Ezra pnted his feet, squared his shoulders, and grinned like a man with nothing to lose.

  Bruiser had spent months making his life miserable.

  And now?

  It was Ezra’s turn.

  Bruiser sneered, towering over him. “Watch where you’re goin’, Cumstain.”

  Ezra didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

  He just tilted his head, smirked, and fired back:

  “Damn, Bruiser, you’re really obsessed with me, huh? What’s wrong—Daddy not giving you enough attention at home?”

  The entire hallway imploded.

  Laughter. Gasps. Someone choked on their drink.

  Bruiser froze.

  For the first time ever, he didn’t immediately strike back.

  Ezra saw it.

  That tiny flicker of something else behind his eyes.

  Anger. Humiliation. And—for just a second—fear.

  Because Ezra was right.

  And Bruiser knew it.

  The beating that followed was well worth it. It was earned.

  Ezra sat in the nurse’s office, an ice pack pressed to his bruised cheek. His ribs ached, and his hands still buzzed with adrenaline from the fight.

  It had been worth it.

  But now? He had to deal with the aftermath.

  Fifteen minutes ter, he was summoned to the principal’s office, where he found Bruiser already sitting across the desk, arms crossed tight, scowling like a kid who knew exactly how bad this was about to get.

  The principal sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead. “Ezra. Brandon. Again?”

  Ezra gnced at Bruiser. The guy looked… different. Tense in a way that had nothing to do with their fight.

  Then the door swung open.

  And that was when everything changed.

  Bruiser’s father stormed inside.

  The man was huge, thick with muscle, his face hard-edged and permanently scowling. His eyes narrowed at his son with immediate disgust.

  "You again, boy?"

  Ezra stiffened.

  The room chilled.

  Bruiser barely moved. He just stared at the floor, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

  Ezra had never seen him like this before.

  Then, in a low, drawling voice, his father mocked,

  "Let me guess. You were out there actin’ like a damn fool again… Sweet Pea."

  Ezra’s blood went cold.

  Bruiser flinched.

  The principal shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Ezra finally understood.

  Sweet Pea.

  Not a pet name. Not a joke.

  That was what his father called him.

  The real nickname. The one meant to humiliate, break, and beat him down.

  Ezra swallowed hard.

  Suddenly, Bruiser didn’t look so big anymore.

  Suddenly, Ezra didn’t feel like fighting him at all.

  Seth was calm as they drove home, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping idly on the dashboard. Ezra, still processing, finally broke the silence.

  “Dad?”

  Seth gnced at him. “Yeah?”

  Ezra hesitated.

  Then, softly, he asked,

  “…Why do people like Bruiser’s dad even have kids?”

  Seth exhaled through his nose. “Damn, kid. Goin’ straight for the gut punches today, huh?”

  Ezra stared out the window.

  Seth was quiet for a moment before answering.

  “Some people don’t have kids ‘cause they want a family, Ezra. They have ‘em ‘cause they want someone to control.”

  Ezra’s fingers tightened on his jeans.

  “…That sucks.”

  “Yeah,” Seth agreed. “Yeah, it does.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  Ezra stared out the car window, watching the trees blur past in streaks of green and gold. The ache in his ribs had dulled to a persistent throb, but his mind was still reeling from what had just happened in the principal’s office. His fingers tightened on the fabric of his jeans, gripping the material as if it could ground him.

  He swallowed hard before speaking. "Dad… what’s with ‘Sweet Pea’?" He didn’t look over, just kept his eyes fixed on the road stretching ahead. "Why did Bruiser’s dad say it like that?"

  Seth let out a long breath through his nose. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel—a habit Ezra recognized as his dad gathering his thoughts, choosing his words carefully. "I’ve heard it before," Seth admitted. "A lot, actually. Around job sites. Around guys like Bruiser’s dad. You wanna know the truth, kid?"

  Ezra nodded.

  "It’s what they call kids ‘cause they can’t legally call ‘em retarded," Seth said bluntly, no sugarcoating, no hesitation. "It’s just soft enough to not get them in trouble, but hard enough that the kid knows exactly what they mean." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he had seen it firsthand. "It’s not a nickname. It’s a leash. Something to remind a kid they’ll never be good enough, never be worth shit, not even to their own old man."

  Ezra’s grip tightened. The words settled in his stomach like a stone sinking to the bottom of a ke. He had thought Bruiser was just a mindless thug, just a bigger, meaner kid who got off on making others miserable. But this? This was something different. This was worse.

  For the first time, Ezra didn’t feel like fighting back.

  For the first time, he didn’t feel angry at Bruiser.

  He just felt sorry.

  The next day, Ezra didn’t feel like dealing with anyone.

  Bruiser hadn’t bothered him. Not in the halls. Not in the cafeteria. Not anywhere.

  And that felt weirder than getting punched.

  Ezra had spent so much time bracing for the next shove, the next insult, the next moment where Bruiser would remind him exactly where he stood. But now? There was nothing. No sneering gnces, no ughter at his expense. The absence of torment left a hollow feeling in his chest, as if he had been training for a fight that never came.

  So instead of wandering the halls, waiting for something to happen, Ezra slipped into the library.

  It was warm inside, the air thick with the scent of old books and coffee, a quiet hum settling over the space like a well-worn bnket. The muffled voices of students working in hushed tones, the occasional tap of a keyboard, the sound of pages flipping—it all felt safe. Like a pce where no one could get to him.

  Mrs. Doyle, the sweet old librarian, spotted him immediately from behind the counter. She peered over her gsses with a knowing smile, the kind grandmothers gave when they saw right through your excuses.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, adjusting her cardigan as she stood. “Skipping lunch, are we?”

  Ezra shuffled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Uh. Just needed some quiet.”

  Mrs. Doyle hummed thoughtfully, pressing her hands together. “Well, we have some wonderful books that might be good for you.”

  She gestured toward the farthest section of the library, past the rows of history and literature. Ezra followed her lead, gncing around as she led him to a quiet corner near the back.

  Then, he saw the sign above the bookshelf.

  "NEURODIVERGENT READERS – AUTISM SECTION"

  Ezra blinked. “Wait, I think—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear.” Mrs. Doyle patted his arm gently before he could even finish his sentence. “You’re safe here. Take your time.”

  Ezra opened his mouth, hesitated.

  He had tried to correct her. Really, he had. But something about the way she looked at him—so soft, so sure, so damn sweet—made the words catch in his throat.

  She meant well.

  And Ezra? He just didn’t have the heart to tell her she had completely misunderstood why he was here.

  So instead… he just nodded.

  “Uh… thanks.”

  Mrs. Doyle beamed. “Of course, dear. Let me know if you need help!”

  And with that, she shuffled away, leaving Ezra alone in the autism section.

  …Well, this was awkward.

  Still, since he was already here, he figured he might as well look around.

  His eyes drifted across books on brain function, social cues, ADHD strategies—topics that didn’t feel like they belonged to him, but for some reason, still made him curious.

  Then, something caught his attention.

  "ROME: THE ART OF WARFARE"

  Ezra tilted his head.

  Roman battle tactics?

  He pulled the book from the shelf, letting the pages flip through his fingers.

  At first, it was just idle curiosity. Something to pass the time.

  Then, it became fascination.

  Fnking formations.Turtle formation.Pincer movements.

  Ezra’s fingers tightened around the book. Ezra sat cross-legged on the library floor, the thick pages of Rome: The Art of Warfare spread open before him. The words felt ancient, yet alive, carrying the weight of thousands of years of strategy and discipline.

  Fnking formations.Ezra’s eyes traced the detailed diagrams, the neat rows of Roman soldiers moving in synchronized precision. Fnking wasn’t just about attacking from the side—it was about cutting off escape routes, forcing the enemy to fight on multiple fronts, stretching their defenses thin until they broke under the pressure. Roman generals didn’t rely on brute strength. They exploited weaknesses, targeting not just the body of their enemies, but their minds.

  An undisciplined army—a reckless, emotional force like Bruiser in a fight—would charge headfirst, swinging wildly. And just like that, they could be fnked, overwhelmed, crushed.

  Ezra smirked slightly. Big guys can’t throw punches in two directions at once.

  Turtle formation.Now, this—this was genius.

  Roman legions were not like other armies. They didn’t fight as individuals. They fought as one.

  The testudo, or "turtle" formation, was a masterpiece of coordination. Soldiers locked their massive rectangur shields together, forming an impenetrable wall in the front while the men behind them raised their shields overhead, creating a moving fortress. Arrows? Spears? Useless. The legion advanced silently, a slow, rolling death machine.

  The silence was key.

  Roman forces did not scream as they charged. They did not roar their names into battle. That was for barbarians, for fools.

  They fought quietly, because discipline won wars, not noise.

  Ezra could almost hear it—the methodical stomp of iron-cd boots, the scrape of shields locking into pce, the cold, unshakable control of an army that refused to break.

  If Bruiser fought like a fury-driven barbarian, then Ezra had spent his whole life trying to fight like a lone soldier.

  But maybe that was his mistake.

  Maybe he needed a shield wall.

  Pincer movements.The maneuver was simple in theory—attack the enemy from two sides at once—but in execution, it was a death sentence for those caught inside. The Romans would let an overconfident army push forward, thinking they had the upper hand, only to suddenly crash in from both sides, cutting them off from retreat.

  Surrounded. Trapped. Hopeless.

  Ezra’s grip tightened on the book.

  Roman forces didn’t need to be the biggest. They didn’t need brute force.

  They had something far more dangerous.

  They had strategy.

  Brute strength broke under the weight of patience.

  Reckless charges fell apart in the face of discipline.

  Emotionally-driven enemies could be baited, trapped, dismantled.

  Ezra smirked.

  He had spent so long fighting back on Bruiser’s terms.

  But Bruiser wasn’t a strategist.

  Ezra was.

  And the next time Bruiser tried to attack him, he wouldn't be facing a lone soldier.

  He'd be walking straight into an ambush.

  This was strategy.

  This was control.

  This was power.

  And for the first time all year, he felt like he had found something that made sense.

  Maybe life was a battlefield.

  And maybe he’d spent too long fighting like a soldier—brute force, fists up, trying to match an enemy who would always be bigger.

  But war wasn’t won by strength alone.

  It was won by strategy.

  By patience.

  By outmaneuvering your enemy before they even realized what had happened.

  And one day…

  When the time was right…

  Bruiser wouldn’t even see it coming.