Chapter 41 Strange Things
“I…” I hesitated, fingers tightening around my strawberry drink. “I thought coffee was for adults.”
That did it. He smirked, turning his face aside and lifting a hand to mask his mouth. The laughter that escaped him was low, quiet, almost disbelieving. “Adults?” he echoed, shaking his head. “No, Lexie. Coffee is for anyone. And for the record…” he leaned back, eyes glinting, “I prefer it over tea.”
“You are so old-fashioned,” I countered, lifting my strawberry drink and taking a long sip to erase the lingering bitterness the coffee had left in the air.
“Perhaps,” he said, resting an elbow on the table, fingers grazing his chin thoughtfully, “I simply carry an older soul.”
My lips curled into a small grin. “Well, old soul or not… you keep surprising me.”
He exhaled through his nose, feigning indifference, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
My eyes drifted toward the paper beneath his hand. “What’s this?” I asked, already lifting it.
“That,” he said, watching me with a mix of caution and amusement, “is a poem.”
“A poem?” I echoed, genuinely intrigued now. “You write poems, too?”
“My fourteenth,” he corrected, lifting a finger slightly as though numbering them in the air.
“Wow, Oliver.” I shook my head slowly. “You are a chest of locked curiosities.”
He plucked the paper gently from my hand, smoothing it flat before stacking it with the others. “I’ll assume you meant that kindly.”
I raised both palms slightly. “I did.”
“So how’d your meeting go?”
I opened my mouth to reply when—
A scream tore through the hall.
A sharp, brutal, human sound.
I turned abruptly. A boy staggered backward near the table, clutching his hand, blood blooming between his fingers. On the floor lay the evidence: an index finger severed clean at the knuckle.
And Marcus stood there, swaying slightly, a blood-slicked knife dangling loosely from his grip.
{BEFORE THE INCIDENT}
Marcus sat alone at the far end of the cafeteria, shoulders squared, body still, head slightly lowered toward his tray. His lunch remained untouched, steam long faded from the food.
His skin looked drained of warmth, almost paper-white, and his eyes were deeply shadowed, hollow in a way that suggested sleepless nights piling up behind them. He didn’t look around. Didn’t blink often. Didn’t react. He simply existed in a rigid silence that made the air around him feel heavier.
Then Felix approached.
Tall, broad-shouldered, final-year confidence built into every step. His shoes tapped loudly against the wooden floor, announcing his arrival like a deliberate performance. Two friends trailed behind him, Grey to his left, Grey’s laugh already loose before any joke landed.
“Guys,” Felix smirked, jerking his chin toward Marcus, “take a look at this dude.”
The boys snickered.
Grey leaned in slightly, arms folded. “He confessed his feelings for Sally during the final trials… then poof,” he snapped his fingers, “vanished for days.”
Laughter burst from the trio again, sharp and cruel, bouncing across the hall.
But Marcus didn’t flinch.
Not a twitch or a breath caught. Not even the tightening of a jaw. His silence didn’t read like fear, more like detachment.
Felix noticed.
The laughter slowed as confusion crept into his expression. He stepped closer, leaning over Marcus now, looming like a storm cloud casting itself deliberately over someone’s day.
“Trying to be dark and mysterious now?” the boy behind Felix sneered.
Still nothing from Marcus.
Felix reached out, grabbed a fistful of Marcus’ hair, and yanked his head back. Marcus’ neck stretched with the force, but his body didn’t crumble. His gaze lifted, slow, eerily calm, and met Felix’ eyes dead-on.
Felix grimaced. “This guy looks sick,” he muttered, almost uneasy now. “He needs water. Grey, give me yours.”
Grey didn’t hesitate. “Sure, boss,” he laughed, passing the can.
Felix twisted the cap open, held Marcus’ jaw slightly, and tipped the water toward his mouth. “Drink. Maybe it’ll return some color to your corpse face.”
The can pressed against Marcus’ lips.
Felix poured.
The water rushed down Marcus’ throat, spilling violently past his chin, soaking into his shirt, drenching fabric and pooling onto the floor. Cold trails ran down his clothes, but Marcus didn’t resist. Didn’t choke. Didn’t gasp. His stare remained locked on Felix like a statue that refused to break character even when attacked by humiliation.
Felix finished the can, crushed it slightly in his hand, and threw it to the floor. It clattered loudly.
“Not enough?” Felix scoffed, grabbing his milk cup next. Without waiting for a reply, he splashed it over Marcus’ shoulder and chest. White liquid streaked downward, mixing with the earlier spill. The smell of milk and metal-cold cafeteria air blended into something nauseating.
Marcus didn’t move.
Felix pushed his head once. Then jabbed a finger at him, voice lowering into a warning tone. “Who do you think you are, huh?”
That was when Marcus’ hand shifted.
Slow at first, then precise.
He reached for the small knife beside his tray, the one used for cafeteria fruit cutting, short, harmless-looking.
Until it wasn’t.
Marcus grabbed it, stood abruptly, and moved faster than anyone anticipated. Before Felix could step back, Marcus swung his arm and sliced Felix’ extended index finger clean off.
A beat of disbelief.
Then Felix screamed.
A raw, tearing sound that cracked the cafeteria’s uneasy calm wide open. Chairs screeched backward as students jumped to their feet. Trays rattled. Drinks trembled. Teachers rushed forward immediately, shouting orders to one another.
I stood from afar and spun toward the chaos.
“What’s going on?” I whispered under my breath, pulse kicking sharply in my ears.
Oliver stood too, following my gaze, expression unreadable but alert.
Marcus was pulled by two teachers toward the exit, but his eyes shifted over their shoulders, searching, feral, wild like a caged thing finally seeing daylight through cracks in a wall. When his eyes met mine, he ripped himself forward, teachers stumbling to keep up as he lunged in my direction, knife still gripped tightly in his fist.
Students parted instinctively.
Not out of respect, but fear.
I stepped back quickly, heel catching the uneven edge of a chair leg. My body wavered and I almost collapsed, arms flailing slightly to steady myself.
Marcus kept advancing.
Aggressive, focused, unstoppable.
Teachers yelled for reinforcements. More teachers flooded in. Just before Marcus reached me, a group of male teachers tackled him from the side. He thrashed violently, legs kicking, shoulders wrenching, teeth clenched with rage. But his eyes didn’t stay on me.
They never were on me.
They were aimed at someone behind me.
I turned sharply.
Oliver stood right behind me, calm as ever, lifting a hand to his face and gently plucking something from his eye, probably a contact lens or a stray lash. His posture stayed casual, unbothered.
Marcus snarled louder.
Oliver wasn’t the target.
I shifted my eyes further past him.
Then I saw Adrian, seated, body half-turned, eyes widened, breath shallow and uneven. Fear sat openly in his expression, unfiltered. Unlike Oliver, Adrian looked like someone who knew exactly what kind of danger was staring at him.
Marcus kept fighting to break free.