The school hallway buzzed with chatter, lockers slamming shut, and the clatter of footsteps. Tom Saviour walked cautiously, head down, hoping to avoid attention. But it was no use. The group of rich kids waiting near the stairwell spotted him immediately.
"Hey, pauper!" sneered one of the taller bullies, Jake, his grin cruel beneath a designer jacket. "Where's our money today?"
Tom's breath hitched. He kept walking, trying to slip past them, but two others stepped in front, blocking his way. Before he could react, Jake shoved him hard.
"Thought you could just walk away?" another bully spat, shoving Tom into the lockers.
Suddenly, fists started flying. Tom raised his arms to shield himself, but they were too many, and he was too small. A sharp jab caught his ribs, forcing air from his lungs. He stumbled, back hitting the cold metal of the lockers.
"Come on, hit him harder!" Jake jeered. One boy kicked at Tom's shins, knocking him to his knees. He tried to curl up, but the pain was relentless. Cuts and bruises began to bloom across his arms and face. Each punch stung not just on his skin but deep inside, the humiliation and helplessness burning brighter than the blows.
When the beating finally stopped, Tom lay trembling, gasping for breath. Jake leaned close, cold eyes flashing.
"Listen, Saviour — you better always bring us some money. Otherwise, next time? It won't just be bruises." He pulled out a crumpled note, waving it in Tom's face. "Got it?"
Tom nodded weakly, swallowing his pride and the pain.
As the bullies walked away, laughter trailing behind them, Tom wiped blood from his lip and forced himself up, knowing this wasn't the last time.
The bright studio lights warmed the room as Arjun Singh sat confidently in the sleek chair facing the panel of reporters. Cameras clicked and microphones leaned closer, capturing every word.
One reporter smiled and asked, "Arjun, you recently won an award for your action novels. How does that feel?"
Arjun's eyes gleamed with quiet pride. "It feels really good. Knowing that people connect with my work motivates me to keep writing stories that matter."
Another reporter leaned forward eagerly. "What can readers expect from your next novel? Any hints?"
Arjun chuckled softly. "It's going to get brutal. The new novel dives into action and high school bullying—raw emotions, tough fights, and the struggles of growing up in a harsh world."
The interview continued smoothly, questions flowing about his writing process and inspirations. Once it wrapped up, Arjun stood and walked calmly toward the exit.
Outside, a sleek black car waited. He slid into the passenger seat, the door closing with a soft thud behind him.
As the car pulled away, Arjun's thoughts already raced ahead—plot twists, characters, and the story he was determined to bring to life next.
Tom lay quietly on the narrow bed in the school nursery, the dull ache from the bruises and cuts pounding in his face. Outside, the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. He glanced at the clock, then slowly pushed himself up.
He shuffled toward the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Staring back was an average-looking boy with messy hair, tired eyes, and dark marks spread across his cheeks and forehead. The bruises told a story he wished no one had to see.
With a heavy sigh, Tom grabbed his battered backpack from the corner. His thoughts churned as he made his way out of the room.
"Tomorrow... I have to figure out how to get some money," he muttered under his breath. "That's not even the worst part. What am I going to say when Grandma sees these?" His voice cracked with worry. "She's been so worried already. If she sees me like this..."
His steps quickened as he headed toward the exit, the weight of his troubles heavier than the bag on his shoulder.
The walk home through the crowded city streets was long and slow. Tom's backpack felt heavier with each step, but the weight in his chest was far greater. Every passerby blurred into a sea of faces, and the ache in his bruised ribs reminded him of the beating he had suffered. He tried not to wince, careful to walk steadily despite the pain.
At last, the familiar sight of the small apartment building where his grandmother lived appeared. Tom took a deep breath and pushed open the door, stepping inside to the warm, slightly musty smell of home.
Grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table, knitting. She looked up and smiled softly when she saw him.
"Ah, Tom! You're home. How was your day?" she asked kindly, her eyes briefly flicking to his face.
Tom quickly lowered his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm fine, Grandma. Just... a little tired, that's all."
She gave him a knowing look. "Tired, huh? You've got quite a few marks there. Is everything okay?"
Tom's heart jumped. "Oh, these? I just bumped into some lockers at school. You know how clumsy I can be." He forced a weak smile. "Nothing serious."
Grandmother raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. Instead, she chuckled gently. "You better be careful, or you'll need a girlfriend to take care of you."
Tom blinked, caught off guard. "A girlfriend? Grandma, I don't have time for that."
She tapped the knitting needles together playfully. "Where do you think I met your grandfather?"
Tom shrugged.
"In high school, silly! That's why I'm telling you—you should give it a try. Having someone by your side makes life easier."
Tom laughed, the tension easing. "I'll think about it. But first, surviving high school without getting beaten up is my priority."
Grandmother smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Fair enough, but don't wait too long. And if you ever need advice, you know who to ask."
Tom nodded, a small smile spreading across his bruised face. For a moment, the pain seemed a little less heavy.
After a quiet dinner with his grandmother, Tom felt every muscle in his body ache. The bruises throbbed, but the warmth of the small apartment gave him a tiny comfort. He climbed the narrow stairs to his modest room, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his feet.
He didn't bother to change. The fatigue wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, dragging him to the bed. Without a word, Tom collapsed onto the mattress, the day's pain and worries pulling him into a deep sleep almost instantly.
Far away, in a sleek, dimly lit study, Arjun Singh sat hunched over a polished desk. The glow from his laptop illuminated his focused expression as he stared at the words he'd written—the first three chapters of his new novel.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then paused. "Chapter four... what should happen next?" he muttered, rubbing his temple. Long hours of writing had drained him, but inspiration was slow to come.
Minutes passed in silence, the only sound the soft ticking of a clock. Finally, his eyelids began to droop. Exhaustion won the battle. Slowly, his head lowered onto the cool desktop, and sleep claimed him there, amidst scattered notes and drafts.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the windows of Tom's small home, casting warm rays over the cluttered kitchen. Tom's eyes snapped open with urgency. He shook off sleep and sat up, determination already setting in.
"I can't be late," he whispered, resuming his routine. He dressed quickly, lacing his worn shoes and grabbing his bag.
In the kitchen, his grandmother was preparing breakfast, humming softly. She glanced up and smiled when Tom entered.
"Morning, Tom," she said, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "You'll need your strength today."
Tom nodded, picking up his fork. "Thanks, Grandma." He glanced at her, then added, "I'll figure out a way to get money tomorrow. I promise."
Meanwhile, miles away, Arjun stirred at his desk. The soft morning light revealed his face, peaceful but smeared with exhaustion.
He stretched, pushing his chair back, blinking away the remnants of sleep. The fourth chapter waited for him, and with coffee in hand, he was ready to dive back into the story.