"Anyways," Marco said, voice low and serious, "if you're planning on fighting Zach and the Blue Dragons, we need mans. Actual, grown, scary-looking mans."
Ace looked up from his food, mid-chew. He swallowed slowly, the picture of casual oblivion.
Marco's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious? You don't have any backups? No secret crew? No scary older brother?"
Ace shrugged, picking up his fork again. "Hey, I mean I've got you. And Cedric." He gestured with the utensil toward Cedric, who was calmly dissecting a chicken breast as if listening to a weather report.
Marco's fork clattered against his plate. "That's not ENOUGH. Are you fucking kidding me?" He paused, searching Ace's face for a punchline that wasn't there. The genuine lack of concern he saw there made his own stomach twist. He took a steadying breath, leaning forward, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Look. I can handle myself in a scrap. I'm sure Cedric here can, since he beat Drake—"
"Actually," Cedric interrupted, not looking up from his surgical meal prep, "Drake fell down the stairs behind the gym. I didn't lay a finger on him. He tripped."
The air at the table changed. Marco froze, a piece of lettuce halfway to his open mouth. He slowly lowered it. "What." It wasn't a question. It was the sound of a foundational belief crumbling.
He swiveled his head to Ace. "Did you know about this? And why would you hide the truth? Wait, what?" His thoughts were a jumble of betrayal and recalculated social standings. All that fear, all that cautious respect… for a lie?
Cedric finally glanced up, a flicker of mild offense on his placid face. "I'm sorry. I told Ace to keep it quiet. I wasn't the one who started the rumor. It just… spread. And I guess," he admitted with a shrug that was almost, but not quite, ashamed, "I liked the fame. It kept the smaller problems away."
"This is absurd," Marco breathed out, a hollow laugh escaping him. He ran a hand over his face. "So I was afraid of you for no reason? All this time?"
Ace joined in, exhaling a long, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of their whole fabricated reality. "More or less, yeah."
A heavy, thick silence descended, broken only by the distant cacophony of the lunchroom. Marco pushed his salad plate away, his appetite gone. He watched Ace and Cedric eat, two planets orbiting a secret he'd just been yanked into. His mind raced, scrambling for a new plan, any leverage.
Then, he snapped his fingers, a spark of desperate hope in his eyes. "Hey, Ace. Your older cousin. Garath. I've seen him. He's built like a fucking tank and has that 'I've seen war' stare. He could clear a room by walking into it."
Ace's chewing slowed. He looked down at his food, a slight hesitation—a fraction of a second too long—before replying. "Actually. He's out of town. Family thing."
Marco didn't argue. The hope dimmed. He tried another angle, his voice gaining a frantic edge. "What about that other one? The loud one, always looks like he's smelling a fight. Axl. He's tall, lean, looks like he could throw a punch that whistles."
This time, Ace's eyes darted to Cedric—a silent, barely perceptible plea for backup.
Cedric neatly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "He's out of town too. Helping Garath with the… family thing."
That was the thread for Marco. His composure snapped. He slammed a palm flat on the table, not loud enough to draw major attention, but with a force that made their cutlery jump. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" Several heads turned at nearby tables. Marco lowered his voice to a seething, strained hiss, leaning in so close Ace could see the fury and fear warring in his eyes. "I thought you had this under control. You walked away from Zach like it was nothing. You said you could handle it."
Ace met his gaze, unflinching, his own a pool of unsettling calm. "Yeah. I'm handling it."
"This," Marco spat, gesturing wildly between the three of them, "isn't called handling! This is called a fucking suicide mission with a side of fries!"
Ace reached out and patted Marco's shoulder, a gesture so infuriatingly placid it made Marco flinch. "I know someone who can fight."
Marco blinked, a flicker of pathetic, weary hope returning. "Oh yeah? Who's that?"
"Darren."
There was a beat of utter silence. Then Marco took a deep, shuddering breath, as if preparing to lift a great weight. "Darren. As in your cousin Darren? The one who's fucking eight years old?"
"Hey," Ace corrected, with a hint of defensiveness that was almost laughable. "He's eleven. And he's scrappy."
Marco didn't laugh. He just stared. The absurdity wasn't funny anymore; it was terrifying. It was the sound of the last lifeboat rowing away. A strange, breathy sound escaped him—not a laugh, but the collapse of rational planning.
"You know what? Fine. I'm out of this. We'll go with my original, sane-person plan. You," he pointed a finger at Ace, "don't come to school tomorrow. You vanish. I will find Zach, and I will talk. I will apologize, I will grovel, I will pay back whatever stupid money he thinks he's owed. You stay out of it."
Ace gave him a slow, unreadable thumbs-up.
Marco stood up, his chair scraping loudly. He looked at Ace, then at Cedric, his expression a mixture of betrayal, fear, and furious concern. Without another word, he grabbed his bag and walked away, leaving his half-eaten lunch behind as a monument to a failed negotiation.
Ace watched him weave through the tables until he was gone, then methodically finished his last bite.
Cedric sipped his water. "You're not going to follow his advice, are you?" he asked, nodding toward the door Marco had exited through.
Ace didn't answer. He just pulled some cash from his pocket, tucked it under his empty plate, and stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."
***
Carl's room smelled faintly of instant noodles and cheap room freshener—something woody that tried too hard to feel calming. The curtains were half drawn, sunlight leaking in through a narrow slit and landing right on the edge of the desk.
Ace lay sprawled on the bed, one arm under his head, the other loosely holding his phone above his face. Music played through Carl's speakers—low, distorted guitars humming in the background. Not loud. Just enough to fill the silence.
Carl sat cross-legged near the desk, controller in hand, rambling.
"Okay, so like—when you peek corners, don't just rush. You gotta bait the shot first,"
he said, gesturing wildly. "Then swing."
Ace hummed in response, half-listening.
"Yeah, yeah. Bait the shot. Swing. Die anyway."
Carl laughed. "You're terrible."
"I know."
Ace scrolled through his phone. The screen lit up again. And again. And again.
Marco: Don't be stupid.
Marco: Zach is serious.
Unknown Number: You think running makes you safe?
Ace sighed and locked the screen, tossing the phone face-down onto the bed.
"Everything okay?" Carl asked, glancing back.
"Yeah," Ace said instantly. Too instantly. "Just spam."
Carl nodded, accepting it without question. That was his thing—he never pushed. Never pried. He just… let things be.
Sophie's voice echoed up the staircase.
"Ace? Carl! Dinner is ready. If you want to eat upstairs, come pick it up."
Carl perked up. "I'll grab it."
He stood, dusted his hands on his pants, and headed for the door. "Don't touch my stuff," he added jokingly.
Ace smirked. "No promises."
The door swayed as Carl disappeared downstairs. The room went quiet again, the music filling the gap.
Ace sat up.
He glanced around the room—not in a snoopy way at first, more like idle curiosity. The posters on the wall. The neatly stacked books. The bed made a little too carefully, like someone trying to keep control over at least one part of their life.
Ace's eyes drifted to the desk.
There were papers stacked there. Old notebooks. Scribbles in the margins.
Nothing unusual.
Then he noticed a single folded sheet of paper near the edge of the table. It wasn't tucked away. It wasn't hidden. Just… there.
Ace frowned.
"Carl doesn't strike me as the love letter type," he muttered.
He reached for it.
Slowly.
Unfolded it.
And the smile faded from his face.
His eyes scanned the first line.
Then the second.
Then his breath caught.
The room felt smaller. The hum of the music suddenly felt too loud, too wrong, like it didn't belong anymore.
Ace lowered the paper slightly, staring at it like it might change if he looked away.
It didn't.
His jaw tightened.
"...You idiot," he whispered—not angry, not mocking. Just scared.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Ace folded the paper carefully. Too carefully. Like it might shatter if he wasn't gentle enough.
Carl's footsteps were closer now.
Ace was still standing when Carl walked back in, holding two metal lunch trays stacked awkwardly in his hands. The curtain behind him fluttered for a second before settling.
"Careful, it's hot," Carl said, nudging the door shut with his elbow.
Ace nodded, a little too stiff.
Carl noticed.
"You okay?" he asked, setting the trays down on the desk. "You look… weird."
Ace forced a breath through his nose. His fingers tightened briefly at his sides, then relaxed.
"Yeah," he said. "Just zoned out."
Carl didn't fully buy it—but he didn't push.
He never did.
They sat on the floor, backs against the mattress, eating quietly. The clink of spoons against metal filled the space between them. Ace barely tasted anything. His eyes kept drifting to the desk. To that exact spot.
Carl talked. About school. About some stupid bug in Valorant. About a new band he'd found.
Ace answered when expected. Nodded. Gave short replies.
But his mind was somewhere else entirely.
After a few minutes, Carl spoke again—more hesitant this time.
"Hey… um. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to."
Ace looked over. "What?"
Carl stared at his food. "You ever feel like… no matter what you do, people already decided what you are?"
Ace didn't answer immediately.
Slowly, he said, "Yeah."
Carl let out a small laugh. "Figures."
They ate in silence again.
Carl stood up first. "I'm gonna wash my hands."
He stepped out, door closing softly behind him.
The room went quiet.
Ace stood.
He walked to the desk, picked up the folded paper again—but this time, he didn't open it. He didn't need to.
His jaw clenched.
"This isn't just bullying," he muttered. "This is a fucking knife to the throat."
Footsteps approached again.
Ace folded the paper and slid it back exactly where it had been.
Carl walked in, drying his hands on his shirt.
"You good?" he asked.
Ace turned to him.
For a moment, his expression softened—no anger, no fury. Just something steady. Solid.
"Hey," Ace said. "You don't have to deal with everything alone. Okay?"
Carl blinked. "Huh?"
Ace smiled. Not wide. Not fake. Just enough.
"Just saying."
Carl nodded slowly. "Okay."
They sat back down. Ace picked up the controller this time.
"Alright," Ace said. "Teach me properly. And don't yell this time."
Carl laughed. A real laugh. "No promises."
Outside, Ace's phone buzzed—left forgotten on the mattress.
Ace didn't check it.
Not yet.