The air was heavy that night.
After his meeting with Lila, Elias sat under the flickering streetlamp near the old fountain, the small bracelet tight around his wrist.
The soft beads were rough against his skin, but oddly comforting — grounding him when everything else felt like a dream slipping through trembling fingers.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, staring into the cracked stone and stagnant water, until a shadow peeled away from the darkness nearby.
"You're getting soft," a voice murmured.
Elias stiffened.
From the alley behind the fountain, Maxwell appeared, hands deep in his pockets, his lips twisted into a half-smirk, half-sneer.
"You're acting like some tragic hero. It's pathetic," Maxwell said, circling slowly, like a vulture.
Elias stood up slowly, his body tense but his face calm.
"I'm not here to fight you," Elias said.
"Good," Maxwell chuckled.
"Because you'd lose."
There was a sharpness to Maxwell tonight — an edge that hadn't been there before.
And when Elias looked closer, he noticed something glinting in Maxwell's hand.
A slim, silver blade.
Small. Concealable. Illegal.
"You ruined everything for me," Maxwell hissed, voice trembling with barely contained rage.
"My father was going to sponsor me after this semester. Give me a seat at the table. You — you made me look like a fool."
Elias blinked slowly.
He hadn't even done anything to Maxwell directly.
But in the world Elias lived in, the mere act of existing — without bending, without breaking — was enough to make enemies.
"You don't have to do this," Elias said softly, eyes locked on the blade.
Maxwell laughed, a hollow sound.
"I know," he said.
And then he lunged.
---
The world slowed.
Elias sidestepped instinctively, the blade flashing past his ribs, close enough to feel the wind from its movement.
His foot caught a loose stone, and he stumbled — barely dodging the second strike.
Pain flared at his side — a shallow cut — but adrenaline drowned it out.
Somewhere distant, he heard footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Maxwell swore under his breath, realizing it too.
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Elias standing there — bleeding, breathing hard, heart hammering against his ribs.
A second later, two security guards rounded the corner, flashlights sweeping the area.
Their lights fell on Elias — disheveled, wounded — and immediately, suspicion bloomed in their eyes.
Another set of rumors, another set of lies, ready to spread.
But this time, Elias didn't flinch.
He straightened up, wiped the blood from his side with the sleeve of his jacket, and met their stares head-on.
"I was attacked," he said coldly.
"By another student. I'm willing to report everything."
The guards exchanged a glance, surprised by his calmness, before one of them nodded and pulled out a notepad.
As they took his statement, Elias's mind was already moving.
Faster.
Sharper.
He realized now:
It wasn't enough to endure.
It wasn't enough to just survive.
He needed to fight.
But not like Maxwell — not with blades and rage.
No.
If they wanted to destroy him, they'd have to do better than knives in the dark.
Because Elias was no longer the lost boy they thought he was.
He was something new.
Something rising.
---
Later that night, as Elias cleaned his wound in the tiny bathroom of his dorm, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Bruised.
Bloody.
Alive.
And smiling.
Not the soft smile he once had.
But a sharper, colder one.
One that promised war.
---