Changing to normal clothes

The hazing ended as suddenly as it had started, like a cheap prank losing steam.

Good.

Glenn stood there for a few seconds, just breathing. His hands still trembled slightly as he peeled off the violet bikini bottom. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the Ziploc bag his mom always packed “just in case.”

The cold spray of the shower helped. A moment of stillness. A moment where no one was laughing, watching, or judging.

After rinsing off, he towelled himself dry and pulled on his usual boxer briefs, then his school uniform—each layer dulling the sting of what just happened. But as he zipped up his bag, he caught another glimpse of the bikini top.

It sat there, folded and untouched, like a taunt.

Why did she pack that?

Was it some kind of backup? A mistake? A joke? He couldn’t tell anymore. And that unsettled him more than anything.

He zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder.

When he stepped out of the cubicle, the changing room was empty.

No boys. No noise. Just wet tile and fluorescent lights.

He headed across campus to the detention room—what the school called the “holding zone.” It was a small, quiet room in the admin block with metal chairs, a whiteboard, and one old oscillating fan that clacked every few seconds.

Glenn was the last to arrive.