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The first sign that something was wrong was that his mother forgot her coffee.
On its own, it shouldn't have meant much. People forgot things all the time, especially on a station where shifts started before sunrise and ended long after sunset. But Lily Brookstone forgetting her coffee felt wrong in the same way a missing step on a staircase felt wrong—small enough that most people wouldn't notice, but jarring once you did.
Lily forgot a lot of things these days. Keys left on counters. Appointments scribbled onto calendars and then missed entirely. Datapads abandoned in strange places only to be found hours later. Sometimes she would walk into a room and stop, staring blankly for a second while she tried to remember why she'd gone there in the first place.
But she never forgot her coffee.
That was why Cole noticed the untouched mug beside the sink the moment he stepped into the kitchen.
The station's artificial sunrise had only recently begun filtering through the apartment windows, casting pale gold light across the countertops. Most of the residential sector was still quiet. Somewhere beyond the walls, ventilation systems hummed steadily, and every so often a distant announcement echoed through the corridors. It was the familiar soundtrack of home.
Lily stood at the counter with a datapad in her hands.
Or at least she appeared to be reading it.
Cole lingered in the doorway for a moment before realizing the screen hadn't changed once. Whatever report she was looking at, she wasn't actually processing it. Her eyes were fixed on the display, but her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
"You'll be late," Cole said.
"Hm?"
She looked up as though she'd forgotten he was there.
"You'll be late."
The words seemed to snap her back into reality. Lily blinked, glanced toward the clock mounted above the kitchen table, and immediately swore under her breath.
"Oh."
Cole walked over and picked up the forgotten mug. The coffee was still warm.
"You made it."
For a second she simply stared at the cup in his hand. Then she laughed—a quiet, tired sound that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Right."
"I figured you'd want it."
"I did, didn't I?"
She accepted the mug with a grateful smile, wrapping both hands around it before taking a sip.
Something twisted painfully in Cole's chest.
Most people wouldn't have noticed anything unusual. Most people would've seen exactly what they always saw when they looked at Lily Brookstone.
A pilot.
An Alpha Team member.
A decorated veteran.
A hero.
His mom.
But Cole had spent twelve years watching her.
Watching her come home from missions exhausted enough to fall asleep on the couch before dinner.
Watching her hide headaches behind strained smiles.
Watching her insist she was fine while rubbing at her temples when she thought nobody was looking.
Watching her forget things she never used to forget.
The changes were small enough that most people overlooked them.
Cole didn't.
He never did.
"You're staring."
He immediately looked away.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for staring."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
A hand settled gently on top of his head.
Cole hated when adults did that. It always felt patronizing somehow.
He tolerated it when Lily did.
Mostly because she was Lily.
"I'm okay, kid."
The reassurance came too quickly.
Too automatically.
Like she'd answered a question he hadn't actually asked.
That didn't make him feel better.
It rarely did.
"Right," he said quietly.
Lily's smile softened.
For a moment neither of them spoke. The kitchen settled into a comfortable silence broken only by the distant hum of machinery beyond the apartment walls.
Then a voice drifted in from the hallway.
"Lily?"
Lou.
"Kitchen."
A moment later his father appeared carrying a stack of reports tucked beneath one arm. He looked only slightly more awake than the rest of the station, which unfortunately still made him one of the most alert people in the building.
"There you are," Lou said. "I was looking for—"
He stopped.
His gaze landed on the datapad.
The untouched breakfast.
The coffee that had only just been remembered.
Something flickered across his face.
Concern.
Worry.
Recognition.
Cole couldn't quite identify it before it vanished.
Gone so quickly that someone else might have missed it entirely.
"Never mind."
Cole didn't miss it.
He never missed things like that.
Adults always seemed convinced they were subtle. They exchanged glances when they thought children weren't paying attention. They lowered their voices in hallways. They changed subjects when kids entered rooms.
They weren't nearly as good at hiding things as they thought they were.
Lou crossed the kitchen and pressed a quick kiss to Lily's forehead before handing her one of the reports.
Mission schedules.
Medical clearances.
Official paperwork.
The sort of documents that always seemed important.
Cole tried not to look.
That only made him look harder.
His eyes caught a few words before Lou folded the report shut again.
Review.
Assessment.
Flight status.
The twisting feeling in his chest returned immediately.
Worse this time.
"Breakfast," Lou said, pointing toward the table.
Cole sat down without arguing.
Arguing would only make them suspicious.
Across the room, Lily finally took another sip of her coffee while Lou began talking about schedules. Training rotations. Launch windows. Routine station business.
Normal things.
Ordinary things.
The kinds of conversations people had when everything was fine.
Or when they wanted everyone else to believe it was.
Cole poked absentmindedly at his food.
Outside the apartment window, the distant shipyards gleamed beneath the station lights. Massive vessels sat suspended in their docks while maintenance crews moved between them like tiny sparks of motion against steel and glass.
Everything looked normal.
Everything sounded normal.
Yet the apartment felt wrong somehow.
Like it was balanced on top of a crack he couldn't see.
A fracture running beneath the surface of everything.
And Cole hated that feeling.
Because every time he got it—
Something eventually broke.
The junior cadet training yard sat between the education wing and one of the station's older greenhouse sectors, a stretch of concrete courts and grassy patches that seemed to collect every child on the station once classes ended. On most afternoons it was loud, filled with overlapping conversations, shouted challenges, and the occasional whistle from an instructor trying to maintain some semblance of order. Today was no exception.
Kids crowded every corner of the yard. Some were running drills they were supposed to have finished during class, while others traded cards, argued over games, or hurried through homework before evening training sessions. The air carried the faint scent of cut grass drifting from the greenhouse sector mixed with the warmth of sun-baked pavement.
Normally, Cole liked it here.
Today he wished everyone would stop talking.
The feeling he'd carried with him since breakfast hadn't faded. It sat somewhere beneath his ribs, heavy and uncomfortable, refusing to leave no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. Every time his thoughts drifted back to Lily standing motionless in the kitchen, staring through her datapad instead of at it, the feeling returned stronger than before.
He kicked a loose pebble across the pavement as he crossed the yard.
"Brookstone."
Cole considered pretending he hadn't heard.
Unfortunately, the voice belonged to someone persistent.
"Brookstone!"
A second pebble bounced off his shoe.
With a sigh, Cole stopped and turned around.
Connor Hale was leaning against a chain-link fence with two of his friends nearby. Dylan sat balanced on the railing beside him while another boy Cole vaguely recognized was halfway through a packet of chips. Connor looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was usually a warning sign.
"What?" Cole asked.
Connor grinned. "Nothing."
"Then why were you yelling?"
"I wanted to see if you'd actually answer."
Cole stared at him.
Connor stared right back.
Dylan immediately groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh no."
"What?" Connor asked.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you bother people because you're bored."
Connor pointed dramatically at him. "False."
"True."
"False."
"Connor."
"Fine."
Pushing away from the fence, Connor looked for a moment as though he might actually let the conversation end there. Instead, he tilted his head and said, "You look grumpy."
Cole sighed.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The reason you called me over."
Connor pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Your lack of faith in me is deeply hurtful."
Dylan laughed. The third boy nearly choked on his drink.
Despite himself, Cole rolled his eyes, and some of the tension he'd been carrying all afternoon eased from his shoulders. Not much, but enough for Connor to notice.
Connor noticed everything.
Unfortunately, he rarely used that talent responsibly.
"Tough day?" he asked.
The question caught Cole off guard. Not because Connor sounded concerned—he usually didn't—but because for a brief second he sounded genuine.
Cole hesitated before shrugging.
"Not really."
"Liar."
Cole frowned.
Connor pointed at him immediately.
"See?"
"See what?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"That face."
"You are literally pointing at nothing."
Dylan groaned louder this time.
"Please stop saying face."
"No."
Cole turned away with another eye roll.
"Whatever."
"Aw, don't be like that."
"I'm not being like anything."
"You absolutely are."
Cole resumed walking, and Connor fell into step beside him without invitation. This happened often enough that neither of them bothered commenting on it anymore.
Around them, cadets drifted through the yard in small groups. Conversations overlapped into a constant background hum. Someone shouted from one of the practice courts, followed by a chorus of complaints. A training whistle sounded somewhere in the distance.
Everything felt normal.
Or at least it should have.
Then a group of older cadets passed nearby.
One of them glanced toward Cole, then toward Connor. A smirk spread across his face.
"Hey, Hale."
The change in Connor was immediate.
It lasted less than a second, but Cole saw it anyway. Connor's shoulders stiffened, and something in his expression tightened before he could hide it again.
The older cadet laughed.
His friends laughed too.
Then they kept walking.
Connor watched them go.
The grin he'd been wearing all afternoon never quite returned. Instead, something colder settled into its place—something annoyed, embarrassed, and just a little angry.
Dylan noticed too.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
The response came too quickly and far sharper than the question deserved.
Connor seemed to realize it immediately. A second later he looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets as though that might somehow erase the outburst.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The noise of the training yard suddenly felt louder than before.
Cole found himself thinking about breakfast again. About Lily forgetting her coffee. About Lou's carefully neutral expression. About the way adults always insisted everything was fine even when it clearly wasn't.
Funny.
The grown-ups weren't the only ones who did it.
Across the yard, Connor kept staring at the ground, pretending nothing was wrong. And for reasons Cole couldn't explain, seeing that made the uneasy feeling in his chest worse.
He should have left then.
Probably would have.
If someone hadn't spoken.
One careless comment.
One stupid joke.
One sentence that turned an ordinary afternoon into something else entirely.
Years later, none of them would remember exactly how the argument started. The details blurred together with time—the words, the tone, who said what first. What remained was the feeling of it: a perfectly ordinary afternoon that somehow spiraled into something none of them could take back. They remembered the fight. They remembered the blood. They remembered the way people looked at Cole afterward. Everything before that became a haze.
"What was that about?" Dylan asked, nodding toward the older cadets who had passed by earlier.
Connor shrugged without looking up. "Nothing."
"Looked like something."
"It wasn't."
"Pretty sure it was."
Connor shot him a warning look, and Dylan immediately raised both hands in surrender.
"Okay, fine. Be mysterious."
"Thank you."
"You're bad at it, by the way."
The third boy laughed, earning an eye roll from Connor.
Around them, the training yard carried on as it always did. Cadets crossed between buildings in small groups, conversations overlapping into a constant background hum. Someone shouted from the basketball court. A whistle sounded from one of the practice fields. The station's artificial afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the pavement.
Everything was normal.
At least, it was until Dylan spoke again.
"At least nobody's talking about your family anymore."
The change in Connor was immediate.
His grin disappeared. The irritation that had lingered beneath the surface ever since the older cadets walked by returned all at once, settling across his face like a storm cloud. Cole noticed it instantly. So did everyone else.
Dylan realized his mistake a second too late.
"Oh."
"Drop it."
"Connor—"
"I said drop it."
The conversation should have ended there.
Dylan clearly wanted it to. The third boy suddenly found the ground fascinating. Even Cole, who had no idea what the older cadets had said, could tell he'd stumbled into something uncomfortable.
But Connor was already angry.
Angry at the older cadets. Angry at whatever had happened before Cole arrived. Angry at being reminded of it in front of other people. And when Connor got angry, he had a habit of grabbing onto the nearest target and refusing to let go.
Dylan shifted awkwardly.
"Sorry."
Connor shrugged.
"Whatever."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Connor's gaze drifted toward Cole.
Cole was still standing there, hands in his pockets, distracted by thoughts that had nothing to do with Connor or Dylan or anyone else in the yard. His mind kept wandering back to breakfast. To Lily forgetting her coffee. To the reports Lou had tried to hide. To the uneasy feeling that had followed him all day.
Something about that distant expression seemed to irritate Connor even more.
"At least you've got it easy."
Cole blinked.
"What?"
Connor shrugged again, but there was an edge to it now.
"You heard me."
Dylan immediately looked alarmed.
"Connor."
"What?"
"Don't."
Connor ignored him.
"Everybody treats you like you're made of glass."
Cole frowned.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't."
The irritation in Connor's voice sharpened.
Not because of anything Cole had done.
Not really.
Cole just happened to be standing there when Connor needed somewhere to put his frustration.
"You get away with everything."
"I do not."
"You do."
"No, I don't."
Connor let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Please."
Dylan looked like he wanted to physically drag him away from the conversation.
"Connor."
"What?"
"Stop."
But Connor wasn't listening anymore.
His attention remained fixed on Cole, and now other kids were beginning to notice. Conversations slowed. Heads turned. Small groups drifted closer without meaning to. The promise of an argument spread through the yard with remarkable speed.
Connor noticed the audience.
And somehow that made everything worse.
"You know what the difference is?" he asked.
Cole felt his stomach tighten.
"No."
Connor smirked.
"The difference is people actually expect things from everyone else."
Dylan closed his eyes.
"Oh no."
Connor kept going.
"Nobody says anything about your mom because everybody feels bad for her."
The words hit harder than they should have.
The yard seemed to fade around Cole. The conversations, the footsteps, the distant whistle—all of it became muffled beneath the sudden rush of blood in his ears.
Breakfast came flooding back.
The forgotten coffee.
The untouched breakfast.
The reports.
The word assessment.
The way Lily had smiled and assured him she was fine before he'd even asked.
Connor laughed again, feeding off the attention now.
Still angry.
Still embarrassed.
Still trying to prove something to the crowd gathering around them.
"They only keep her on Alpha because nobody wants to be the one who tells her she's done."
Dylan looked genuinely horrified.
"Connor."
Too late.
Connor shrugged.
"What?"
Nobody answered.
The silence should have warned him.
Instead, he looked directly at Cole and doubled down.
"Everybody knows it."
Something inside Cole gave way.
Not dramatically.
Not explosively.
Just quietly.
Like a rope stretched too tight finally snapping.
One moment he was standing still.
The next he was moving.
He crossed the distance between them before he fully understood what he was doing. A step. Another. Then his fist connected with Connor's face.
The impact jolted all the way up his arm.
Connor stumbled backward, completely unprepared for it. His feet tangled beneath him and he hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
The entire yard fell silent.
Dozens of conversations died at once.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Connor lay there staring upward in shock, one hand pressed against his nose. When he pulled it away, blood stained his fingers.
Cole froze.
The anger vanished as quickly as it had come.
In its place came horror.
"Oh."
Connor blinked.
Cole took a hesitant step forward.
"Connor, I—"
The apology never made it out.
Connor's gaze shifted past him.
To the crowd.
To the dozens of cadets staring.
To the blood on his hand.
To the fact that everyone had just watched him get knocked flat by twelve-year-old Cole Brookstone.
His eyes were already watering—not from tears, but from the punch itself. From the shock. From the sting in his nose. From the humiliation burning hotter than any physical pain.
For a second he stayed down.
Just staring.
As though he couldn't quite process what had happened.
Then someone in the crowd whispered:
"Cole hit him."
Connor heard it.
The words landed like a challenge.
Something flashed across his face—shock giving way to embarrassment, embarrassment hardening into pride.
He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across the back of his hand. Then he pushed himself to his feet, stepped forward, and punched Cole directly in the jaw.
The second punch hurt more than the first.
Not because Connor hit harder, but because this time Cole saw it coming. There was no shock to soften it, no split second of disbelief. His head snapped sideways, pain flaring across his jaw as the training yard seemed to tilt beneath him. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted. Another voice yelled for them to stop.
Nobody did.
Connor grabbed the front of Cole's jacket, bunching the fabric in his fists. Instinctively, Cole shoved him away. Connor shoved back harder, and suddenly neither of them was standing still anymore.
The crowd scattered around them as they stumbled across the pavement. Shoes scraped against concrete. Someone crashed into the fence with a metallic rattle. Voices erupted from every direction at once, overlapping until they became meaningless noise. Cole couldn't pick out a single word. Everything felt strangely distant despite how loud it was, as though he were hearing the world through water.
Connor hit him again. It wasn't a particularly powerful punch, but it was enough to send Cole stumbling backward. He nearly lost his footing, and the crowd reacted immediately. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers, followed by a dozen different shouts.
Cole barely registered any of it.
His eyes were already stinging. Part of it was from the blows, but most of it came from the tears he was desperately trying not to shed. The harder he fought them, the worse it became.
---
"Stop it!"
The voice sounded like Dylan's.
Maybe.
Cole couldn't be sure anymore.
Someone grabbed Connor's sleeve and tried to pull him back. Connor jerked free immediately. Another person reached for Cole's shoulder, but their grip slipped away almost as quickly as it came. Nobody could get hold of either of them for more than a second.
The world dissolved into motion.
---
One thing remained painfully clear, though: Connor had the advantage.
Cole remembered that much, even if the details blurred together afterward. Connor was older by two years, taller, stronger, and had longer reach. Every time Cole tried to swing, Connor seemed to get there first.
A shove sent him backward.
A punch caught him before he could recover.
Another shove.
The pavement rushed toward him.
Then somehow he was standing again, though he couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten back up.
The fight felt less like a sequence of events and more like being caught in a storm.
---
The crowd kept growing.
People always gathered when something happened, especially when they knew they shouldn't. Kids drifted in from nearby courts and walkways, drawn by the noise and excitement. Some shouted encouragement. Others yelled for them to stop. A few simply watched.
Cole heard nervous laughter somewhere in the crowd. Someone else swore. Another voice called for an instructor.
No instructor came.
Not yet.
---
Connor's fist clipped his cheek, and Cole tasted something metallic.
Only a little.
Just enough to notice.
His eyes watered harder. The sting in his face mixed with embarrassment until he couldn't separate one from the other. Everything about this felt wrong.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't supposed to be fighting Connor.
He definitely wasn't supposed to be crying in front of half the junior cadets on the station.
Yet somehow all of those things were happening at once.
---
Then Connor said something.
At first Cole couldn't make out the words. They were buried beneath the shouting and the pounding of blood in his ears. Fragments drifted through the noise.
"...everybody knows..."
"...your mom..."
"...Alpha..."
The words struck harder than any punch.
Something twisted inside him again, the same knot of fear and frustration that had been building since breakfast. The forgotten coffee. The reports on the counter. The way Lily had smiled and insisted she was fine before he'd even asked.
Connor was angry. Years later, Cole would understand that. He would understand humiliation and pride and the pressure of having dozens of people watching.
At twelve, all he understood was that Connor kept saying her name.
Again.
And again.
And again.
---
The next time Connor shoved him, Cole shoved back.
Hard.
Harder than he had all afternoon.
Connor stumbled.
Only a step.
Only for a moment.
But it was enough for everyone to notice.
The crowd reacted instantly. Someone yelled in surprise. Connor's eyes widened for the briefest second, caught off guard by the resistance.
Then they crashed together again.
---
After that, Cole's memories stopped lining up properly.
The fight became a collection of disconnected images rather than a coherent sequence of events.
Connor grabbing his sleeve.
Dust rising from the pavement.
The fence rattling as someone slammed into it.
A voice shouting his name.
Hands trying and failing to pull them apart.
Faces in the crowd, blurred together into a sea of movement.
---
What Cole remembered most clearly was the crying.
That part embarrassed him for years afterward.
He wasn't sobbing. He wasn't breaking down. The tears simply wouldn't stop. They mixed with sweat and frustration until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
He was angry.
Humiliated.
Scared.
And more overwhelmed than he had ever been in his life.
---
He remembered Connor saying something.
One final comment.
One final jab.
One final comment about Lily.
Cole never remembered the exact words. Maybe he blocked them out. Maybe the noise swallowed them before they fully registered.
All he remembered was the feeling they left behind.
---
For the first time all afternoon, Cole hit back.
Really hit back.
Not because he was stronger than Connor.
Not because he suddenly knew how to fight.
Not because he wanted to win.
He was simply tired.
Tired of hearing people talk about his mother.
Tired of worrying about things he couldn't fix.
Tired of pretending he wasn't scared.
Tired of everyone acting as though everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.
The frustration that had been building all day finally boiled over.
---
The next few seconds vanished into a blur of movement and noise.
Shouting.
Struggling.
The scrape of shoes against pavement.
The world narrowed until there was nothing except anger, confusion, and the desperate need to make everything stop.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the haze lifted.
Connor was on the ground.
Cole stood over him, breathing so hard it hurt. His chest burned. His hands shook uncontrollably at his sides.
The crowd had gone silent.
For the first time all afternoon, nobody was shouting.
Nobody was laughing.
Nobody was trying to intervene.
They were all just staring.
And every single one of them was staring at him.
The silence felt wrong.
Only moments ago the training yard had been filled with shouting, scrambling feet, and the chaotic noise of dozens of children reacting to a fight. Now it felt as though someone had pulled all the sound out of the world. The only things Cole could hear were ragged breaths—his own and Connor's—and the unsettling quiet of an entire crowd staring.
Cole blinked once, then again.
The haze that had swallowed the last few moments slowly began to clear. Shapes sharpened into familiar things: the fence rattling gently in the breeze, the worn pavement beneath him, the ring of stunned faces surrounding them.
And Connor.
Connor was underneath him.
He wasn't fighting anymore. He wasn't even trying to move. He simply stared up at Cole with wide eyes, breathing hard. Dust clung to his jacket, and a thin line of blood ran beneath his nose. The shock on his face was impossible to miss.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. Neither of them seemed capable of speaking.
Cole's heart hammered painfully against his ribs. His hands hurt. His chest hurt. Every part of him seemed to ache. Yet none of that compared to the sick feeling suddenly sinking through his stomach.
What did I do?
The thought hit him all at once, cold and immediate.
Until that moment everything had been motion and noise and anger. Now there was only the aftermath, and it terrified him.
Connor looked just as stunned.
Maybe even more.
It was as if he had only just realized the fight was over. As if he had only just remembered that they were both kids and that neither of them had actually known what they were doing. The anger that had fueled the last few minutes was gone from his face, replaced by something far more uncertain.
Cole swallowed hard.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Then opened again.
"Connor, I—"
The apology never came.
Fast, panicked footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the crowd. A voice called out, sharp with alarm.
A familiar voice.
Connor heard it too.
The moment he recognized it, Cole saw the realization strike him.
His mother's voice.
Everything seemed to click into place behind Connor's eyes at once—the blood on his face, the crowd gathered around them, the adults rushing over, and the undeniable fact that everyone had seen what had happened.
Panic flashed across his expression.
Raw. Immediate.
Without a word, Connor shoved him away.
It wasn't a violent push. There was no anger behind it anymore. He simply wanted distance between them before his mother arrived. Wanted to be sitting up. Wanted to look like he had some control over the situation.
Wanted, somehow, to undo the last few minutes.
But it was already too late.
Cole stumbled backward as Connor pushed himself upright. One hand immediately went to his nose while the other braced against the pavement. His breathing remained uneven, and his eyes were still bright with adrenaline and embarrassment.
For one awful second they simply looked at each other.
Neither spoke.
Neither knew how.
Because suddenly the fight felt small.
Not unimportant, but small compared to everything that came after it. Smaller than the humiliation of being watched by half the station's cadets. Smaller than the fear settling into both of them. Smaller than the realization that neither of them could take back what they had just done.
Then the crowd split apart.
"Connor!"
His mother reached him first.
She dropped to her knees beside him so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. Her hands immediately moved to check his face, his shoulders, his arms, searching for injuries while questions poured from her mouth faster than anyone could answer them.
Connor visibly shrank.
Not away from her exactly, but away from the attention.
Humiliation flooded his expression.
There was nothing worse than being treated like you were hurt in front of everyone. Especially when dozens of other cadets were watching.
Then another voice cut through the noise.
"Cole!"
Lou.
Cole turned toward the sound.
His father was already pushing through the crowd, moving faster than Cole had ever seen him move. Children stepped aside instinctively as he approached.
For a brief moment, relief surged through Cole so strongly it almost hurt.
Dad.
The feeling lasted only until he saw Lou's face.
The alarm.
The confusion.
The disbelief.
And suddenly relief vanished.
Because Lou hadn't seen the beginning.
He hadn't heard the comments. He hadn't heard the jokes about Lily. He hadn't seen Connor throw punches back. He hadn't witnessed any of the messy, stupid chain of events that had led them here.
All Lou could see was the aftermath.
Connor sitting on the pavement with blood on his face.
Adults gathering around him.
A crowd of children staring.
And Cole standing in the middle of it all with shaking hands, tears still drying on his cheeks, and reddened knuckles that made the story look painfully simple.
The silence seemed to return.
Not true silence. The crowd was still there. People were talking. Connor's mother was still asking questions. Someone was trying to explain what had happened while someone else argued over the details.
But none of it reached Cole.
The noise faded into the background as he stood there, frozen beneath dozens of watching eyes.
Because he already knew what everyone saw when they looked at him.
And worse than that, he knew they weren't entirely wrong.