When Goldridge Academy woke up the next morning, it felt like the walls were buzzing.
Phones were out before breakfast, screens glowing against the dim cafeteria lights. The message—Zion and Mabelle's carefully constructed "statement"—had gone out at midnight. Short, blunt, impossible to misinterpret.
"Kevin left because he broke the trust of this group. He does not define us anymore. This year belongs to us."
That was it. Four sentences.
No names beyond Kevin's. No messy details. Just a line in the sand.
And it worked. Sort of.
Mikey scrolled through the group chat with his fork still stuck in his pancake. The Year Belongs to Us was trending across the student body already, hashtags popping up on story after story. Students from the UK branch spammed it with pride. Some from the U.S. rolled their eyes but still reposted. Even the Sweden kids—who barely interacted unless there was food involved—were tagging each other.
"It's giving revolution," Celeste muttered beside him, sipping on iced coffee like it was an inside joke only she understood.
"It's giving petty," someone else fired back from another table, loud enough for them to hear.
Mabelle ignored it. She was sitting across from Zion, her chin propped on her hand. She looked calm, but Zion could see the way her thumb tapped against the table—her tell when nerves were chewing at her.
"You seeing this?" she whispered, sliding her phone toward him. Screenshots of the hashtag climbing, kids making edits of Zion in his taekwondo uniform, a video of Mabelle from months back with the caption: She said what she said.
Zion allowed himself the smallest smirk. "Looks like they bought it."
"Some of them," Lucian corrected. He slid into the seat beside them, his tray untouched. His phone screen lit up with a different reality—side chats where Kevin's name was spoken with almost religious weight. What if he comes back?What if they're lying?What if Zion and Mabelle are just covering for something worse?
The divide was real.
By second period, the teachers were forced to acknowledge it.
Dr. Reynolds stood at the front of the lecture hall, his jaw tight. "Whatever you've read online," he said, voice clipped, "do not bring it into this classroom. You are students first, not gossips."
But gossip didn't stop at the door. It never did. Zion could feel eyes boring into his back as he scribbled notes, half the class measuring him against the legend Kevin's absence had created.
He didn't flinch. But inside, he knew: this was exactly what Kevin wanted.
The retaliation came fast.
By the time dinner rolled around, another wave hit. This one uglier.
Anonymous accounts started dropping screenshots—real ones, not doctored—of Zion during his lowest points. Times when his grades dipped. Times when he'd skipped out on club meetings. Even a blurry shot of him arguing with a teacher outside the gym.
They weren't damning, but they were enough. Enough to paint cracks in the image people had built of him. Enough to stir doubt.
And every single post was tagged: #TheYearBelongsToUs? followed by a laughing emoji.
Mabelle's face went pale as she scrolled. "This is him. It has to be him."
"No one else has these," Lucian agreed, eyes hard. "He's sitting on a vault of dirt and he's finally using it."
Zion leaned back in his chair, refusing to show the anger boiling in his chest. "Let him. The more he digs, the more desperate he looks."
But his voice was tight. Too tight.
Mikey slammed his phone down. "Yeah, well, desperate or not, he's got half the school thinking you're a fraud."
Silence pressed down on the group. Even Celeste, usually quick with a sharp joke, stayed quiet.
That night, they gathered in Zion's dorm room. Phones off, blinds closed.
Mabelle sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through drafts. "We need a follow-up. Something that shows we're not shaken."
"No," Zion said firmly. "That's what he wants. He wants us to flinch."
Lucian studied him, his expression unreadable. "And what if the others don't see it that way? What if silence looks like surrender?"
Zion's jaw clenched. He knew Lucian was right. But every part of him resisted playing Kevin's game.
Then Isla, who'd barely spoken all day, finally whispered: "What if this isn't just about you?"
The room froze.
She looked up, her eyes wide but steady. "Kevin doesn't care about just Zion. He cares about breaking all of us. The more he tears into him, the more cracks he makes in everyone tied to him."
For once, no one argued.
By morning, the school wasn't buzzing anymore. It was boiling.
Teachers whispered in the halls. Students chose tables based on which side of the story they believed. The hashtag was everywhere, but now it was split: half celebrating, half mocking.
And then the loudspeaker crackled during homeroom.
"All students of the graduating class," the principal's voice echoed, "report to the auditorium. Immediately."
The group exchanged looks. Zion felt the pit in his stomach harden.
Something was coming. Something bigger than rumors.
As they filed into the auditorium, the banners of each branch hung heavy above them. UK. U.S. Sweden. Australia. A patchwork of pride and rivalry.
But today, all of it felt overshadowed by one name.
Kevin.
And Zion knew—whatever the principal was about to say—this was just the beginning of his war.