Foreigner

Chapter 21

The school lobby is already too crowded when I get there. Students clog the hall like blood in a bad artery, pressed shoulder to shoulder, necks craned, whispering to one another in hushed, frantic tones. The sound isn't excitement—it's something heavier.

Something worse.

I frown, standing on my toes to see past the taller kids blocking my way. No chance. The entire student body seems to be moving toward the entrance like an invisible force is pulling them there. I exhale sharply and elbow my way through, shoving past a group of gawking freshmen who barely seem to notice.

Then the doors open.

And the air changes.

A hush sweeps through the crowd, like the moment right before a gun goes off. The first thing I see is the leather jacket—old, cracked brown, worn at the edges like a relic from another time. It shouldn't belong in a place like Whittiker. But somehow, it does.

Because he wears it.

Vic Anders steps inside with the kind of presence that shouldn't exist in a seventeen-year-old. Broad-shouldered, posture effortlessly loose, dark brown hair tousled in a way that suggests he never bothers to fix it. He doesn't scan the room. Doesn't need to. The crowd has already formed a natural path for him, students pressing against the walls like frightened animals making way for their king.

Right behind him, half a step to the left, moves a hulking figure that somehow makes Vic look smaller.

Dean Lockhart.

I've never seen him before, but I know immediately who he is. The sheer size of him is absurd—built like a boulder, arms folded across his chest, jaw set in permanent stone. His buzz cut only makes his features sharper, more menacing. His eyes are the only part of him that moves, flicking left and right, scanning the hallway like he's expecting someone stupid enough to get in their way.

No one is.

I swallow. I didn't know seventeen-year-olds could get this big. What the hell are they eating?

Vic moves like he owns the place, taking unhurried steps across the marble floor. He doesn't need to push past anyone; students instinctively step aside, their shoulders tight, heads slightly lowered. I can't tell if it's fear or admiration, but whatever it is, it's absolute.

I watch as Vic glances briefly to his left—just a flicker of movement, barely perceptible.

His gaze lands on me.

It isn't long. It isn't deep. But it's there.

My spine straightens automatically. A second later, the moment is gone, Vic's attention shifting forward as he continues walking. Dean follows without a word, a shadow welded to his side.

They disappear up the stairs.

The hallway exhales. Students begin muttering, the tension breaking like a wave receding back into the ocean.

I finally move again, blinking rapidly.

I don't know what just happened.

But for the first time, I think I'm starting to understand what power really looks like.

¤ ¤ ¤

"So, your old boss is back."

Christian doesn't react at first. He's sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown over his face, looking like he's trying to pretend I don't exist. His blanket is bunched near his waist, leaving his upper body exposed—lean muscle stretched across his torso, the faint definition of abs catching the dim light from the bedside lamp. I have to force myself not to stare, gripping my basketball tighter.