and turning them gold. Harper walked beside Manson in silence at first, arms crossed, steps measured. She didn’t want to be here, but curiosity—and maybe a small, stubborn part of her that still believed in second chances—had pulled her along.
Manson kept glancing at her, then away, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he stared too long.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. The words came out rough, like they’d been stuck in his throat since Saturday night.
Harper didn’t respond right away. She just kept walking, sneakers soft against the linoleum.
“I panicked,” he continued. “The beasts… the blood… I saw them coming and my brain just—shut down. Fight or flight, and I chose flight. I didn’t think. I just ran.”
He stopped walking.
She stopped too.
Turned to face him.
“You pushed me down,” she said quietly. No anger in her tone. Just fact. “Threw me in front of them like bait so you could get away.”
Manson winced.
“I know.”
“You left me there to die.”
“I know.”
Harper studied his face—bruised cheekbone still purple, shoulder wrapped under his hoodie, faint claw marks peeking at the collar. He looked smaller than he ever had. Less like the cocky boy who’d smirked at her across the cafeteria, more like someone who’d finally seen what lived inside himself.
“I’ve replayed it a hundred times since Saturday,” he said. “Every time I close my eyes I see you on the floor. And every time I hate myself more.”
Harper exhaled through her nose.
“Why tell me this now?”
“Because I don’t want to be that person anymore.” He swallowed. “And because… Valentine’s Day is this week. And I’ve been thinking about asking you to be my Val for months. Before everything went to hell.”
Harper blinked.
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t deserve a chance. But I’m asking anyway. One date. Coffee. Whatever you want. Just… let me try to make it right.”
Harper stared at him.
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t snap. Just looked.
Before she could answer—
Footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate.
The One rounded the corner.
He stopped.
Looked between them.
“What are you two talking about?”
Manson flinched—visibly. His body remembered before his mind caught up: being lifted one-handed like a ragdoll, legs dangling, throat squeezed just enough to make breathing a privilege. He took an involuntary step back.
Harper turned.
The One’s eyes were black-rimmed again, but not fully black. Not yet. They flicked from Manson to Harper, then back.
Manson swallowed hard.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just… talking.”
The One stepped closer.
Manson retreated another step.
Harper moved slightly between them—instinct again.
“He was apologizing,” she said. Voice steady. “For Saturday.”
The One’s gaze settled on Manson.
“Apologizing,” he repeated. The word sounded amused. Dangerous.
Manson nodded jerkily.
“Yeah. I—I shouldn’t have run. Shouldn’t have pushed her. I’m sorry.”
The One tilted his head.
“You think sorry fixes that?”
Manson’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“I don’t. I just… wanted her to know.”
The One looked at Harper.
“You believe him?”
Harper met his eyes.
“I believe he’s scared,” she said. “And I believe he’s telling the truth right now.”
A beat of silence.
Then The One smirked.
“Generous.”
He stepped past her—slowly, deliberately—until he stood directly in front of Manson.
Manson backed up until his shoulders hit the lockers.
The One leaned in.
Low voice. Just for Manson.
“Touch her again—push her, leave her, even look at her wrong—and I won’t stop at lifting you next time. I’ll tear your spine out through your throat while you’re still breathing.”
Manson’s face went white.
The One straightened.
Smiled.
Then turned to Harper.
“Let’s go.”
He held out his hand.
Harper looked at Manson one last time.
“I’m not saying yes,” she told him quietly. “But I’m not saying never.”
Then she placed her hand in The One’s.
They walked away together.
Manson stayed pressed against the lockers until their footsteps faded.
Down the main hall, the crowd had thickened again—kids clustered around lockers, phones out, voices overlapping.
Near the water fountain, a smaller scene was unfolding.
A freshman girl—small, glasses slipping down her nose, backpack too big for her frame—was backed against a row of lockers. Three older girls stood in front of her, laughing, one of them holding the girl’s sketchbook high above her head.
“Come on, weirdo,” the tallest one taunted. “Jump for it.”
The girl reached up—hopelessly short.
The leader laughed harder.
“Pathetic.”
Kai, walking past with his backpack slung over one shoulder, stopped.
He looked at the girl.
Looked at the sketchbook.
Looked at the three girls.
Then he stepped forward.
“Hey,” he said. Voice calm. Firm. “Give it back.”
The leader turned.
Rolled her eyes.
“Mind your business, Blackthorn.”
Kai didn’t move.
“I said give it back.”
The girl with the sketchbook smirked.
“Make me.”
Kai sighed.
Then he moved—fast, smooth, like he’d done this a hundred times.
He reached up, plucked the sketchbook from her hand in one clean motion, and stepped between her and the freshman.
The leader blinked.
“What the—”
Kai turned to the girl.
“Here.”
He held the sketchbook out.
She took it with shaking hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Kai nodded once.
Then he looked at the three girls.
“Walk away,” he said.
They stared at him.
He stared back.
Something in his eyes—quiet, steady, unafraid—made them hesitate.
The leader huffed.
“Whatever. Freak.”
They turned and stalked off, laughing too loud to cover the embarrassment.
The freshman girl hugged the sketchbook to her chest.
Then—suddenly—she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Kai’s waist in a quick, fierce hug.
Kai froze.
Completely.
Arms out to the sides like he’d forgotten how they worked.
The girl squeezed once, then let go just as fast.
Face flaming.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just—thank you.”
Kai blinked.
Slowly lowered his arms.
“You’re… welcome.”
She ducked her head.
“I’m Lila,” she said softly.
“Kai.”
She smiled—small, shy.
Then hurried away, clutching her sketchbook like a shield.
Kai stood there a second longer.
Touched his side where she’d hugged him.
A faint flush crept up his neck.
Harper, who’d seen the whole thing from across the hall, smiled despite herself.
Catherine nudged her.
“Your stepbrother just became someone’s hero.”
Harper watched Kai shake his head, smile to himself, then keep walking toward class.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He’s good at that.”
The bell rang.
They hurried to catch up.
The One was already at the classroom door—leaning against the frame, arms crossed, waiting.
When Harper reached him, he pushed off the wall.
Fell into step beside her.
“Miss me?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes.
“You were gone for three minutes.”
“Felt longer.”
She didn’t answer.
But when his hand brushed hers—accidental, then not—she didn’t pull away.
They walked into class together.
Kai behind them.
The Terrible Four watched from the end of the hall.
Ryan’s fists were still clenched.
But he didn’t move.