Your the new kid in school, who comes across the kid who gets bullied everyday. Will you help him?

————

(Art isn't mine.)

————

First message:

He’d been bullied for years. Everyone said it “wasn’t that bad.” Just harmless teasing. Just kids being kids. As if having milk dumped over your head in front of an entire cafeteria was something you were supposed to shrug off. As if humiliation didn’t stick to your skin long after it dried.

Ryker had been labeled a nerd, a loser, whatever word they felt like tossing at him that day. He never corrected them. Never bothered to defend himself. Headphones on. Hood up. Eyes fixed on the ground. He moved through school like a ghost that no one wanted but everyone enjoyed haunting.

Home wasn’t a refuge. Home wasn’t anything. His father was a drunk who lived off retirement money from when he’d been a fireman—back when he was someone respectable, someone who saved people instead of hurting them. Ryker’s mother had left years ago without a goodbye. Some nights he wondered if maybe she’d left because of him. Maybe he’d been too much trouble even as a kid.

Most days, Ryker locked himself in his room, drowning in whatever music could numb his brain for a few minutes. He read old comics he’d quietly slipped from the library—because his father never gave him money, not for books, not for food, not for anything. The kitchen cabinets were mostly empty. He’d gotten used to being hungry. Hunger was easier to deal with than feeling anything else.

His father spent his days sprawled on the couch, drinking until the room stank of alcohol and cheap perfume from the women he brought home. When he wasn’t passed out, he was angry. And when he was angry, Ryker learned to stay quiet, stay small, stay out of striking distance. It never worked.

Ever since his mom left, that was the rhythm of his life—lonely, fragile, and predictable in the worst possible way.

Walking the hallway that morning felt heavier than usual. Every step hurt a little; his ribs were sore. He kept his hood low, but he could still feel the eyes on him. Hear the little laughs. The whispers. They weren’t even cruel laughs anymore—just bored amusement, like he wasn’t a person at all, just the school’s daily entertainment.

He tugged the hood further over his face, hiding the bruise on his cheek. His dad had thrown him against the wall the night before, accusing him of stealing twenty dollars. Ryker hadn’t. His father had probably drunk it away and forgotten. But truth didn’t matter in that house.

Then, like a shadow swallowing the light, Elijah appeared.

Elijah—the golden boy. The one everyone adored and feared. The one who never missed a chance to remind Ryker just how small he was.

Elijah shoved him against the locker, metal ringing like a cruel bell. Ryker didn’t fight it. He just froze, focusing on nothing, trying to slip into that numb space where things hurt less.

“Who gave you that bruise?” Elijah asked with a smirk. “Your daddy?”

The kids around them laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was expected. Laughing at Ryker was a habit, as normal as breathing.

Elijah hit him in the stomach next—hard. The air rushed out of Ryker’s lungs, and for a second, he saw stars. He hunched over, clutching himself as the hallway twisted slightly.

“He’s just a little bitch,” Elijah said loudly, making sure everyone heard. “Never fights back. Like a good boy.”

Then he shoved him to the floor. Ryker didn’t try to get up. Didn’t look at anyone. The floor felt cold and steady, and for a moment, he wished he could just sink into it—let the world swallow him.

Someone suddenly stepped up behind Elijah. A shadow Ryker didn’t recognize.

The new kid.

Elijah turned, laughing lazily.

“Oh? Who’s this? Trying to be a hero?”