Zeke and Fredric sat quietly at their usual perch above the cafeteria, a mezzanine rail that overlooked the clamor below. Trays clattered, vending drones hummed, and a tide of voices rose and fell in waves. From up here the crowd looked like a restless mosaic—uniforms, backpacks, hair colors—shifting under the skylights pale wash.

As they looked down at the students milling beneath, an unusual skirmish began to coalesce. One loud student tore across the hall, shouldering past tables and bodies, scattering cups and plastic cutlery in his wake. He whipped his head left and right, scanning faces like a scanner pinging for a match. Then he tipped his chin up toward the balconies. The furrow between his brows unclenched; hope cracked his scowl into something lighter, less doomed.

He bolted for the stairs, boots hammering metal treads, breath sawing in his chest. He stumbled up to their table and folded into a crouch, palms braced on his thighs.

"Please… Help…" The boy said trying to catch his breath, squatting down in front of the two.

"Who's this kid?" Fredric wondered while chewing his food.

"Yeah, no clue," Zeke remarked, riffling through memory. "Wait," Zeke paused. "Gilbert Lars," he murmured.

"Please… No time…" Gilbert coughed. "To explain."

"It seems like you still have plenty of free period left," Fredric rolled his eyes.

"We're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on," Zeke remarked taking a spoonful of his soup.

"Please, they'll hurt Keith," Gilbert pleaded.

Zeke's chair scraped back hard. He surged to his feet, tray tilting, soup sloshing—an instant decision hardening his jaw.

A droid zipped over, lights blinking amber. "Please do not liter!" An automated message played through it's speakers.

"Fuck off," Zeke said with a furious expression as he waked passed the droid.

"Profanity detected, incident reported," the droid stated, already vacuuming the spill with prim efficiency.

"Where is he?" Zeke asked.

"The front entrance of the academy." Gilbert replied.

"Come, you will tell me about the details on the way," Zeke grabbed Gilbert by the shoulder helping him up.

Fredric sighed, letting his spoon clink into the bowl. He half-rose.

"Stay here!" Zeke retorted. "I'll meet you at the gardening club."

"Fine," Fredric smirked, clasping his hands in front of his face as Zeke and Gilbert headed out.

They hit the corridor at a brisk clip. Gilbert ran flat-out, sneakers squeaking on polished tile; Zeke kept pace with an effortless, fast stride that ate distance without drama.

"Explain," Zeke growled.

"Y-yes!" Gilbert stuttered. "You know that kid… Uh what's his name… the one who was ranked second in last term?"

"Ben, what about him?" Zeke wondered.

"Well, some people were dissatisfied with his scoring so high so they decided to teach him a lesson." Gilbert explained.

"I ranked first though, why didn't they go after me?" Zeke asked.

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"Not sure," Gilbert murmured.

"Go on," Zeke sighed.

"Right," Gilber paused. "So after free period came, several students dragged him out to the front of the school, and, well, started beating him. Keith noticed, and stepped in." Gilbert explained.

"Keith is more than capable of defending himself against student," Zeke retorted.

"Yes! But the ones who he's been fighting wasn't a student," Gilbert stated. "They brought someone from outside the academy to watch them dealing with Ben."

"His name!" Zeke shouted. "What is the name of the person they brought?!" Zeke's face twisted into an expression of cold rage, the veins on the sides of his forehead popped out pulsating in a viscous manner.

"I don't know!" Gilbert said, visibly intimidated. "They called him boss."

"So it was supposed to be some kind of an initiation rite," Zeke remarked.

"Most likely," Gilberts gaze met the floor. "When Keith stepped in. He was completely overwhelmed by this gangster. He told me to bring you, saying that you'll be able to deal with this situation," Gilbert remarked, sighing.

"What do you think?" Zeke asked.

"I have my doubts," Gilbert retorted.

They rounded the last corner. Through the foyer's glass they could see the world beyond the doors: the stone steps, the flagpoles twitching in the wind, a ring of students gathering like storm birds.

They pushed through the glass doors and into the courtyard's hard noon light. On the stone steps below, a tall, bald, bulky, muscular man stood in a black leather vest and sagging sweatpants, one boot grinding down on Keith's head. Keith was a ruin of split lip and mottled bruises. The man's face was hideous—piggish—his lower lip pierced by two cone-shaped spikes that jutted like tusks. The instant Zeke saw him, he knew: the same swaggering idiot from the summit, the one who'd called himself Zeke's biggest fan. Ian, Caleb, Michel, and Josh clustered at his flanks; Ben stood a few meters off, visibly shaking.

"What the fuck is going on?" Zeke rushed forward, growling with a cold and ragged voice, approaching the group. His face and posture were aggressive, volatile; his gaze went strangely blank, as though the border between the Prowler and Zeke was thinning to nothing.

"Who is this clown?" the large man asked with a smirk.

"Zeke Ventrew, he was first in the rankings," Ian explained.

"Is he a bloom?" the man asked.

"Yes," Ian begrudgingly replied.

The man pressed harder on Keith's skull, then stepped off and closed the distance to Zeke. He loomed, a wall of meat and leather. Zeke didn't give an inch.

"Run along kiddo," The man laughed.

"Your name?" Zeke growled, his expression turning cold, stoic, emotionless, as though the earlier rage had evaporated into thin air.

"Huh?" the man replied in disbelief.

"Tell me your name!" Zeke said, slowly.

"Olaf," the man replied, becoming slightly agitated.

"Affiliation?" Zeke asked.

Olaf smiled. "Sabre gang," he leaned on towards Zeke.

"Do all the members look like pigs?" Zeke smirked.

"What?" Olaf asked, his face turning into a frown.

"I guess not," Zeke mockingly remarked. "Since those pussies are trying to join I guess you guys are inclusive of all types of animals." He laughed.

"Ben!" Zeke smiled. "Take Keith to the infirmary for me please." He asked. "You too Gilbert. I'll finish up quick and meet you there."

"Fuck you!" Olaf shouted. In a flash, he punched Zeke, attempting to strike him on the head. Zeke stopped the punch, his hand barely big enough to fit Olaf's enormous fist.

Ben and Gilbert pressed forward, lifting Keith by his shoulders and carrying him off as fast as possible.

"Thanks," Keith murmured as he left.

"You're welcome," Zeke smiled.

With a small twist—just a flick of the wrist—Zeke pressed down on Olaf's clenched hand, folding the joint and stealing his balance. In the same smooth motion he scythed at Olaf's legs; the brute pitched backward and hit the paving stones with a teeth-rattling thud.

Olaf lay there dazed, eyes blinking, brain scrambling to compute how a smaller student had put him flat so effortlessly.

Zeke stepped forward, kicked Olaf in the face, and planted his boot on the man's cheekbone, pressing down until leather squeaked.

"Listen here pig-face," Zeke growled. "If you ever come to the academy again, I will beat you so hard you will beg me to kill you."

"Mhm," Olaf averted his gaze.

Zeke lifted his foot an inch. Olaf's mouth twitched into a smug little smirk—an opening. Zeke brought his heel down on Olaf's hand; bones snapped like dry twigs. He reset his boot on Olaf's head.

"Do you understand?" Zeke asked with a blank stare.

"I do!" Olaf shouted, visibly in pain.

Zeke raised his foot again and hammered it into Olaf's knee. The joint gave with a wet crack. Ian, Caleb, Michel, and Josh all averted their eyes in perfect sync as the sound marched up their spines.

"I'm not convinced," Zeke placed his foot back on Olafs head.

"I get it," Olaf breathed heavily, trying to ride the pain.

Zeke kicked once more, burying his boot in Olaf's chest; ribs along the right side collapsed like cheap lattice.

"You are lying!" Zeke growled, placing his foot on Olaf's neck.

"I understand!" Olaf cried. "Please no more!" he pleaded, while the ring of onlookers stood rigid, a tableau of shock and fear.

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