Chapter Text
It was loud.
Too loud for Zack’s liking.
His eyes snapped open to stare up at the dark wooden support beams above the top bunk in the cramped room he shared with eight other guys in this place.
Three of them were joking and laughing—loud enough that Zack was two seconds from kicking their faces in.
News flash: they didn’t stop.
“What the fuck have I said about you dipshits talking while I’m sleeping?!”
The voices cut off instantly. All three heads turned toward Zack’s bunk, where he now sat up slowly—head lowered, not even looking at them.
He didn’t need to.
The murder vibe rolling off him said exactly where his fury was aimed.
One of the guys—tan, bleach-blond hair shaved in zig-zag patterns, wearing a white t-shirt with some rapper's face on it and black cargo pants—swallowed thickly and tried to speak for the group. “A-ah, sorry, man. We didn’t know you were asleep in here.”
The guy next to him—brown hair, buzzed sides, long bangs hiding his eyes, wearing a paint-splattered blue shirt and jeans—was new. Still too fresh to understand Rule #1:
Don’t mess with Zack when he’s just woken up.
He was about to learn the hard way.
“This is a common room, dude. You can’t just claim it for naps in the middle of the day.”
“Dude!” the blond elbowed him hard in the ribs. “You don’t just say that to Zack!” he hissed.
“Why not? He’s only, like, a few months older than yo—”
The sentence died.
No one saw Zack jump down.
One second he was on his bunk, the next he was right there—silent like a shadow—then slam.
The brown-haired kid hit the floor hard.
Zack’s boot came down on his neck, pinning him with brutal pressure.
“You wanna find out why everyone’s scared to fuck with me?” Zack growled, grinning down at the kid struggling to breathe.
It wasn’t a smile. It was a promise.
The blond and the third boy—a lanky redhead in ripped jeans and a gray tee—jumped up instantly, but froze mid-step, clearly panicking.
“Zack—Zack, man, don’t kill him!” the blond stammered. “Josh still new! He doesn’t know any better!”
“He’s just mouthing off, alright? We didn’t mean anything!” the redhead added, hands raised in surrender, not daring to move closer. “We’ll shut up. We swear!”
Zack didn’t blink. He leaned more weight onto his boot.
Josh let out a sharp, wheezing sound—hands clawing at the floor.
“You wanna keep talkin’ for him?” Zack said without looking up, voice low and cold. “You’re next.”
The redhead took a slow step back, shaking his head rapidly.
“N-No, dude. No. We’re cool. We’re real cool.”
Zack didn’t move.
Josh made a choking sound—legs kicking weakly beneath him.
“Shit,” the blond muttered, clutching his head. “Zack, seriously, he has asthma! He can’t fucking breathe!”
Zack tilted his head like he was considering it.
“Isaac, I do hope you plan on letting Joshua go.”
The calm voice cut through the tension like a scalpel.
Everyone—except Zack and the wheezing kid under his boot—whirled toward the doorway.
Mr. Gray stood there, dressed in his usual black suit, white priest collar crisp against his throat, arms folded behind his back.
“Isaac.”
Zack finally looked up.
Hearing his real name again made him click his tongue in annoyance. He hated anyone using that stupid legal name.
But he stepped off Josh’s neck, letting him scramble backwards, coughing and gasping like a dying animal like his life depended on gettingaway from him.
It probably did.
“You’re fucking crazy!” Josh wheezed, pointing at him.
“Let me know when you come up with a better insult, you little shit,” Zack shot back—and kicked him hard in the gut before turning away.
“Boys. Language, please. And Isaac.” Gray stepped further into the room, calm as ever.
Zack scoffed, jamming his hands into his hoodie pockets and turning his back to everyone.
Gray’s gaze swept the room before landing on the two still hovering near their wheezing friend.
“Christian, Bradley—why don’t you take Joshua to the nurse’s station? Make sure he’s alright, hmm?”
Christian—the bleach-blond—nodded quickly. “Yeah, Mr. Gray. Thank you.”
He and Bradley moved to either side of Josh and helped him up. Josh swayed, coughing weakly, and the three of them got out fast.
Gray waited until the door clicked shut before turning back to Zack.
He stood with his back to him, fists buried in his hoodie pockets, shoulders tight.
Gray knew Zack’s limits. Knew he could be worse. Knew he had been worse.
“Isaac. What did we talk about regarding hurting your peers?”
Zack clicked his tongue again but didn’t look over.
“Isaac.”
Zack scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t crack skulls. Don’t throw fists. Blah blah blah.”
He turned just enough to glance at Gray with a sneer.
“He deserved it. Also, he’s not even that hurt. Last kid needed an actual doc.”
Gray stepped closer, undeterred.
“Did he? Or did he just say something that reminded you of someone else?”
Zack’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer.
“We’ve discussed this before. You promised to show more restraint with your… frustrations.”
“Why the fuck does it even matter?!”
“Because, Isaac, this is your last chance at fitting into society. And as your guardian, it’s my job to help children like you find a place in it. You’re fifteen. In less than three years, you’ll age out of this program. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”
Gray’s voice softened.
“You think hurting people is the only way to be heard. But I know better. I know why you lash out.”
Zack turned on him, half a grin twisting his mouth.
“Oh yeah? You know me now, huh?”
“No. But I knew someone who did.”
Zack’s smirk faltered.
Gray folded his hands behind his back.
“Mr. Miller. Blind. Lives alone on the east side of the city. Do you remember him?”
Zack’s jaw clenched.
Of course he remembered him.
It wasn’t that long ago.
He hadn’t even meant to stop there. Just another alley. Another night with no roof, no food, no one looking for him. It had been a few days since he’d left the house—since he murdered the assholes who were supposed to take care of him.
Even with them dead, the weight on his chest hadn’t lifted an inch.
Then that blind old man stumbled right up to him while he was trying to sleep in the rain next to a dumpster.
“Awfully young to be sleeping in the dirt, aren’t ya?”
Zack had just stared. He was filthy and exhausted, his hand twitching for the knife—because he was done with adults.
But the man didn’t flinch. Didn’t even ask questions.
Just said to him, “Come on. I don’t have much, but I got a roof I can share with a young lad like you.”
Zack didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone. His own mom let him get disfigured, then dumped him in that shithole he just killed his way out of.
But he followed the old man anyway.
He stayed for almost six months. Ate warm rice and instant curry from a chipped bowl. Slept curled up in a tiny room that smelled like incense and rain.
The old man never asked what he’d done. Just hummed old tunes and talked about the stars.
Zack learned pretty quickly the man was completely blind in one eye and almost gone in the other—but still got around with his cane like he’d never lost it.
And then one morning, Zack woke up to hear the old man on the phone.
“He’s a little wild,” he’d said with a chuckle. “But he’s got potential to do great things, I can feel it.”
Zack didn’t know who he was talking to.
But later that day, Gray had shown up.
Back in the present, Zack stared at the floor like it had insulted him.
This conversation was starting to piss him off.
“You still think I give a shit about any of that?” he muttered.
“No,” Gray replied. “But he saw something in you. And I chose to believe him.”
“You and him made a mistake.”
“I don’t think we did.”
Zack’s throat tightened.
He didn’t do fucking emotions.
Gray let the silence hang a beat longer.
“I’m not here to fix you, Isaac. I’m here to offer a choice. Same as I did back then.”
Zack’s voice was low. Flat.
“You think this is a choice?”
“You’ve always had one. Even when they took everything from you—you chose to survive. To keep moving.”
Zack’s fists clenched tighter in his pockets.
“I have to go meet a new addition,” Gray said, stepping toward the door. “But we’ll talk again. About your future. About what you want—not just what you’ve been through.”
As he turned to go, Zack muttered,
“Don’t bother.”
Gray paused at the doorway.
“I already did.”
He left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
The old man’s voice echoed faintly in Zack’s memory.
"You’ve got potential, kid. And my friend here can help you far better than I can."
And then, without warning, Zack spun around and slammed his fist into the metal frame of the nearest bunk bed.
A sharp clang rang out, followed by a crack—the bar bent inward under the force.
His breath came hard and fast.
But he didn’t stop. He kept punching the already-dented metal, even as blood soaked through the bandages on his knuckles. He didn’t care. He pressed his fist harder into the twisted frame, the pain biting into him like a reminder—
A reminder that no matter how many times he tried to leave, he always ended up right back here.
“Fuck!” he snarled, voice cracking under the weight of all the rage and pain he kept locked inside.
“I don’t want your help!” he shouted at the empty room, teeth gritted. “I just wanna be left the fuck alone!”
And with a roar, he reared back and kicked the bent frame.
The metal groaned and snapped—
The top bunk crashed down onto the lower one with a loud, jarring bang.
The force of the kick made Zack stumble backward. He stood there, chest heaving, fingers still twitching from the adrenaline, a strange kind of quiet settling over him.
Some of the anger bled out with the wreckage he caused.
…Shit. He was gonna be in trouble for destroying another bunk bed.
But it wasn’t his bunk this time, so—
He didn’t really give a shit.