Broken Hands

99. New Chaos

The supervisor's voice cracked like a whip through the exam hall, commanding pens to be lifted. It was loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Some boys groaned softly, a few muttering under their breath. Grayson put his pen down immediately, unwilling to risk another confrontation—not after what happened last week.

"Everyone, stand!" The supervisor barked again, and the students obeyed, rising from their seats in unison. The scraping of chairs echoed as they filed out of the hall, their collective relief almost palpable.

That was it. The last exam sheet.

Now, all that stood between Grayson and freedom was the SAT and a thin piece of paper—his diploma. A ticket out of Durham's suffocating walls. He wasn't nervous about the exams. He felt confident he'd done his best. But beyond the looming graduation, he wasn't sure what waited for him. All he knew was that he wanted out.

Walking down the crowded hall, Grayson noticed the whispers, the sideways glances, the stares that trailed him like shadows. He was used to it by now. Just like Marvin, his name was on everyone's lips. Praise, slander, gossip—it didn't matter anymore. They talked, and he ignored. But one thing was clear: the rooftop incident hadn't gone unnoticed.

Grayson recalled Antoine's text, the boy was doing well according to his writings, Grayson felt relief to know that, relief that Antoine was far from hell and that his father no longer had a blind over his eyes, according to Antoine everything was good. He was doing better—surviving, healing. That was all that mattered.

At least one thing went right, Grayson thought, though the memory of Antoine on the edge of that roof still haunted him. Sometimes, in his nightmares, it wasn't Antoine falling. It was an eight-year-old version of himself, arms flailing as he plummeted into the abyss. Twisted.

But even that wasn't as twisted as what Grayson had uncovered in the files from Charlie's phone.

A web of secrets, darker and more tangled than he could have imagined. Hidden deals with mafias like the Spiders and Leopards. Drug trades, human trafficking. Transactions sealed with cryptic codenames, their victims reduced to nameless faces in photographs. Evidence of chat logs where Charlie ordered hits like he was shopping online.

And the tapes... The ones Grayson couldn't bring himself to watch. Tapes of people Charlie had tortured.

Burn in hell, Charlie, burn.

Grayson had made sure Damien would get the device. He mailed it anonymously, disguising its origin so it couldn't be traced back to him. It wasn't that he didn't trust them—it was that he couldn't afford to answer the questions that would follow. Questions he didn't have answers to yet. An idea he'd quietly stolen from Hera, and one he prayed would work.

The sound of soft chatters echoed faintly down the halls. It was the free period—time to relax or hit the library. But Grayson had no such luxury. He still owed the school one more day of kitchen labor, a consequence of last week's chaos.

Grayson headed for the kitchen, slipping out of his blazer and hanging it neatly on the wall hook. He grabbed an apron and tied it around his waist before walking toward the large sink, where Timothy was leaning casually, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Thought you wouldn't show up, partner," Timothy said, smirking.

Grayson rolled his eyes, turning on the tap. The water gushed over his hands. "Goldman, do you always have to act like the main character in Oppenheimer every time we meet?"

Timothy chuckled, pushing himself off the sink. "Hopefully, the soap, the foam, and the ache in our shoulders will give us just enough mental torture to keep quiet. A modern-day tragedy." He delivered the line with dramatic flair, as if quoting Shakespeare himself.