13. Victor Blackwood

How could anyone hate my sweet Anne? How could anyone even think about bullying her?

She was the kindest soul I'd ever met—gentle, thoughtful, never once saying something she didn't mean. Anne was everything the rest of this rotting school lacked. And yet, they dared to treat her like she didn't matter. They talked behind her back, threw words like stones. I thought saying we were dating would be enough to protect her.

It wasn't.

I should've known that wasn't enough.

I promised myself: anyone who hurts her, anyone who dares to block her path, I'll take care of them. One by one.

The only reason Katy was still around was because she'd cut off everyone who turned against Anne. And she was useful—she kept tabs on Anne when I couldn't. But even then, I couldn't stand how much of Anne's time she took. She was lucky Anne was too soft to leave her behind. Lucky.

With Lara finally out of the picture—permanently—I turned my attention to Craig. I didn't think he'd try to pick up where Lara left off, not after what I did to her. I mean, I did a pretty damn good job keeping that off my face when I was around Anne. But clearly, I underestimated him.

I couldn't talk Craig down. That wasn't going to work. He wasn't built for reason—too dense, too jacked up on steroids to even hear himself think, let alone someone else. He was stronger than me, played sports year-round, and had the temper of a feral animal. Fighting him head-on would be suicide.

And a Red Ranger never puts on a show just to prove a point. That was something Yesenia once told me—showoffs burn out fast.

So I needed another route.

Lucky for me, Craig wasn't exactly a subtle guy. Everyone knew where he stashed his steroids—it wasn't even a secret. Gym locker, number 878. No caution, no lockbox, nothing. Just sweat-soaked gym shorts and drug needles tucked behind a deodorant can like that made it discreet.

I made my move during third period. Walked up to the front office, straight posture, notebook in hand.

"I forgot my combination," I said politely to the receptionist.

She smiled sweetly, like they always did. Why wouldn't she? Straight A's, never late, no demerits. "Of course, dear. Find your locker number here," she said, handing me a folder.

I flipped it open—and just like that, every locker in the school was listed, including combinations. Even the gym. No extra security. No second checks. Just trust.

These people were incredible. They were practically handing me the tools to protect Anne.

"Number 878," I whispered.

I jotted the combo down on my palm, smiled gratefully. "Thank you, ma'am. You've been a huge help."

"Oh, you're so polite! This school needs more young men like you."

"Thank you, it’s really nothing," I said with a nod.

Then I left, my pace casual but heart pounding. The second I turned the corner, I veered straight toward the gym locker room.

They'd never know how much they helped me.

Craig's locker opened like a dream. No resistance.

Inside: socks, boxers, a damp towel—and the syringe. No case. Just lying there like a forgotten pen. No alcohol swab, no wrapper. Disgusting.

Did he even know how infection worked?

I picked it up carefully, squirted a tiny bit of the liquid out of the needlehead, then drew the plunger back again—leaving a big, visible air bubble inside. Not subtle. If he actually paid attention, he'd notice. If.

I wasn't trying to kill him. I just wanted to get in his head. I wanted him to look at the needle and know someone had been there. That someone could get to him. That his space wasn't safe anymore.

He'd freak out. Maybe he'd accuse the wrong person. Maybe he'd blow up on a teacher, throw a punch, storm off campus. Either way, he'd unravel.

I put the syringe back exactly where I found it, shut the locker, and walked into the workout room. I sat on the stationary bike in the corner and started pedaling slowly.

The class Craig always skipped was about to start.

Any second now, the beast would arrive.

And I'd be here, watching.

Would he scream? Go pale? Blame someone?

Or would he be dumb enough to inject it?

Either way—I'd be right here.

Waiting.

Smiling.

Just protecting Anne, like always.

Finally—fifteen minutes in—Craig swaggered into the gym, flanked by a pack of football idiots. He was laughing, like he didn't have a care in the world. Loud. Careless.

Why the hell was he so happy?

Had he skipped his dose? Did he somehow notice something was wrong?

Then I saw it—the way he snatched up a set of weights like nothing was wrong. His energy was high. Focused. That meant...

He took it.

He took the shot without even looking.

A small laugh escaped my lips, too low for anyone to notice. He really was that stupid. I almost thought—almost hoped—he'd be smarter. But no. He was exactly as dense as I always knew.

I pushed harder on the pedals of the bike, legs moving with anticipation, eyes fixed on him. He had no idea. Not a single clue.

For a while, everything was... normal. Too normal.

He lifted. He laughed. He joked. I started to doubt myself. Had I messed it up? Did he shoot a different dose? Was he already metabolizing it? My fingers tapped anxiously against the handlebars. No—wait.

There.

He slowed.

His shoulders sagged. He blinked like the lights were too bright. Confused. Dazed. He staggered, one step, then another.

Yes.

Yes!

The air bubble must've found a path—somewhere important. Somewhere fatal.

His teammates circled him, asking what was wrong. Their voices blended together. Then Craig hit the floor.

He thrashed.

Hard.

It was even more violent than I imagined. His hands flew to his chest as his back arched unnaturally. He gasped like a fish out of water—wild, desperate—and for once, his eyes weren't full of rage or pride.

Just fear.

Four kids jumped in to help, shouting instructions, attempting CPR. Idiots. They didn't know air in the bloodstream didn't work like that. You couldn't just pump it away. There was no trained staff on campus—no emergency ventilator, no one who could save him.

This was high school.

You weren't supposed to need those things in high school.

Once I'd seen enough, I slid off the bike, grabbed my bag, and slipped out of the gym as quietly as I came. One of them finally thought to call 911.

Too late.

That's called karma.

***

"Sorry I'm late, I stopped by the nurse," I said with my head bowed, twenty minutes late to class.

The teacher barely blinked. "You're lucky this is your first time."

It wasn't. But I smiled anyway. The perks of being well-behaved. The perks of being good-looking. People never questioned what they wanted to believe.

I slid into my seat and let my mind drift.

Anne wouldn't need to worry about gym anymore. Not with Craig out of the picture.

I sent a quick message to Katy. Anne never checked her phone during school. But Katy? She always had it out.

I waited. Heart racing. Breath shallow.

Then—buzz

Katy: Craig just got wheeled past our room. They're trying to bring him back but it's not looking good.

I grinned.

That blue tint on his face... I remembered it clearly. He looked so helpless. So small.

Now?

He was nothing.

He might live, but if he did... he'd be brain-dead. No more threat.

Oddly though... it didn't feel as good as Lara.

Maybe because I hadn't used my own two hands. Maybe because I couldn't see the life drain from his eyes up close. But it still felt good. Right. Satisfying.

I brought karma to Craig. I protected Anne.

That's all that mattered.

Could I tell her?

I wanted to. She always listened. She never judged me—not truly. She was different. Anne was special. Even if she didn't agree, she'd understand. Eventually.

I imagined it.

Katy: He's dead.

That next text from Katy lit up my screen like a sunrise.

I smiled wider.

Good. Let him rot.

No one would investigate. Not deeply. Craig dying of a heart attack? It made sense. He was on steroids, everyone knew it. No one would call it suspicious.

And even if they did?

They wouldn't be looking at me.

I wasn't on any radar.

Still, I felt... odd.

A deep twisting in my stomach. Not guilt. No—never guilt.

But something.

Discomfort?

Was it because I hadn't meant to go that far? That I hadn't planned this?

It had been spontaneous. Improvised. Dangerous.

Still... it wasn't my fault. He didn't check his needle. Even junkies checked their stuff before they shot up. He was the idiot.

And Anne?

She'll never have to feel unsafe again. Not as long as I'm here. Her father would see me differently now. He'd know I was serious—ready to protect her with everything I had.

This feeling though... I'd have to manage it. Contain it. Learn how to use it better.

No more loose ends. No more risks.

But still... I couldn't ignore how good it felt to be the reason Craig was gone.

Not because it was wrong...

...but because it would be so damn hard not to think about when I was with Anne.

And I'm 99% sure she can read minds.