Broken Hands

88. All the best

Durham Hall buzzed with low chatter, the dark uniforms blending into the cold, gothic architecture that loomed like a physical manifestation of the school's oppressive rules. The atmosphere was suffocating, a grim reminder that this was more of a prison than an institution of learning.

Grayson grabbed the exam schedule sheet being handed out by the brown-uniformed staff. His fingers tightened slightly around the paper as he read through it. Final exams for the senior graders were fast approaching, the words blaring like a countdown to something he wasn't ready for.

Sliding the sheet into his bag, Grayson couldn't help the unease settling in his chest. After this, then what? Would he run away and carve out a new life somewhere? Or would he end up in boot camp, molded into someone unrecognizable? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he pushed the thoughts aside as he made his way to the lunchroom.

The lunchroom was just as dreary as the rest of Durham, with gray walls and stiff lines of tables. Grayson grabbed a tray filled with the usual garbage they dared to call food and sat at his usual spot. He dug in mechanically, not really tasting the blandness.

"Hello, Gray," came a small, hesitant voice.

Grayson didn't need to look up to know it was Antoine. The smaller boy slid into the chair across from him, his movements careful, almost timid. Antoine handled the chair like it might fall apart if he applied too much pressure.

"You look like you could use some fresh air," Grayson said, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice.

Antoine gave a weak smile, though his expression screamed exhaustion. "I got plenty of fresh air last night. Stayed outside almost all night."

Grayson frowned and finally looked up. "What do you mean? You've got an 8 p.m. curfew, don't you?"

Antoine adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his gaze dropping. "Yeah, but I couldn't go in. They would've forced me under the covers until I screamed."

Grayson's fork clattered on the tray as he leaned forward, his voice lowering. "You stayed out all night?"

Antoine nodded. "Tried to, but I got caught anyway," he added with a faint shrug. His tone was too casual, like this was just another day in his grim existence.

Grayson sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You've got to do something about this, glass-face."

Antoine avoided his gaze, poking at the food on his plate. "I can't. They already hit me for breaking curfew. I don't need more problems, Gray. I just want to get through these exams and leave. Visit my grandmother or something."

Grayson felt a pang of exasperation and pity as he watched Antoine retreat further into himself. "You've got to stop letting them do this to you. Fight back, or they'll keep coming. Trust me, I've been there. People will screw you over again and again, and if you don't push back, they'll keep running you over until there's nothing left of you."

Antoine's gaze flickered with something—a faint spark of hope or courage—before dimming again. "Easy for you to say."

Grayson let out a bitter laugh. "It wasn't always easy. But I learned that some people only understand boundaries when you force them to."

Antoine stared at him, his lips pressing into a thin line. He opened his mouth to reply but froze as a shadow loomed over the table.

Grayson didn't need to look to know who it was. He caught the sharp scent of cologne before the voice followed.

"Smith. Antoine," Timothy Goldman greeted, pulling a chair for himself.

Grayson sighed, his tone flat. "Goldman."