From the direction of the administrative offices, a door swings open. Paxton Vale steps out, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn black hoodie. His knuckles are raw, skin split across the second and third joints. He doesn't look at anyone. Doesn't slow down. Just walks, gaze fixed on the distant student parking lot like nothing else exists.

Before you can answer, shouts erupt from the side of the building. Footsteps. A crowd forming near the gym entrance, phones raised.

Paxton has a taller guy—Leith, probably, from the senior class—pinned against the brick wall. One hand gripping the collar of his shirt, the other cocked back. Leith's nose is already bleeding, a dark trickle trailing down his chin and dripping onto his white shirt.

Mr. Harrison says something, voice too low to hear. Paxton doesn't respond. Just wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, glances at the blood on his knuckles like he's checking the weather, then spits on the sidewalk.

He turns and walks toward the parking lot without looking back.

The crowd parts for him. Nobody says a word.