Broken Hands

80. Is she gone?

The shrill siren signaling the short break reverberated through the halls, cutting through the monotonous rhythm of the day. Grayson couldn't help but imagine it announcing a fire drill or some catastrophe—it certainly felt fitting. Shaking the thought from his head, he made his way toward the restroom, ignoring the neatly aligned boys walking like they were part of some disciplined assembly line.

Durham always gave off unsettling vibes, he thought, like a Gothic cathedral warped into something out of a nightmare. The pointed arches, dark corners, and the way the windows barely let in any light—it was as if the place was designed to unnerve its students. And it didn't stop at the architecture. There were unspoken rules, the kind only the dorm boys whispered about. Antoine once mentioned something about an incident no one dared to talk about, and though Grayson had brushed it off then, it lingered in the back of his mind.

But now wasn't the time to play detective. He had enough on his plate with Stray fighting for her life, Aiden barely holding on, and Damien's simmering anger still looming over him. He pushed through the restroom door, his steps echoing slightly in the empty space.

Grayson headed straight for one of the stalls, shutting the door firmly behind him. He pulled out his pill bottle, shaking it slightly as if hoping it would magically refill itself. Three pills—his usual dose—tumbled into his palm. Alex had started checking his dosages regularly, ensuring he didn't overdo it. But Grayson knew himself too well. The higher dose worked better, but if he emptied the bottle too quickly, Alex would notice and worse, he'd tell Damien, and there would be more scrutiny.

One after the other, he swallowed the pills dry, grimacing slightly as they went down. He leaned against the cold stall wall, trying to steady his thoughts. He had problems before, back in Charlie's hellhole of an apartment, but they felt minuscule compared to now. Stray's injury. Aiden's survival hanging by a thread. And the so-called robbery that wasn't sitting right with him.

Grayson clenched his fists, his mind racing. The masks those men wore—they were too familiar. The same ones he'd seen when he was high. The car they drove matched the one that had chased him and Aiden. It couldn't be a coincidence.

But if he wanted answers, they were locked away in that old phone buried in his drawer. Charlie's phone. The one he hadn't touched for a long time. That phone held secrets, but it wasn't something he could investigate at home. Russell and Julian were always around, and they asked too many questions.

His thoughts were interrupted by the restroom door slamming open, the noise shattering his focus.

Footsteps followed, quick and deliberate. "Clean up," a familiar voice barked. Stephen.

Grayson stepped out of the stall, freezing mid-step at the sight before him. Stephen, and some of the prefects surrounded Antoine, Stephen had a tight grip on Antoine's arm, his fingers digging hard enough to make the smaller boy wince. Antoine's lips quivered, and the way he bit them to keep from crying out made Grayson's blood boil.

Stephen shoved Antoine forward. One of his cronies tossed a mop and bucket at Antoine's feet.

Grayson's eyes flicked between them, calculating. He knew better than to let his temper get the best of him. He was on thin ice with Durham's administration, and Stephen had the badge to wield authority. But the sight of Antoine trembling under Stephen's grip made it hard to keep his anger in check.

"Why does he have to clean?" Grayson asked, his voice calm but sharp. He knew Stephen feared him but his ego won't let him show it.

Stephen turned to him, his expression shifting momentarily to unease before hardening. "Because he's under punishment," Stephen said, his tone defensive. "I have the authority to do that."