Rachel approaches you again after class.

You’re rolling up your mat when you hear her behind you.

Towel slung over one shoulder, skin still flushed from the workout, hair pulled back in a way that makes her neck the star of the show. She doesn’t hurry.

“You picked a better spot this time.” Her mouth quirks. “Best view in the room.”

You grin. “You caught me.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Not even going to deny it?”

“Would it help if I said I’m here for self‑improvement?”

“No.”

“Then yeah,” you say. “It’s the view.”

That earns you a laugh.

“At least you’re honest,” she says, closing the distance by another step. “Most guys try to pretend they’ve had some spiritual awakening while staring at my ass.”

You shrug. “Why ruin a perfectly good excuse?”

Her towel slides against her shoulder as she shifts her weight. “So. That’s it? You just watch?”

“Depends who I’m watching,” you say.

She smiles. “Good answer.”

“Wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

She lingers instead of leaving, like she’s deliberately stretching out the moment to see what you’ll do with it.

“Front‑row works for you,” you say.

She tilts her head. “That sound like a compliment?”

“An observation.”

“You sure?”

You let your grin spread. “Would you like it better if it was?”

She laughs again, but it’s softer now, almost private. “Careful. Someone might think you’re actually good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Flirting.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

She gives you a look. “You’re really going to make me spell it out?”

“Maybe I like watching you work for it.”

Her hum is low, amused. Her eyes flick behind you. “Dangerous hobby.”

She brushes past you, close enough that her arm grazes yours, deliberate enough that you know it wasn’t an accident.

“See you around, back‑row,” she says without turning, voice carrying that little bite that makes it sound like a promise.

You watch her go, clock the sway in her step. You can feel Baldy's stare burning a hole in the back of your head.

That was intentional. You’re definitely asking Yvette for hazard pay.

The sun’s dropping by the time you leave the gym, the cooler bite of early evening feels good on your skin.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. You catch him almost immediately.

Baldy.

Stepping out a beat behind you, quiet enough not to draw attention, close enough that you know it isn’t coincidence.

You consider your options. Turn. Confront. Make a scene.

Instead, you keep walking. See where this is going.

The parking garage is quiet. The kind of place where footsteps echo too loud. Your Bolt looks like a teenager in a cheap suit next to the parade of luxury hybrids. You’re halfway to the driver’s side when you hear his voice.

“Nice ride,” Baldy says. Of course, you should have expected that.

You glance over. He’s leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed. His casual looks like other people’s loaded guns.

“Thanks,” you say, easy.

He jerks his chin toward the Bolt. “Bit out of place, though. Fancy gym like this. All these fancy cars... Kind of like you.”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “Yeah, well. Dad’s punishing me. Wrecked my car joyriding, so now I’m stuck driving the shame wagon.”

It comes out with just the right mix of sheepish and entitled. You’ve seen enough frat boys in their natural habitat to know how to fake it.

He doesn’t buy it.

Not for a second.

His eyes skim the car, landing on the subtle paneling, the upgraded wheels, the aftermarket power unit tucked under the hood.

“This isn’t a junker,” he says, like he’s stating a fact. “It’s a sleeper. Aftermarket cells. Suspension work. Someone put time into it.”

You **** a laugh. “You know more about it than I do. I just drive the thing.”

His stare lingers a second too long, like he’s weighing whether to push further.

Then he does.

Baldy steps off the pillar, closing the distance with the slow, unhurried walk of someone who’s very sure of himself. His shadow swallows the space between you and the car.

“See, that’s the thing,” he says. “You don’t look like someone who drives a car like this. Don’t walk like it either.”

You **** a nervous laugh, leaning into the college‑kid act. “Guess I don’t meet the dress code.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“You local?” he asks.

“Yeah, man. Hook'em.” you say, too fast.

“Uh‑huh.” He stops just short of your personal space. “Are you pretending to be one like you're pretending you're a trust fund baby?”

You glance toward the car door, then back at him. “Look, man, I don’t know what your deal is—”

“Yeah, you do.” His voice drops, all pretense gone. “You’ve been watching. Asking questions. People like you always have a deal.”

You raise your hands slightly, palms out. “I just come here to stretch, man.”

He smiles at that. A small, sharp thing. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Then his hand lands on your shoulder. Not a grab. Not yet. Just weight. Testing. “Stretching’s good for you. Keeps the body loose. Helps you… stay out of trouble.”

You keep your voice light. “You threatening me over yoga?”

“Maybe.” He squeezes, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “Maybe I’m just curious what a kid like you thinks he’s doing here.”

You stay still. Play small. Pretend to fold. Until he squeezes your shoulder again.

You slap his hand off. A sharp, instinctive motion.

His smile drops, replaced with something uglier.

“Oh,” he says, voice quieter now. “There’s a little spine in there after all.”

He takes another step, and now there’s no space between you. You smell him — sweat, cheap cologne, and something metallic that doesn’t belong.

“You know,” he continues, “I was gonna let you walk. Write you off as another dumb kid with too much time and not enough sense. But then you had to go and do that.”

“That?” you ask, keeping your tone casual, but your pulse has already jumped.

“Touch me.” His head tilts slightly, like he’s inspecting a bug. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Look, man—”

“Don’t ‘look, man’ me.”

He shoves you. Not hard enough to knock you over, but enough to send the message.

“Who sent you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t play stupid. You don’t belong here. Not with that car, not with that fake‑ass story. So tell me who you’re working for, before I decide you don’t need to keep walking.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel his breath, warm and sharp. His hand comes up, jabbing a finger at your chest. “You got ten seconds.”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know what you think—”

And that’s when he grabs you.

Fist in your shirt, knuckles grinding into your collarbone, yanking you forward so fast your feet scrape concrete. His other hand draws back slightly — not a full punch yet, but the prelude.

“Wrong answer,” he growls.

You feel the tension in him, the coiled readiness. He’s not posturing anymore. He’s itching for an excuse.

You could play the scared college kid. Maybe. But it’s clear he doesn’t want to be convinced.

You swat his arm away again. Harder this time.

That surprises him.

Not enough to make him let go of the idea that he owns this encounter. But enough to see it. The flicker in his eyes.

And then he grins. His grin is ugly. The kind you see on someone who enjoys hurting things.

“Oh, we’re gonna have fun,” he says.

You don’t let him.

Your forehead smashes into his nose. Fast. Clean. You feel the crunch before you hear it. He staggers back with a hiss, blood already running between his fingers as he clutches his face.

Instead of getting angry, he laughs. “College boy’s got teeth.”

Then he’s on you.

Big men shouldn’t move this fast, but he does, and you barely slip the first swing. The second grazes your ribs, hard enough to rattle them. He grabs your hoodie and slams you into a pillar, concrete digging into your spine.

The shadows stir inside you. Hungry.

Your pulse spikes. Vision sharpens. The math of killing him writes itself across your brain in an instant. Elbow to temple. Thumbs in his sockets. You can almost feel the soft give of his eyes under your thumbs.

You shove it down.

Instead, you twist your weight, drive your elbow into his ribs. Once. Twice. He grunts but doesn’t let go. So you smash the next one into his jaw. That gets you free.

He stumbles, but his eyes are different now. Sharper. Like he just realized you’re not playing the same game.

“You’re not a college kid,” he says, wiping blood with the back of his hand. “So what are you?”

You don’t answer.

You circle him, loose stance, controlled breathing. This is the tightrope: holding back enough to look human while every instinct screams to stop pretending.

He swings again. Wild. Testing you. You slip under and put a tight, restrained shot into his gut. You feel the impact travel up your arm. He doubles slightly but recovers too quickly.

“You’re strong,” he says, smiling through blood. “But you’re scared.”

He’s wrong.

If what's inside you gets out, this ends with him **** to **** on his own blood.

You take a step back, palms up, offering him an out you don’t actually want him to take. “You done?”

He spits blood on the concrete. “Not even close.”

He lunges.

The flash of steel registers just before the pain does. The blade kisses your side, shallow but hot, and the world narrows to a single point.

And then everything in you goes quiet.

Not calm. Not controlled. Just quiet in the way of a predator who has already decided how this ends.

You don’t dodge the next thrust. You step in. Grab his wrist. Twist until bone gives with a sharp, wet pop. The knife slips free, and in one fluid motion, you snatch it out of the air and drive it into his chest.

Low, under the sternum, straight to the heart. The knife sinks home with a resistance that melts away like wet paper.

His eyes go wide. Air catches in his throat, wet and shallow, coming out in short, stuttering gasps. Each one smaller than the last. Like a fish pulled from water, gills working but nothing coming in. His chest heaves, ****, but it’s useless — the knife has made sure of that.

You hold him there and watch as the life fades from his eyes. He exhales. It isn’t loud. That’s what makes it worse. It’s the softest, most human sound in the world: the quiet panic of someone who realizes they can’t get enough air to live, and never will again.

For good measure, you twist the blade. Small, sharp. The final insult.

The sound is familiar.

His knees buckle, his weight sagging into you before you shove him off and let him drop.

The knife comes out with a wet pull. You wipe it on his shirt, methodical, hands moving like they’ve done this before. Because they have.

No arterial spray, no mess on your clothes.

Your head hums. Your chest heaves. Your side throbs in time with your heartbeat.

And just like that, it’s over.

You stare down at the body cooling on the concrete.

You're going to need to make a detour.