Chapter Text
Blitzo was halfway across the courtyard when he heard it.
“Hey.”
Not shouted. Not aggressive. Just enough to be intentional.
He didn’t stop at first.
“I'm talking to you! The one with the weird burn scar.”
That got him to turn.
A small group of imps stood near the tables, unfinished lunches spread out in front of them. One of them looked him over, slow and obvious, like he was sizing up something cheap.
“Thought you’d be taller,” the imp said.
Blitzo stared at him. “Yeah?”
The imp shrugged. “Just saying.”
Another one snorted. “Guy walks around like he owns the place.”
Blitzo stood there for a moment. He didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked tired.
“Did I do something to you?” he asked.
The first imp smirked. “Nah. Just don’t like your attitude.”
There wasn’t anything dramatic about what happened next.
Blitzo stepped forward and hit him, pretty unjustified and in a fit of rage.
The punch landed hard enough to knock the imp back against the table. Food scattered. Someone yelled. The others reacted too late, one grabbed Blitzo’s shoulder, another swung wild and missed. Blitzo shoved one away and drove his knee into the other’s stomach without thinking about it.
The droning of the tires against the fucked up concrete roads filled the silence between Blitzo and his dad, Cash.
The old man never drove calmly, he always drove like he had somewhere to be even if he had all the time in the world. It pissed Blitzo off.
Blitzo put his palm over his mouth, staring out the window at the gross suburban inner-city environment he'd grown to hate. His annoyed breaths caused the window to fog up slightly.
The toothpick Cash had in his mouth didn't stop him from running it.
" 's bullshit. "
Cash said under his breath, making a sharp right turn, the car suddenly feeling more enclosed.
Blitzo rolled his eyes, knowing no-one would see it anyway.
"Expelled. From a shit school in the city?" Cash remarked, shaking his head.
"Don't fuck this up. I swear to Satan, if you don't start using that fucking brain of yours I'll just leave you out on the fucking street-"
Blitzo interrupted, a metaphorical vein snapping in his neck.
"Okay, Satan, I fucking get it!" He raised his voice, scrunching the denim on his pants to calm his fuse. It was a miracle he didn't scream.
Cash didn't say anything. He didn't smile, he didn't look apologetic, he just kept driving, unfazed. He threw his toothpick into the middle consoles' cup holder.
"..."
"I've got shit to do. I won't be here to pick you up, so just ask one of your friends for a ride."
Cash may as well have been sticking up the bird and shoving it in Blitzo's face. He didn't have friends, not at a new school on the first day — obviously.
His fists balled up and his eyes began to swell up with tears. Not out of anger, but out of thought.
The thought that maybe a better father could've given him some encouragement. Maybe a hug before school, maybe actually fucking buy him a backpack, but no, his liquor business was just too important.
Blitzo raised his voice. "I don't fucking-!" He stopped. He took a very, very deep breath, and sunk back into his seat.
"I'll... I'll figure it out."
Stolas arrived at school early.
He preferred it that way. The halls were quieter before the noise set in, before the lockers slammed and the air grew sharp with voices. At this hour, Houndsworth High almost looked functional. Orderly, even.
He moved through it without being stopped.
No one spoke to him. That was expected. His surname did more talking than he ever did, and most students knew better than to test what they didn’t understand. The uniform fit him properly—tailored by habit rather than vanity—and he straightened his cuffs out of reflex before entering his first classroom.
He took the seat closest to the window.
The lesson passed without incident. He wrote everything down, even the things he already knew. Keeping his hands busy made it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, thinking had never required much encouragement.
His father’s voice lingered in the back of his mind, sharp and exacting. Observe. Learn. Represent the family properly. Paimon had said it so often it no longer sounded like advice—just expectation. Stolas wondered, not for the first time, whether his presence here was meant to educate him or simply keep him contained.
The bell rang.
He moved with the rest of the students, careful not to bump anyone, careful not to draw attention. Nobility was a thing you wore whether you wanted to or not; it clung in posture, in diction, in the way others stepped aside without being asked.
Lunch was quiet.
He sat alone, reading through a text he’d already finished once before. Across the cafeteria, laughter broke out—loud, unrestrained. He didn’t look. There was no point. He’d learned long ago that curiosity only invited commentary, and commentary rarely ended well.
Stella would have hated this place.
The thought came uninvited. She hated most places that weren’t arranged for her comfort, and she’d made that abundantly clear. Even now, separated by walls and schedules, her presence lingered like a bruise. Her words replayed themselves with irritating precision. Embarrassing. Inadequate. Disappointing.
Stolas closed the book.
He wondered, sometimes, whether this was what his father intended all along. A routine. An environment structured tightly enough that deviation became impossible. A place where Stolas could be shaped into something acceptable without causing inconvenience.
The final bell rang later than he expected.
He packed his things carefully, double-checking he hadn’t left anything behind. As he left the building, the sun hung low over the cracked pavement, painting everything in dull gold.
Another day completed.
He had done everything right.
Stolas left the school grounds alone.
It wasn’t intentional. It never was. He simply moved at his own pace, and others tended to move away.
He’d almost made it to the gates when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Hey!.. Your Highness!”
He stopped. That was a mistake.
A few students lingered near the bike racks, uniforms loose, posture careless. One of them snorted. Another laughed, low and mean.
“Does he bow at home too?” someone said.
“Probably cries if his food’s not plated right.”
Stolas said nothing. He kept his back straight, hands folded around the strap of his bag. Silence had always been safer than response.
“Relax,” the first voice added. “We’re just joking.”
They weren’t.
A hand brushed his shoulder as he passed. Not hard. Just enough to remind him they could.
He shook. He hated contact. He hated everything what is he even doing here why is he still going-
No. Not in public.
The car ride home was quiet. The driver didn’t speak unless spoken to, and Stolas didn’t ask for anything. The gates opened. The house loomed. Too large. Too empty.
Inside, everything was immaculate. Cold. The air smelled faintly of polish and old incense.
His father wasn’t home. That was a relief.
Stella was.
Her voice carried from another room, sharp and irritated, complaining to someone—staff, perhaps. It hardly mattered. Stolas moved quietly, shoes aligned perfectly by the door, bag placed where it belonged.
Dinner was served without conversation. Stella ate first. Stolas waited. When he did eat, it was measured, careful. He didn’t spill. He didn’t speak.
“Posture,” Stella said without looking at him.
He corrected it immediately.
Later, alone in his room, Stolas sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall. The laughter from earlier replayed, faint but persistent. He pressed it down. He always did.
Tomorrow, he would return to school.
Tomorrow, he would do everything right again.
The locker room was shitty and loud. Typical high school football crap.
Blitzo stood by his locker, jersey fitting wrong on his shoulders. It had been a few days since he first arrived in Houndsworth. He still didn’t get how he’d made the team so fast, he wasn't even good, just stubborn. He just knew how to tank hits and keep running.
Apparently, that was enough.
Someone dropped onto the bench beside him without warning.
“Hey.”
Blitzo flinched, then looked over.
The imp next to him was all sharp edges and restless movement, stretching his arms like he couldn’t sit still even if he tried. His grin looked permanent, like it had been carved in.
“I’m Fizzarolli,” he said, sticking out a hand. “You’re the transfer, right?”
Blitzo hesitated, then shook it. “Yeah. Blitz.”
Fizz hummed. “Coach won’t shut up about you. Said you ‘move like you’re being chased.’”
Blitzo snorted quietly. “Sounds accurate.”
“Where’d you play before?”
“Didn’t,” Blitzo replied. “Just needed something to do.”
Fizz blinked once, then shrugged like that answer made perfect sense. “Well, whatever. You made Striker pissy, so that’s already a win.”
Blitzo’s eyes flicked up.
Striker stood across the room, taller than most, shoulders squared like he was posing even when he wasn’t trying. He was laughing with a few other players, but his eyes cut over the second Blitzo looked.
They locked.
Striker didn’t stop smiling with that fuckass grin on his face.
Blitzo looked away first, jaw tightening.
“That him?” Blitzo muttered as he shook his head towards Striker.
Fizz nodded. “Yeah. King of the Hounds. Been here for 3 years. Thinks this team is his birthright or some shit.”
“Figures.” Blitzo said.
Out on the field, everything moved too fast and not fast enough at the same time. Coach yelled. Whistles screamed. The sun baked the cracked as if it wasn't awful enough.
Blitzo caught passes until his arms burned.
He got tackled. He got back up.
Again.
Fizz ended up next to him in a drill, breathing hard, hands on his knees. “You don’t even think when you're playing, huh?” he said between breaths.
Blitzo wiped sweat from his brow as he giggled. “Hesitation gets you hit.”
Fizz glanced at him, something unreadable passing over his face. Then he smiled again. “Yeah. You’re gonna fit in real nice.”
That’s when Striker stepped in.
“Try not to get cocky,” he said casually, like he wasn’t trying to start shit. “You’re new. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Blitzo turned slowly. “You always talk like that, or only when you’re threatened?”
The smile on Striker’s face cracked, gone with his high-nose-ass attitude.
Fizz stiffened beside him. “Guys-”
“You don’t know shit about this team,” Striker said, not screaming but still irritated. “You don’t just show up and take someone’s place.”
Blitzo felt that familiar pressure behind his eyes. Not anger. Something worse.
“I’m not taking anything,” he said. “If you’re worried, that’s on you.”
Coach’s whistle cut through them like a knife.
“ENOUGH. Line it up!”
Striker stepped back, eyes still locked on Blitzo. “We’ll see how long you last.”
Blitzo watched him walk off, chest tight, hands shaking just a little.
Fizz leaned closer. “So… congrats. You’ve officially pissed him off.”
Blitzo let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
He stared out at the field, at the cracked lines and battered goalposts.
At least here, if he got hit, it was expected.
And for what it's worth, someone noticed when he didn’t fall.