The final bell of the afternoon session shrieked, a metallic herald of the chaos to come. As the teacher gathered his papers and slipped out of the room, the atmosphere in Joel's classroom shifted from the dull lethargy of a lecture to a sharp, electric tension.
Joel sat frozen at his desk, his fingers tracing the rim of the ointment tube hidden deep in his pocket. The cool plastic felt like a secret he wasn't supposed to have. His side still throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that reminded him of the grass, the fall, and the terrifying strength of the boy who had dropped him. He just wanted to disappear. He wanted the lunch hour to pass in a blur of silence so he could hide in the library and breathe.
But the door opened.
James Thorn stepped into the room, flanked by three members of the Student Council. He looked every bit the perfect president of Upperhill—his blazer was perfect, his expression was a mask of stern, administrative focus, and his presence seemed to suck the very air out of the room.
Behind him, Frank followed, his brow furrowed, his eyes immediately darting to the back of the room to find Joel.
The chatter in the classroom died instantly.
"Listen up," James said, his voice carrying that effortless authority that made every student sit up straighter. "I apologize for the interruption, but as I mentioned to several of you this morning, my watch—the silver one gifted by the academy board—is missing. I did a preliminary check earlier, but it hasn't turned up. Since this room was the last place I visited during the morning shift, I'm ordering a full sweep."
A groan rippled through the class.
"Again?" a boy in the front row complained. "You were just here hours ago, James. We're hungry."
"I don't care about your hunger," James replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous, flat chill. "The watch is a school heirloom. Everyone, stand up. Leave your bags and your belongings on top of your desks. Move to the front of the room against the blackboard. Now."
The students grumbled, but no one dared to defy him. They stood up, the screech of chair legs against the linoleum sounding like a chorus of dying birds. Joel struggled to rise, his hip screaming at the movement. He moved slowly, his face pale, keeping his head down as he shuffled toward the front.
He made sure to stand as far away from James as the wall would allow. He tucked himself into the corner, behind a tall girl with blonde hair, hoping to become part of the wallpaper. He didn't want to see the amber in James's eyes. He didn't want to feel the weight of that gaze.
"Start the search," James commanded.
The Student Council members began to move through the rows. They were methodical, unzipping bags and flipping through textbooks with a practiced, clinical detachment. The students watched in a sullen, angry silence. The morning had already been a circus because of the viral video; now, they were being treated like common thieves.
"This is ridiculous," someone whispered. "First we have to watch the sissy get kissed, now we're getting frisked like we're in jail."
Joel flinched, the word sissy stinging more than the pain in his side. He felt the tears beginning to prick at the back of his eyes. He stared at his shoes, counting the seconds, praying they would find nothing and leave.
The search reached the back row.
Joel's heart began to beat against his ribs with a sickening force. He watched as a tall, thin boy from the council reached his desk—the desk covered in hateful ink. The boy paused, his eyes widening as he read the words FREAK and DISGUSTING. He looked at them with a flicker of mock pity before turning his attention to the bag.
He unzipped the front pocket. He reached inside.
The sound of his hand moving through the fabric was the only thing Joel could hear. And then, the boy stopped. His fingers curled around something.
Slowly, he pulled his hand out.
Dangling from his fingers was a heavy, silver watch. The light from the fluorescent bulbs glinted off the polished metal, casting a tiny, mocking spark across the room.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was a vacuum of shock.
"Who's desk is this?" the council member asked, his voice echoing in the still air.
He didn't need to ask. A dozen voices rose up in a jagged, cruel chorus.
"That's Joel's."
"It's the mixed kid's desk."
"Joel Cho."
A wave of gasps and whispers crashed over Joel. He felt the world tilt. He looked at the watch, his mouth falling open, his mind a white-out of confusion. I didn't do it. I don't even know how it got there. I was on the field.
"Of course it's him," a girl sneered, her voice loud and cutting. "First he steals a kiss from the President, and when that doesn't work, he steals his jewelry? Talk about desperate."
"He's obsessed," another boy laughed. "He probably wanted something of James's to keep under his pillow. Fucking creep."
"Why are you so fond of stealing things from him, Joel?" someone shouted from the back. "Can't you just accept that you're not his class?"
The tears finally broke. They spilled over Joel's lashes, hot and blurring, as he looked toward the center of the room. He looked at James.
James was standing perfectly still. His expression was unreadable—a mask of cold, stone-faced neutrality.
He didn't look surprised. He just looked at the watch in the council member's hand, then slowly shifted his eyes to Joel.
For a second, Joel saw it. The same dilation of the pupils he'd seen when James had lifted him. The same strange, tense energy.
Joel shook his head, his chest heaving with a broken, silent sob. I didn't do it. Please believe me. But how could he say it? The evidence was sitting right there on his desk, next to the words that called him a freak. He was the school's new favorite villain. He was the boy in the video. He was now a thief.
He looked at the floor, the tears dripping onto his blazer. He felt the weight of the entire school's hatred pressing down on him, a mountain of iron he couldn't move. He was going to be expelled. He was going to be ruined.
"I—I didn't—" Joel tried to choke out the words, but they died in a wet, pathetic cough.
The students began to jeer, the noise rising into a predatory chant. "Thief! Thief! Pretty boy's a thief!"
But then, a voice cut through the noise. It wasn't loud, but it had the weight of a gavel.
"That's impossible."
The room went silent again. Everyone turned to look at the front of the class.
Frank was standing there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His face was pale, his jaw set in a line of absolute defiance.
He was looking at Joel—at the shaking, broken boy in the corner who could barely stand.
"Joel didn't do this," Frank said, his voice ringing with a conviction that made the air tremble. "He was with me or on the field the entire morning. He hasn't had a single second to sneak into James's office or touch his things. He's many things, but he is not a thief."
Frank stepped forward, his eyes snapping to James, a silent challenge passing between the two most powerful boys in the school.
"This is a mistake," Frank declared. "And I won't let you blame him for this."