The teammates exchanged quick glances. Jake shifted his weight nervously.

"I mean, yeah, totally. You should definitely report it. We'll back you up, right, guys?" Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, but their phones never stopped recording. They wanted her reaction. They wanted her anger.

They wanted her to look as dangerous as the note claimed. Naomi finished photographing and calmly walked away, leaving the mess untouched. Behind her, she heard Tyler's voice. "Did you see how cold she was? Like she didn't even care.

That's not normal. First period English arrived with Mrs. Patterson shuffling papers at her desk. Her gray hair pinned back in its usual tight bun, Naomi headed for her regular seat in the front row, but Mrs. Patterson's voice stopped her.

"Naomi, dear, I'm going to need you to sit in the back today. The entire class turned to stare.

Naomi stood frozen in the aisle, her backpack heavy on her shoulder. "Is there a problem with my seat?" Mrs. Patterson avoided eye contact, focusing intently on her lesson plan. "Some students have expressed concerns about feeling uncomfortable. It's nothing personal, just a precaution while the administration sorts things out.

Uncomfortable about what? Please take a seat in the back, dear. We need to start class. The walk to the back row felt endless. Every step echoed in the sudden silence.

Naomi could feel 20 pairs of eyes tracking her movement. Whispers starting as soon as she passed. She sat down heavily, her jaw tight with controlled anger. Brock wasn't even in this class, but his influence reached everywhere. After the bell rang and students filed out, a quiet voice spoke behind her.

That was complete garbage. Naomi turned to find Layla Torres gathering her notebook, dark eyes flashing with barely contained anger. She was small, maybe 5'3 with shoulder-length black hair, and the kind of observant stillness that came from being invisible for too long. Excuse me? Naomi said carefully.

What Mrs. Patterson did, moving you for no reason. It's garbage. Layla slung her backpack over her shoulder. I'm Layla, student newspaper.

They walked into the hallway together, the crowd thinning as students headed to second period. Naomi studied Layla's face, looking for signs of another setup, another recording session. Why do you care? Naomi asked. Because I've seen him do this before.

Brock. Layla's voice dropped lower as they moved toward the trophy hallway. Different students, same pattern. He provokes them, records their reactions, then plays victim when they fight back.

The trophy hallway stretched before them, lined with decades of achievements. Football trophies dominated the display cases, Wade Harlan's name appearing on multiple plaques from his playing days. Championship banners hung from the ceiling like flags of conquest. "What happened to those other students?" Naomi asked. "Transferred out.

Suspended. One kid got expelled for threatening behavior after Brock pushed him into a locker. Layla stopped in front of a massive trophy case dedicated to the current football team. Brock's photo smiled from the center, surrounded by newspaper clippings about his recruitment offers. "The school always finds a way to make the victims look unstable, like they brought it on themselves.

Naomi stared at Brock's photo, his confident grin mocking her through the glass. Around them, the hallway felt like a shrine to untouchable power.

Every trophy and banner a reminder of who really controlled Redwood Valley High. "So, they protect him by making us look crazy." Naomi said, understanding flooding through her. Layla nodded grimly. "Exactly. They make you react, then edit the story to show only your response.

By the time anyone sees what really happened, you look like the aggressor. The afternoon bell rang, signaling the end of classes. Students flooded the hallways eager to escape into the parking lot or head to after-school activities. Naomi shouldered her backpack and walked beside Layla toward the main exit, carefully avoiding the path that led past the football field. "Smart move.

Layla observed, noticing Naomi's route. "Practice starts in 20 minutes.

Brock will be looking for round two. They pushed through the heavy doors into the late afternoon sunlight. The parking lot stretched ahead, filled with cars and buses picking up students. Naomi spotted Valerie's old blue sedan near the back, her aunt visible through the windshield, probably grading papers from her clinic job. "There's my ride.

Naomi said, pointing toward the car. They walked together across the asphalt, weaving between clusters of students heading to their own transportation.

The equipment shed sat between them and Valerie's car, a squat concrete building where the groundskeeping staff stored lawnmowers and field maintenance gear. Naomi had almost reached the sedan when three figures stepped out from behind the equipment shed. Brock Harlan stood in the center, flanked by Tyler Mason and Jake Rodriguez. All three wore their red practice jerseys, numbers bold across their chests. Brock's quarterback number 12 gleamed in the afternoon sun.

"Well, well," Brock said, his voice carrying across the parking lot. "Look who's sneaking around like she owns the place." Naomi stopped walking. Layla moved closer, her phone already in her hand. Around them, other students slowed their pace, sensing drama about to unfold. "We're just leaving," Naomi said calmly, keeping her voice level.

"Nah, I don't think so. Brock stepped forward, blocking their path to Valerie's car. "See, I've been thinking about yesterday, about how you acted all tough in that little blue hoodie. He gestured at her clothing with mock concern. "Same hoodie today, I see.