I couldn’t breathe.


    The ache started deep, grinding through my ribs, clawing upward like my bones were trying to escape. I hunched deeper into my hoodie, pulling it tighter around me, desperate to stay hidden beneath folds of fabric. Pain was normal. Pain was predictable. Pain reminded me I was alive.


    But it was their laughter—low, slicing laughter that whispered, twisted, and tightened around me—that made me wish I wasn''t.


    “Hey, Quasimodo,” Jake Hollister hissed, his grin spreading slowly, venomously. The others laughed, their eyes flickering toward me as if I were something putrid, something fascinatingly broken.


    My nails dug into the rough wood of my desk, tracing familiar scars, old marks worn smooth by fingertips that never stopped trembling.


    Ignore it. I inhaled slowly, my ribs stretching painfully beneath skin that felt paper-thin. Just breathe.


    Then, another voice—a voice that didn’t belong—snaked through my skull, cold and thick as oil.


    Kill him.


    My chest seized.


    Kill him.


    The voice curled through my mind again, dark and impossible to ignore.


    I clenched my fists, bones creaking beneath the pressure, pain flaring, familiar and sharp. But my limbs weren''t mine anymore. They moved without thought, without permission.


    My arm snapped outward, bones elongating violently, tendons splitting, muscles unraveling. Skin tore, blood slick and hot against my fingertips as they reshaped themselves, claws bursting free from ruined flesh.


    Jake''s throat fit perfectly beneath my warped fingers.


    I lifted him effortlessly—too easily—and slammed him into the chalkboard, hard enough that the board cracked, dust raining down around us. Screams echoed off the classroom walls, desks scraping across linoleum floors, feet scrambling backward.


    “Lucas…!” Mr. Evers’s voice trembled, barely audible, afraid.


    But I couldn’t stop.


    My bones stretched, twisted, rearranged—skin splitting open, healing just as quickly—a grotesque rhythm of endless agony. Blood streaked down my arm, dripping onto Jake’s pale, terrified face as his hands clawed uselessly at mine, eyes bulging, lips parted but unable to draw a breath.


    Then the voice vanished.


    My fingers opened.


    Jake crashed to the floor, gasping, coughing violently, crawling away on hands and knees, choking out ragged breaths.


    Silence.


    Every face turned toward me, mouths open in horror, eyes wide with disgust. My chest burned. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and shameful. My bones snapped back into place, each crack ringing painfully through my body. My shoulders curled inward, hunch returning like an old, hated companion.


    I didn’t wait to hear what came next.


    I stumbled out of the classroom, joints splintering beneath my skin, pain flaring with every step. The hall blurred around me—lockers, windows, startled faces—but I didn''t stop.


    I didn’t dare stop.


    Because whatever just happened, whatever lived beneath my skin, whatever spoke to me—


    It wasn’t done yet.


    <hr>


    I remembered the sterile white room again, the cold, clinical voice of the doctor echoing distantly.


    “I''m sorry,” his voice was muffled, warped by the hollow echo of the hospital walls. "We simply don''t know what''s causing this. We''ve run every test, explored every possibility. There''s just…no medical explanation."


    My parents’ expressions sagged, weighed down by confusion, fear, exhaustion. Mom pressed a trembling hand to her mouth; Dad''s fingers tightened around hers, knuckles white as bone. They murmured questions I barely heard, voices hushed, desperate.


    I stared past them, past the doctor, past everything.


    My gaze settled on something tiny, black, and deadly—perched delicately in the corner of the sterile room, its slender legs extended like shards of obsidian. Its body was impossibly smooth, glistening beneath harsh fluorescent lights, dark as ink, reflecting distorted versions of my own warped face. Beneath it, crimson markings pulsed vividly, shaped like an hourglass—time slipping silently away, inevitable as decay.


    It waited, still as death, suspended on threads so fine they were invisible. It watched, patient, predatory, confident that its moment would come.


    "We''ll keep searching," the doctor reassured quietly. "There has to be an explanation."


    The spider shifted slightly, turning toward me—a silent acknowledgment, a shared secret.


    Then everything blurred again, memories melting until reality slammed violently back into focus.


    Jake Hollister''s voice sliced through the fog, jagged and cruel. "Did you hear me, freak? Or is your spine crushing your brain?"


    I blinked hard, suddenly back at school, hallway walls pressing close, the sharp stink of sweat and cleaning chemicals thick in my throat. Jake stood too close, friends flanking him, grins sharp and hungry. I shrank instinctively, shoulders curving, bones aching under layers of skin and shame.


    "You''re like a disease," he sneered, leaning in, whispering so only I could hear. "You shouldn’t even exist."


    His words twisted deeper, embedding themselves alongside every insult hurled over the years, each one carving another hollow place inside me. My life had always felt like this—isolated, ridiculed, shoved aside. Birthday invitations never sent, whispered secrets never shared, laughter always aimed my way but never with me.


    A shadow clung to my edges, pulling tighter each year until I was nothing but sharp angles and silences, an outcast so strange and unsettling even my own parents struggled to meet my eyes.


    Jake shoved me roughly, laughter ringing around us as I stumbled against cold metal lockers, pain flaring in my shoulder, bones shifting beneath flesh like broken glass grinding deeper.


    But I didn''t react.


    I couldn''t.


    I just stared ahead, blank-faced, retreating deeper into myself.


    <hr>


    The air was too thick, too sharp, burning my lungs with every panicked breath. My hands trembled violently, blood—mine, his—still slick on my fingertips. My mind screamed at me to run, to move, to get out before they came for me. Before it came back.


    I stumbled down the hallway, past blurred faces, past gasps and whispers that clawed at my ears. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. My ribs ached, every step sending fresh spikes of pain through my spine, but I had to keep moving.


    The gym.


    The back of the gym had always been empty, forgotten—a dead space between brick walls and rusted fences where no one ever looked. My feet dragged me there, instincts overriding thought. The moment I reached the narrow gap between the gym wall and the fence, I collapsed against the rough brick, sucking in ragged, broken breaths.


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    What the hell just happened?


    My fingers dug into my arms, nails pressing half-moons into my skin as if I could ground myself, force reality to make sense again. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.


    I saw Jake’s face again—eyes wide, mouth open, hands clawing at mine—and I shuddered violently. My bones still ached, muscles raw and torn from something wrong, something impossible. I had felt them stretch, shift, rip apart, and somehow pull themselves back together. Like something else had worn me. Had used me.


    A crackle.


    I froze.


    The radio sputtered, drowning in static. Then, through the noise, a voice—sharp, professional, but laced with something dark. Something heavy.


    "Watch for—uh—a student. Hunchback. Just attacked another kid."


    The words twisted inside me, burrowing deep, cutting deeper than the pain already carved into my bones. My breath hitched. My chest tightened, my ribs locking up as if caving in on themselves.


    They were talking about me.


    They knew.


    The crunch of boots on gravel sent ice through my veins.


    I pressed myself tighter against the cold brick wall, willing myself invisible. My heartbeat slammed in my ears, so loud I thought it would give me away. The shadow stretched across the pavement, growing closer, reaching.


    I had to run.


    I had to move.


    I forced my body forward, shoving off the wall with shaking arms, my legs sluggish and unsteady beneath me. My back twisted awkwardly under its own weight, the old pain flaring like a rusted knife buried in my spine. My feet barely left the ground before I staggered, the world tilting violently. My knees hit pavement, the sharp sting barely registering over the sheer panic roaring through me.


    No, no, no. Not here. Not now.


    My breath shattered into broken sobs.


    The footsteps stopped. The shadow loomed.


    A voice. Deep. Steady. Cautious.


    "Lucas."


    I flinched, curling in on myself, my hands gripping the pavement so hard my nails dug into my palms.


    "I just need to ask you some questions, kid."


    The voice wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t harsh. But that didn’t make it safe.


    I shook my head frantically, my throat too tight to force words out, too raw to scream. I couldn’t explain this. I didn’t understand this. My hands trembled as I pushed at the ground, trying again to get up, trying to get away. My body fought me, muscles locking, limbs refusing to move the way I wanted them to. My back curled inward against my will, my spine screaming as my weight shifted unevenly. The pain lit up every nerve like a live wire, burning, tearing, twisting.


    I made it two steps before my legs buckled.


    I crashed.


    The breath was punched from my lungs as I hit the ground, my body shaking, useless. My vision blurred. Tears burned hot in my eyes, spilling before I could stop them.


    I couldn’t do this.


    I couldn’t move.


    A sound broke from my throat—something between a gasp and a sob—as I clawed at the pavement, dragging myself forward like some wounded animal. I didn’t care how pathetic it looked. I didn’t care that I was crying, that my hands were raw, that my whole body was betraying me.


    I just wanted to get out.


    Please.


    Please just let me go.


    But the guard didn’t stop me.


    He didn’t grab me. Didn’t pull me up.


    He watched.


    Silent.


    Waiting.


    I heaved forward another inch, barely. My arms were shaking too hard, my whole body collapsing under its own weight. My breath hitched violently, every inhale sharp and ragged. I was going to break apart right there on the pavement.


    Then—strong hands.


    Not rough. Not forceful. Just steady.


    I flinched but didn’t fight. Couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength. He lifted me up, not dragging, not yanking—just holding me upright, supporting me when my body wouldn’t. His grip was firm, solid, but not cruel.


    Not cruel.


    His grip was steady, grounding—not like the hands I was used to. Not grabbing, not shoving, not forcing. Just there. Holding me up when my body couldn’t do it on its own.


    He half-carried, half-guided me toward the gate, his steps slow. Patient. Careful, like he knew I might collapse again at any second.


    I hated that he was right.


    Each step sent another shockwave of pain up my spine, my body barely listening to me, my limbs trembling with the effort. My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, and I could still feel the dirt on my skin, the sting of scraped palms, the cold bite of the pavement I’d been sprawled against seconds ago. I felt small. Exposed. Like something pathetic crawling in the open, waiting for the next boot to come down.


    And then—


    "You didn’t start it, did you?"


    I froze.


    The words cut through the pounding in my skull, through the panic still clawing at my ribs.


    He wasn’t accusing.


    Just… tired. Knowing.


    Something in my chest twisted, wound itself into a knot so tight I thought it might snap my ribs apart.


    I wanted to answer. Wanted to say no, to scream it, to shove the truth in his face like it mattered, like it would change anything. But my throat had closed up, strangling the words before they could escape.


    I didn’t have to say it.


    Because he already knew.


    He exhaled, slow and measured, like he was holding something back. Like he already had too much weighing him down, and this was just another brick on an already sinking ship.


    "I see what they do to you," he said quietly. "It’s not right."


    I don’t know what broke me more—the fact that he said it, or the way he said it.


    Not like a teacher, spouting off some empty reprimand. Not like the others, who acted like they had to care but never really did.


    No. He said it like someone who had watched.


    Like someone who had seen every shove in the hall, every stolen lunch, every whispered name spat behind my back like it was something rotten.


    I squeezed my eyes shut, my whole body shuddering with fresh, gasping sobs. A choked sound left my throat, half a breath, half a sob, and I barely managed to shake my head.


    I didn’t start it.


    I never did.


    But that never mattered, did it?


    The gate creaked open.


    The sound sent a jolt through me. My eyes snapped up, blurry with tears, locking onto the open path ahead.


    "Go."


    I choked on a breath.


    He was letting me go.


    No questions. No threats. No warnings about how I should’ve handled things differently. No telling me to toughen up, to grow a spine, to be the bigger person.


    Just… go.


    My gaze flicked back to his face.


    He wasn’t looking at me like I was a problem to be solved, a mess to be cleaned up. He wasn’t even looking at me like I was a kid anymore.


    He was just looking.


    Like he saw me.


    Like he knew.


    My breath stuttered.


    I didn’t hesitate.


    I ran.