A tense giggle pierced the quiet, vanishing swiftly as Max whipped his head toward its source.
Anna’s gaze remained glued to the ground. Her hands shook, yet a closer inspection would reveal an odd pattern in the vibrations.
The tremor pulsed in a deliberate beat. «Seven hundred eighty-nine. Did you hear me?» «Strange.»
Max’s tone grew darker, more menacing. «I said, get on your knees and bark like the dog you are.» The ring of students drew nearer, devices lifted like threats.
Anna Harper stood at the heart of it all. Her petite frame appeared tinier beside Max Thompson’s commanding build. Six-foot-three, 220 pounds of brawn and spite.
The gym’s glaring lights at Chicago High School etched stark outlines on his features as he bent near, letting her catch the scent of his protein drink. The group reveled in it. They always thrilled when Max targeted fresh quarry.
The overlooked girl who lingered at the rear of classes, dined solo, roamed corridors like a specter. She made ideal bait. But unbeknownst to them, Anna Harper wasn’t reciting numbers aloud for solace.
She was tallying down to nothing. Three weeks prior, Anna had slipped up. She felt drained.
Early morning sessions at five-thirty before classes. Matches at eleven-thirty p.m. Eastern. Post-school, exhaustion hit hard.
When Sean clumsily scattered her books in the hall, she responded instinctively. A minor adjustment, a subtle balance shift that derailed the incoming push. He staggered by, baffled.
Nobody else caught it, save Max. Max Thompson dominated Chicago High School as a monarch over subjects. Football captain, mayor’s kin, six years in wrestling, with a dad who preached power as the sole value.
He forged his status by crushing those daring to resist, and now he eyed his latest endeavor. «I’ll count to three,» Max declared, feeding the spectators. «One.»
Anna’s digits quivered subtly. In her hidden existence, those same digits had felled Alex Romano. The apparently fragile hands boasted 47 consecutive triumphs in arenas where defeat summoned medics, not shame.
«Two.» She pictured her sixteen-year-old sibling, waging his own war from a sickbed. Leukemia ignored illicit titles or school ranks.
It demanded funds alone. Two thousand bucks for trial therapy. The insurer deemed it unnecessary medically.
Anna saw it as her sole shot. «Three.» The assembly braced.
This marked the instant the unseen girl would shatter, mirroring predecessors. She’d weep, plead, comply with Max’s whims, as reality dictated. The mighty consumed the frail.
Anna sank to her knees. The space boomed. Cameras sparked.
A shout rang out: «Bully star.» Laughter shook so fiercely some struggled to steady their gadgets. Max loomed above like a victor in the arena, soaking in acclaim.
Limbs outstretched, reveling in devotee praise. «That’s right,» he boomed for all to capture. «Know your place.»
Now bark for daddy. Anna’s mouth shaped silent figures.
«Four hundred fifty-six.» Merriment swelled. All assumed speech evaded her from terror.
Believed dread muted her. Assumed much. «Seven hundred eighty-nine.»
Max’s tolerance waned. The plan required utter degradation, and mute yielding fell short. He craved her yelp.
He sought her fracture. He aimed for footage to explode by midday, tagged «Football Star Turns Weird Girl Into His Pet.» Thus, he resorted to his usual tactic for slow scripts.
He retracted his limb for a strike. Indeed, the transformation struck in that fleeting pulse interval. One instant, Anna Harper knelt as a quaking youth.
The following—utterly altered. Her respiration steadied from frantic to measured. Her frame eased.
In her stare, upon lifting it, void existed—no dread, no fury, merely the icy assessment of one versed in rib-fracture force. «Wait,» a murmur arose amid observers. «Look at her expression.»
But Max’s boot already arced toward her side with wind-knocking might for any fool lingering. Anna evaded stasis.
She flowed like liquid, tracing minimal opposition. The rib-aimed boot met void. Max, anticipating impact, faltered.
His drive hauled him ahead while Anna retreated in a roll, adopting a primal poise. Glee ceased. A device tumbled.
«Lucky,» Max snarled, striving to reclaim dominance. Yet his timbre hinted fracture, a faint confidence rift. He’d clashed enough to discern trained motion from frenzy.
This lacked frenzy. «Rise,» he commanded. «Cease the act.»
Anna ascended methodically, precisely, sans excess—the efficiency noted in covert rings but foreign in school sports halls. «I already apologized for your pal,» she stated evenly. Her words projected softly yet clearly.
«I requested solitude and advised respect learning.» Max advanced, leveraging bulk for coercion. «Back to knees now…
