They buried Max on a gray Thursday morning.
The sky hung low and heavy, like it was pressing down on the town itself. Northdale had never seen a crowd like this—not for a football game, not for a festival, not ever.
People whispered as they gathered. Teachers. Parents. Students. Reporters standing just beyond the gates, cameras lowered but ready.
Jack arrived last.
He walked slowly, a visible bruise still dark along his jaw, his arm in a sling. Lily held onto him tightly, as if letting go might make him disappear. Jas walked on his other side, jaw set, eyes sharp. Nick followed a few steps behind, pale and hollow.
When Jack stepped into view, the murmurs shifted.
That's him.
The boy who survived.
The one Max attacked.
No one said it out loud—but everyone thought it.
Max's casket sat at the front, closed. His mother stood beside it, rigid, her face carved from stone. She didn't cry. She stared.
Lily squeezed Jack's hand harder.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You shouldn't have to be here."
Jack shook his head gently. "I should."
The service was short.
The pastor spoke about lost potential. About misguided youth. About anger that burns too hot and destroys everything around it.
Not once did he say Jack's name.
But everyone knew who the story was about.
When the pastor asked for a moment of silence, Jack bowed his head.
Around him, people cried.
They weren't crying for Max.
They were crying for the idea of him.
For the version that didn't scare them.
For the version that made sense.
After the funeral, the town didn't go back to normal.
It couldn't.
News vans parked along Main Street. Headlines appeared before facts.
LOCAL TEEN KILLED IN VIOLENT ALTERCATION
JEALOUSY, ROMANCE, AND A DEADLY NIGHT
WHO IS REALLY TO BLAME?
Jack's face never appeared in the articles—but his name did.
Always paired with words like victim, survivor, lucky.
Northdale chose its hero quickly.
People brought casseroles to Jack's house. Cards. Flowers. Notes from strangers telling him how brave he was.
At school, teachers spoke softly around him. Administrators offered extensions he never asked for.
Max's locker was cleared out by the end of the week.
Jack's was left untouched.
The group felt different now.
They still sat together at lunch, but the space between them had weight.
Lily barely left Jack's side. She watched him constantly, like she was afraid he might vanish if she blinked too long.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," she told him one afternoon.
Jack smiled. "I know."
Nick didn't eat much anymore. He jumped when his phone buzzed. He replayed that night over and over in his head—the text, the timing, the things he didn't say.
Jas noticed everything.
She noticed that Jack never talked about the garage.
Never asked questions about Max's final moments.
Never wondered aloud how the gun appeared.
And she noticed something else, too.
Jack slept just fine.
The town started whispering.
Some people said Max had always been unstable.
Others said the group pushed him too far.
A few wondered why Jack's injuries didn't quite match the police report.
Rumors spread faster than truth ever could.
Someone claimed Jack had training—self-defense, maybe.
Someone else said Nick knew more than he admitted.
Another insisted the whole thing was a setup.
Police cruisers became a familiar sight. Officers lingered longer than necessary. Questions resurfaced—soft ones, polite ones—but questions all the same.
Northdale was safe again.
But it didn't feel safe.
It felt watched.
That night, Jack stood alone in his room.
He removed the sling carefully, testing his shoulder. It hurt—but not as much as it should have.
He opened the small box he'd packed on moving day.
Inside were clippings. Notes. Old photographs. Things that didn't belong together—but did.
He closed the box and slid it back under his bed just as Lily texted him.
Are you okay?
Jack typed back immediately.
I am now.
Down the street, a news van idled with its lights off.
And somewhere in Northdale, someone finally asked the question no one wanted to hear:
What if Max wasn't the real tragedy?