Foreigner

Chapter 43: Open Wound

"You."

Caleb's voice slices through the courtyard noise, low but unmistakable. He's already moving, parting the ring of students with hard, deliberate steps. Adrian lies crumpled in the snow behind him, forgotten.

I hop down from the stone fence, boots crunching into the snow. The air between us seems to thin.

"I should've known," Caleb says, his tone almost conversational, though it carries a razor's edge. His cracked left lens catches the pale winter light. "You were always the snake in our garden."

The students shift back, making space. The air is sharp, cold, and full of breath clouds.

Christian leans against a lamp post at the edge of the scene, hood up, hands buried in his jacket. His posture is tight, but he doesn't move — he knows I wouldn't want him to.

"I underestimated you," Caleb continues, stopping just a few feet away. "Thought you were just another pawn, making noise until someone shut you up." His gaze narrows. "I was wrong."

I just watch him, saying nothing.

His first punch comes without warning — wide and clumsy, more a test than an attack. I catch his wrist mid-swing, twist it until I feel the joint strain, then shove him back a step.

"Already worn out?" I ask.

His eyes flash, but he keeps his voice steady. "You think this is over? That you can take us apart and walk away?" He comes in again, tighter punches this time, but his arms are heavy, each swing costing him more breath.

I move around him, letting the snow slow his footing while mine stays sure. When his fist passes just short of my cheek, I slam a jab into his ribs. He grunts, twisting away.

The crowd murmurs. The sound of boots grinding over ice and snow fills the gaps between our movements.

Caleb tries to angle to my side, but he's sluggish. I duck under another hook and drive my shoulder into his sternum, knocking him back two steps.

He exhales sharply, a short plume in the cold, and tries to hide how badly his breathing is fraying. He lunges again — one, two, three punches — none of them landing clean. I parry the first two, then slam my elbow into his temple on the third.

His cracked lens falls from the frame, landing in the snow with a soft snap. He stumbles, boots sliding on the icy ground. I follow — hook to the body, jab to the chin, another to the jaw. His head snaps back with each hit, and the crowd's noise sharpens.

Caleb roars out of anger now and swings wildly, aiming for my head, but I slip under it, plant my feet, and drive a punch into his stomach. He doubles over, gasping, snow scattering under his boots.

"You're done," I tell him, but he shakes his head, trying to straighten. "You picked the wrong guy to meddle with."

Leaning slightly towards Caleb, I drop my voice and mumble with wide eyes to make my point extra clear, "Taking down corruption is what I do."

His guard drops. I don't hesitate. I pivot, dig in, and send an uppercut crashing into his jaw. The impact is sharp, final — his head jerks back, his body going limp as he collapses into the snow.

The courtyard freezes in silence for a heartbeat. Then the whispers start moving like wind through dry grass.

"That's it... That's all of them..."
"Only Vic's left now..."

I let their words hang, breath curling in the air.

"The trials are over," I say, glancing down at Caleb's motionless form. "Go back to your rooms."

The crowd parts, letting me walk away, leaving him in the cold.

¤ ¤ ¤

I stand outside Room 355 with my bag straps biting into my shoulder, staring at the wood grain on the door like it might give me an answer. My bruised knuckles knock once, soft enough to make me wonder if he even heard it.

The door opens a moment later, and Christian's there — shirtless, grey sweatpants low on his hips, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He doesn't speak, doesn't raise an eyebrow, just looks at me.

"Um..." I clear my throat, shifting the weight of my bags. "Can I move back in?"

No reaction. He only steps aside.

I walk past him into the room, the familiar scent of old wood and detergent instantly pulling me back. My gaze drifts over the same furniture, the bunk bed in the corner, the faint hum of the heater. On his desk sits his sketchbook, open to a half-finished drawing of two people in the middle of a fight. The lines are sharp and deliberate, but the faces aren't filled in yet. I can't tell if one of them is supposed to be me. I don't ask.

I drop my bags on the carpet, the sound muffled.

"I see nothing's changed from the first day I moved in," I say, letting my eyes flick back to him.

Christian still stands by the now closed door, hands buried in his pockets, watching me without a hint of expression.

I take a slow step toward him. Then another. An unsure smile tugs at my mouth. "I told you I'd handle it," I almost whisper, hoping it makes up for pushing him away for the past three weeks.

That's when his face softens, breaking into a small, genuine smile.

I close the space, reach up, and slide my hand to the back of his neck. His skin is warm under my fingers as I pull him into a kiss — slow but firm, the kind of kiss that says I'm here and I mean it.

Christian moves instantly, his arms slipping from his pockets to wrap around my waist, pulling me in until my body is pressed to his. The heat from him seeps through the thin layers between us, and for a moment, the world is just this — his steady grip, the way he tilts his head slightly to deepen the kiss, the faint brush of his breath against my cheek.

Whatever happens next, at least tonight is how it's supposed to be.

¤ ¤ ¤

Meanwhile, in Whittiker Memorial Hospital...

The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something metallic. Caleb sits upright in the hospital bed, propped by stiff pillows, a phone pressed to his ear. His left eye is still blood-red, the surrounding skin purple and swollen. The broken frame of his glasses rests on the nightstand beside him, one lens missing entirely.

His voice stays measured as he speaks, but the slight tremor under the calm betrays him.
"Adrian and I are at the hospital. Lukas played us." He pauses, as though the admission itself tastes bitter. "There's no one left in Whittiker."

Silence hums faintly on the other end. Caleb shifts, adjusting his grip on the phone, listening to nothing. The longer it stretches, the heavier it feels.

When Vic finally speaks, his voice is quiet, ominous.

"I've found him. We're on our way."

The line goes dead.

Caleb lowers the phone slowly, staring at the blank wall across from him. The antiseptic smell feels sharper now.