Solienne

By Wednesday, Isabella was running on fumes.

She hadn't eaten since Monday. Properly eaten, at least. A few crackers she found in her bag. A piece of gum she chewed so long it started to disintegrate. Her body was protesting - every step heavier than the last, each breath shallow. But she showed up. She had to. Her scholarship depended on perfect attendance. No excuses.

Her vision blurred as she walked down the second-floor hallway. The lights above flickered, sharp in the corners of her eyes. Her stomach curled and uncurled like an empty fist.

She stopped when she heard the noise.

Voices raised. Something loud clanged against metal.

She edged closer to the sound, hovering by the corner of the hall. The scene hit her like a slap to the chest.

Francesco Moretti had someone pinned against the lockers - no, dangling him by the collar of his expensive uniform blazer. The boy - one of the seniors, built but trembling - struggled against his grip. His feet barely touched the ground.

Francesco's mouth was close to his ear, voice low and venomous. Whatever he said wasn't loud enough to hear, but the tone was clear: threat.

Antonio stood nearby, one shoulder against the lockers, arms crossed, a picture of lazy cruelty. His tie hung askew. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were deadly serious. And they were locked on the boy. He said nothing.

The whole scene crackled with quiet danger. Students passed quickly, heads down, pretending not to see.

Isabella didn't breathe.

She didn't know why her chest clenched. Why the sight filled her with a strange twist of fear - and something else. Something older.

She didn't know why she felt connected to them.

But she knew better than to stay.

They were dangerous. Everyone said so.

And she had enough trouble in her life without inviting more in.

She turned on her heel and hurried down the hallway.

By third period, she was barely standing.

The dizziness came in waves. Heat flooded her face, followed by ice-cold shivers. She gripped the edge of her desk until her knuckles turned white, breathing through her nose, praying no one noticed.

No one ever did.

The teacher droned on about polynomial equations. Isabella scribbled notes with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. Her handwriting slanted harder with every line.

Her head dipped once. Twice. She blinked herself back awake, jerking upright when her pen slipped across the page.

Just one more class. Then you can go.

She told herself that. Again. And again.

By the time the last bell rang, the hallway swirled with movement. Bags slung over shoulders. Laughter. Keys jingling. Boots slapping against tile.

Isabella moved slowly.

Her locker was near the back, away from the crowds. She fumbled with the dial—twice, because her hands wouldn't stay still - then yanked it open.

She froze.

A sandwich sat neatly on the top shelf. Wrapped in wax paper. Nothing fancy—just bread and something that looked like turkey. But fresh. Real.

Her mouth watered so suddenly it hurt.

She looked around. No one lingered nearby.

Did someone put this here by mistake?