JAY'S POV
A week became a blur.
I didn't go to school. I didn't answer calls. Section E tried—they left messages, texts, voicemails. All ignored. Every single one.
No distractions.
Keifer was gone. London swallowed him whole. I didn't care anymore about waiting. I cared about being ready.
The first night I disappeared into the neon nightmare of the club district.
Bass so heavy it felt like it was drilling into my skull, smoke choking the edges of vision, bodies colliding like rivers of chaos. I moved through it like I belonged nowhere.
A sparring ring in the back caught my attention. Underground, unregulated, a place where fighters tested blood and bone.
I let the trainer hit me. I dodged. I countered. Pain hit ribs, back, jaw. It tasted like fire and control.
My own bruises became fuel, sharpening me, teaching me to move faster, strike harder, survive smarter.
By midnight, my knuckles were raw, blood mixing with sweat. I smiled. This was clarity.
Two nights later, I was at the shooting range. One pistol. Two pistols. Rifles.
Targets stacked in precision drills. My focus was absolute—each shot a heartbeat,
each trigger pull a promise: no one touches me unless I allow it.
Recoil. Gunpowder. Silence between shots. Bullseyes. Discipline like a blade against the chaos in me.
The phone kept buzzing. Section E. Calls, texts, voicemails. Felix. Cin. David.
"Jay, answer—please."
"We're worried, Jay."
"You can't hide forever."
I deleted most. Let the rest rot unread. They didn't matter. Not anymore.
By day three, I ran rooftops, punched bags until wraps bled, drilled combinations faster than thought, harder than instinct. I became sharp. Dangerous. Cold. Alone.
Clubs, guns, rooftops, gyms, sparring, range. Pain, adrenaline, discipline.
Every bruise, every strike, every shot was a step toward forgetting love.
Toward forgetting Keifer. Toward forgetting that the person I loved had used me,
manipulated me, and broken me with nothing but a smile.
By the end of the week, I collapsed into my condo, raw, bruised, exhausted.
A wild, dangerous smile crept across my face. London wouldn't be ready. And neither would the Watsons.
Then Damian lost it.
He didn't knock. He didn't ask. He barged in. His eyes were blazing, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"Jay!"
I froze. My body clenched. He stood in the doorway, hands trembling with restrained fury.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
I raised an eyebrow, still leaning back against the couch. "Living?"
"Living?!" He strode closer, and for the first time in days, my heart skipped—not with longing, but with caution.
"You're destroying yourself! You're spiraling into nothing! Clubs, fights, gun ranges—every damn night, you're gambling your life for what? A boy who doesn't even care about you!"
I laughed bitterly. "Don't act like you don't get it."
"I do get it!" he snapped. "I get it more than you think! But this—this is wrong! You think you're preparing yourself? You're bleeding out on the inside, Jay! You're letting pain become your entire identity!"
I stood, shaking off some of the tension. My knuckles split again as I flexed them unconsciously. "So what? I'm not pretending. I'm not waiting. I'm not… weak."
"You're turning into the very thing you swore you'd never become!" Damian yelled,
stepping closer, his face shadowed with fury. "Your parents, the Arch,The Raven's, JJM—you've got everything coming, Jay! And you're blowing it because of one man, one betrayal, one plan!"
I froze. His words hit harder than any punch or gunshot. He was right. I had forgotten. Forgotten about revenge.
Forgotten about Kaizer Watson. Forgotten about my parents' death. Forgotten about JJM.
"You need to let this go," Damian said, voice calmer now but still firm. "Forget him. Forget the revenge. Focus. You're turning eighteen soon—you're about to go public with JJM. You can't destroy yourself now."
The words hung in the air. Reality pressed in like ice. My chest tightened. My mind, for the first time in days, stopped racing.
I straightened. Slowly. Carefully. The rage didn't vanish, but it didn't control me anymore.
"We'll leave for London soon," I said quietly.
Damian exhaled, visibly relieved, but didn't let his guard down. "Good. But Jay… promise me. Promise me you'll be careful until then."
I nodded. "I will."
And for the first time in a week, the spiral loosened. The chaos remained, but I was in control. Not yet whole—but ready to plan, ready to fight, ready to step into the storm that was coming.
---
Going back to school felt like stepping into a photograph.
Everything was frozen exactly where I'd left it—same desks, same noise, same people pretending nothing had fractured down to bone.
I didn't belong in it anymore.
I dressed carefully. Long sleeves. Neutral colors. Hair pulled tight, severe. I erased softness from my face until only control remained. The bruises had faded into sick colors—yellow, green, brown—but my eyes still carried the damage.
They looked tired.
Not sad.
Tired in the way soldiers look tired.
When I entered the classroom, the reaction was immediate.
Silence.
Every conversation died mid-breath. Chairs creaked as bodies stiffened. Section E turned as one—hope flaring too fast, guilt following right behind it.
I didn't look at them.
I walked straight to David.
"Morning," I said quietly.
David's pen stopped mid-word. He looked up slowly, eyes scanning me the way only someone who knew could. He didn't ask questions. Didn't comment. Just nodded.
"Morning, Jay."
That was enough.
I sat down.
Behind me, the air shifted.
Felix inhaled sharply like he was about to say something and thought better of it.
Cin whispered my name—too softly, like he was afraid it might shatter if he said it louder.
I didn't respond.
Keifer's seat was empty.
It stayed that way.
---
The week crawled.
They tried to reach me in small, careful ways.
Felix slid notes onto my desk and pretended they were accidental. Rory waited after class, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes pleading. Josh cracked jokes that landed wrong and died halfway through. Eren hovered like a ghost.
Cin… Cin unraveled.
It wasn't dramatic at first. It never is.
He stopped eating properly. Started snapping over nothing. His smiles didn't reach his eyes anymore. He watched me constantly—not like he was angry, but like he was scared I'd vanish if he blinked.
By Friday, the tension snapped.
We were near the stairwell, late afternoon light slanting through the windows. The hallway was mostly empty when someone grabbed my wrist.
Not aggressive.
Desperate.
"Jay," Cin said.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
He looked wrecked.
Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw clenched so tight it trembled. His hand was shaking where it held me, like he didn't trust himself to let go.
"Please," he said quietly. "Stop."
I tried to pull away.
His grip tightened.
"Don't," he whispered. "Please don't walk away again."
Something in his voice—raw, stripped bare—made my chest ache.
"Cin—"
"I know you don't want to talk," he rushed out, words tumbling over each other now, cracking at the edges. "I know we fucked up. I know we don't deserve your forgiveness. But this—this silence? It's killing me."
His breath hitched.
"You don't understand what it's like," he said, eyes burning. "To be right there and still not matter."
My throat tightened.
"My family does that," he continued, voice breaking now. "They see me, but they don't see me. My sister gets everything—attention, expectations, love. I'm just… background noise. Something that exists but isn't important."
His hand finally fell away from my wrist, dropping like it weighed too much.
"I learned early how to disappear," he said bitterly. "How to stay quiet. How not to need things. Because needing things gets you ignored."
His shoulders shook.
"And then you showed up."
My heart stuttered.
"You looked at me like I mattered," he said. "Like I wasn't invisible. You fought for us. You stayed when you didn't have to. You became… family."
His voice cracked completely.
"And now you're doing the same thing they do," he whispered. "Standing right here and acting like I don't exist."
Tears spilled over.
He laughed once—broken, hollow. "I know it's not the same. I know I don't own you. But god, Jay—being ignored hurts more than being hated."
That did it.
I stepped forward and pulled him into me.
Cin broke.
Not quietly.
He folded into my shoulder, hands fisting into my jacket like he needed proof I was real. His breathing shattered, sobs ripping out of him like he'd been holding them back for years.
"I'm sorry," he cried. "I should've stopped it. I should've protected you. I should've screamed louder instead of staying quiet like I always do."
"You didn't fail me," I said softly, holding him tighter. "You didn't."
"Yes, I did," he sobbed. "Because that's what I do—I stay silent until it's too late."
His body shook violently.
"I thought you were going to disappear," he whispered. "I thought you'd stop coming and no one would notice except me. And I'd be stupid again for caring more than everyone else."
"I'm here," I murmured. "I'm not disappearing."
His grip tightened.
"Promise?" he asked, voice small. Terrified.
I swallowed.
"I promise."
Slowly, his breathing evened out. He pulled back eventually, wiping his face angrily with his sleeve, embarrassment flashing across his features.
"Sorry," he muttered. "That was… a lot."
"It was honest," I said.
He huffed out a weak laugh. "You're coming to my birthday."
I blinked. "Cin—"
"No arguments," he said firmly. "Fourteenth. You're coming. I don't care what you're planning or running from."
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
Relief washed over his face like he'd been holding his breath for days.
---
That night, I talked to the rest of Section E.
They apologized.
Really apologized.
No excuses. No justifications.
I forgave them.
Not because it didn't hurt—but because losing them would hurt more.
When someone finally asked, carefully, "What about Keifer?"
The room went cold.
So did I.
I didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
My silence was sharp enough.
Cin's jaw clenched. Felix cursed under his breath. Rory looked furious.
Only Yuri met my eyes—and nodded.
He knew.
The morning of Cin's birthday arrived quietly.
February fourteenth.
I stood by my window, city waking below, phone buzzing with messages I hadn't opened yet.
Two days until London.
Two days until truth.
Two days until everything broke—or burned.
And this time?
I wouldn't be ignored.