The Torment

Music fills London's ears as she leans against the passenger-side window, her cheek resting against the cool glass while the city moves past in a blur of traffic lights, storefronts, and morning commuters.

She keeps the volume just loud enough to soften the world around her.

Not enough to completely drown out the hum of the car or the occasional turn signal, but enough that she can pretend she isn't heading toward school.

Senior year.

Her final year.

The thought should make her excited. Instead, it sits heavily in her stomach.

One more year, she reminds herself. Just one.

One more year of crowded hallways, fake smiles, whispers behind hands, and people who somehow manage to make her body their favorite topic of conversation.

Then graduation.

Then freedom.

London shifts in her seat and tugs the sleeve of her hoodie farther over her hand.

She can survive one more year.

Probably.

A hand suddenly reaches across the center console and hooks beneath one side of her headphones.

London frowns when the earcup is pulled away. She turns toward her mother.

Faith keeps one hand on the steering wheel, her dark eyes fixed on the line of cars ahead of them.

Faith: "I'm going to be late getting home tonight."

London lowers the music on her phone.

London: "Okay."

Faith glances over.

Faith: "That's it?"

London: "What am I supposed to do? Throw myself across the dashboard and beg you not to leave me?"

Faith's lips twitch.

Faith: "I wouldn't hate the dramatics."

London sighs and settles back into the seat.

London: "It's Friday. I figured you'd be late."

Faith: "The bar's going to be busy tonight. Beginning of the weekend always brings everybody out, and I need to make sure everything runs smoothly before I leave."

London knows exactly what that means. Her mother probably won't be home until well after dark. Maybe later.

London: "I'll get a ride home with Gina."

Faith looks over again.

Faith: "Did you ask Gina?"

London: "Not yet."

Faith: "London."

London: "She'll say yes."

Faith: "You can't just volunteer that girl to drive you around."

London: "I don't volunteer her. She willingly accepts the privilege of my company."

Faith snorts softly.

Faith: "Ask her."

London: "I will."

London pauses.

London: "And text me when you get home."

Faith turns her head slowly.

Faith: "Mom."

London: "What?"

Faith: "I'm almost eighteen."

London: "And?"

Faith: "And I know how doors work."

Faith: "That's wonderful. Lock one behind you."

London rolls her eyes, but she can't stop the small smile pulling at her mouth.

Her mother worries. It is what Faith does.

She worries about London getting home. She worries about whether London has eaten. She worries about whether London is cold, tired, upset, overwhelmed, bored, or somehow being hunted by wolves despite the fact they live nowhere near any.

London sometimes complains about it.

Secretly, she loves it.

Faith has spent most of London's life worrying enough for two parents. Because for all intents and purposes, she's been both.

Her father left Faith for another woman years ago. London had been young enough to believe there had to be some complicated reason behind it.

There wasn't.

He wanted someone else. So he left.

Eventually, he stopped pretending. London understood. She wasn't wanted there. Not really.

Faith has already filled every space he abandoned anyway. She works. Pays bills. Makes sure London has what she needs even when money is tight.

She shows up. Every single time.

The car creeps forward in the morning traffic leading toward the school. London looks through the windshield and immediately regrets it.

The building comes into view. Too many brick walls. Too many windows. Too many students spilling across the front steps as though they're thrilled to be back.

One more year.

She repeats it so often she's started treating the words like a prayer.

Faith's voice softens.

Faith: "Hey."

London turns.

Faith: "One more year."

London breathes out slowly.

London: "One more year."

Faith: "Then you're done."

London wants to believe that is all it will take. Graduate. Leave. Move on. Like she can walk across a stage and leave every miserable memory sitting behind her in one of those ugly plastic chairs.

Faith reaches toward the cup holder and pulls out a few folded bills. She holds them toward London.

Faith: "Here."

London looks at the money, then at her.

London: "No."

Faith: "That wasn't a question."

London: "Mom, keep it."

Faith: "Take it."

London: "I don't need vending machine money."

Faith: "You say that now, and then three hours from now you'll be starving because apparently breakfast is offensive to you."

London: "I ate."

London pauses.

London: "I had coffee."

Faith: "Coffee isn't breakfast."

London: "It has beans."

Faith stares at her. Then:

Faith: "Take the money."

London sighs and accepts it. They aren't rich. She's watched her mother stretch money farther than it has any right to go. That is why even a few dollars make her hesitate.

Faith notices. She always does.

Faith: "It's a few dollars, baby."

London: "I know."

Faith: "Then stop looking like I handed you the mortgage."

London smiles faintly and tucks the bills into her pocket.

London: "Fine. I'm buying something terrible for me."

Faith: "That's what vending machines are for."

London: "Chocolate."

Faith: "Better."

The car finally reaches the drop-off lane. London reaches for her backpack, but for a second, she doesn't move. She simply looks out at the school.

The nerves come back immediately.

London: "Love you."

Faith: "Love you too."

Faith softens.

Faith: "Have a good day."

London gives her a look.

London: "Let's not set unrealistic goals."

She shuts the door before her mother can answer, then steps onto the sidewalk. She watches the car merge back into traffic and disappear.

The smile fades from her face.

She turns toward the school.

Students move around her from every direction, some calling to friends across the parking lot, others gathered in little groups near the entrance. London adjusts the strap of her backpack over her shoulder.

This place has never felt like hers. Not once.

There are people inside who have made her life miserable for years. Girls who whisper about her weight. Guys who think saying something disgusting and then claiming it is a joke somehow makes it funny.

London has learned to endure most of them. Ignore. Walk away. Don't give them what they want.

But there is one person who has always been harder to avoid.

Soyoir Helixion.

Even thinking his name irritates her.

He is popular in that unfair way boys like him always seem to be. Trouble somehow makes him more interesting instead of less. He fights constantly. Teachers are exhausted by him. Girls still follow him around.

London has never understood the appeal.

Fine. That is a lie. She has eyes. Soyoir is attractive. But a pretty face doesn't magically erase being an asshole. And Soyoir is an asshole. Especially to her.

She has learned one rule: Never look at him.

More specifically—never look him in the eyes. Eye contact means he has noticed her. And once Soyoir notices her, he always finds some reason to make her regret it.

If graduation means never having to think about Soyoir Helixion again, London might personally kiss the stage when she crosses it.

A familiar voice calls her name.

Gina: "London!"

She looks up immediately.

Gina stands near the top of the stairs, waving one hand over her head like London might somehow miss her from twenty feet away.

A genuine smile finally reaches London's face.

London: "There you are."

Gina hurries down several steps to meet her.

Gina: "There I am? I've been waiting forever."

London: "You texted me six minutes ago."

Gina: "Six traumatic minutes."

They link arms and start up the stairs together. Gina immediately begins talking about schedules and whether they have lunch at the same time. London listens, answering whenever Gina pauses long enough to let her, and some of the tightness in her chest finally eases.

That is what Gina does. She makes school feel less unbearable.

They reach the entrance and step inside. Noise swallows them—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking across polished floors, students crowding around one another while teachers attempt to look enthusiastic.

London stays beside Gina as they move through the hallway.

Gina: "If they changed my lunch period, I'm filing a complaint."

London: "With who?"

Gina: "The government."

London: "The government does not care about your lunch schedule."

Gina: "That's what's wrong with this country."

London laughs softly.

Then Gina stops. The sudden movement tugs London backward because their arms are still linked.

London: "What?"

Gina doesn't answer.

London looks at her. Gina's eyes have fixed on something farther down the hallway. Something in her expression makes London's stomach tighten.

London: "Gina?"

Gina finally looks at her. Her voice drops.

Gina: "Don't look."

London goes still.

The hallway continues moving around them, voices and footsteps blending together, but London barely hears any of it.

She doesn't need to ask.

There is only one person Gina ever warns her about like that.

A burst of male laughter sounds somewhere ahead. Then another voice joins it. Low. Familiar.

London's fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack.

Of course. It is the first morning back. She hasn't even made it to class. And somehow he is already here.

Soyoir.

London lowers her eyes.

One rule. Don't look. Don't make eye contact. Just keep walking.

Gina shifts closer.

Gina: "Maybe he didn't see you."

London almost laughs. That would require luck. She doesn't trust luck.

London: "Just walk."

They start forward again, weaving between students. London keeps her eyes fixed on the floor several feet ahead of her. One step. Then another.

She can hear Gina talking beside her again, quieter now, probably trying to distract her. London barely processes the words. She only needs to get past him.

Keep walking. Don't look. Don't—

Gina suddenly goes silent.

London feels her arm tense.

She looks up—just for a second, just to see what has stopped Gina's breath—and immediately regrets it.

Black boots. Scuffed, expensive. Then the legs—jeans torn just enough to look careless. Then the hands, shoved in pockets, one knuckle still bruised from whatever fight happened over the weekend.

She stops walking.

Soyoir Helixion leans against the locker bank like he owns the hallway. Like he owns everything. He isn't alone—he is never alone—but his eyes are already on her, dark and waiting, like he's been hoping she'd look.

Their gazes lock.

London's stomach drops through the floor.

Soyoir: "Well. Look who decided to exist today."

The hallway goes quiet. Not the normal between-class quiet. The watching quiet. The kind that means everyone has suddenly remembered where they are and who is about to get hurt.

Gina's hand tightens on London's arm.

Gina: "Keep walking. Don't engage."

London knows better. She knows better. But her feet have rooted themselves to the linoleum, and Soyoir is already pushing off the lockers, already crossing the distance between them with that loose-limbed stride that looks like violence waiting to happen.

He stops three feet away. Close enough that she can smell him—cologne and something sharper, like cold air and trouble. Close enough to see the bruise purpling under his eye, the split lip healing crooked.

Soyoir: "You're staring, Falzwell. I thought we had an agreement. You don't look at me. I don't ruin your day."

London's throat has gone dry. She hates that her first instinct is still to shrink, to make herself smaller.

London: "Sorry. I wasn't—"

Soyoir: "You weren't what? Weren't looking? Weren't thinking about me? Weren't hoping I'd notice you?"

The laugh that ripples through the hallway is like glass in her teeth. London feels her face burn, feels the familiar prick of tears that she refuses to let fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

Gina: "Leave her alone, Soyoir. She wasn't doing anything."

Soyoir doesn't even glance at Gina. His eyes stay on London, searching, waiting for something she doesn't know how to give.

Soyoir: "Your friend's brave. You should tell her brave gets people hurt."

London: "She's not—"

Soyoir: "Not what? Not brave? Not yours? Not worth protecting?"

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes her ear, and London goes absolutely still.

He pulls back just far enough to meet her eyes again. This close, she can see the flecks of gold in the brown, the way his pupils dilate slightly, like the darkness itself is hungry. He holds her gaze for three long seconds—one, two, three—and then he smiles like he's won something.

Soyoir: "See you tomorrow, Falzwell. Try not to miss me too much."

He walks away. The crowd parts for him like water, and then he is gone, and the hallway starts breathing again.

London realizes she's been holding her breath.

Gina: "Are you okay?"

Gina's hands are on her shoulders, turning her, checking her like she might have actual wounds.

Gina: "London, look at me. Are you okay?"

London: "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm always fine."

But her hands are shaking. Her heart is hammering against her ribs like it wants out. And somewhere in the back of her mind, the countdown has already started again.

One hundred and twenty-seven days until graduation.

And then she can finally, finally, leave Soyoir Helixion and everything else about this place behind.

She just has to survive until then.