The first punch came faster than Jordan expected.
He had barely closed his locker when a hard fist slammed into his shoulder, sending his books scattering across the hallway. The noise was sudden, loud enough to make a few heads turn. But as usual, it was a momentary flicker of attention before the students returned to their own world, as indifferent as they were resigned. A few snickers rose around him — not the cruel kind, but the kind that stung with the sting of self-preservation. The laughter of a school that had long since decided Jordan wasn't worth defending.
His body felt the impact, but the worst of it wasn't the pain; it was the cold emptiness that followed. The slow drag of inevitability, the knowledge that this was the kind of day it would be, again.
Standing over him was Red.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and always smirking, Red carried the easy confidence of someone who had never once in his life been told "no." Why would he? His father, Super Pablo, wasn't just a hero — he was the hero. The golden boy who saved the city a hundred times over, who posed for cameras with bloodless knuckles and a smile that made the newspapers sigh in admiration. No one dared speak against Super Pablo, not even when the man's fists bruised more than just the villains he fought. And Red? Red was the unquestioned heir to that same legacy.
Red leaned down, his presence casting a shadow over Jordan's crumpled form. He plucked Jordan's notebook off the floor, flipping through it with mock interest, as if each page were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle in his otherwise perfect day.
"Poetry again?" Red's voice was dripping with disdain, a lazy drawl that made it clear he wasn't really interested in the answer. "Damn, Jordan. Didn't realize we had a future starving artist on our hands."
Behind him, the usual groupies snickered. A few of them shifted their weight from foot to foot, trying to gauge how far they could push their support for Red without risking their own spot in the social hierarchy. It wasn't a true loyalty, more like a sick game of survival — who could stand closest to the fire without getting burned?
Jordan stayed silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. It was a gesture he had long perfected, a mask of composure that barely covered the churning anger and humiliation he felt. He had learned early that talking back only made it worse. It never made things better. Heroes' kids had a way of bending the rules — and when they broke them, no one ever seemed to notice.
Red ripped a page out of the notebook, crumpling it in one swift motion. The sound of paper folding felt like a betrayal, like the weight of Jordan's own thoughts being discarded so carelessly.
He tossed the paper over Jordan's head with a flick of his wrist, like it was nothing more than trash. "For your fans," Red said, flashing a grin. "Maybe someday they'll thank you."
The words burned. But it was the laughter that followed that really drove the knife deeper. Red and his entourage didn't bother waiting for the punchline of their own joke. The group of them just turned away, fading into the crowd like they were already done with the moment. They had moved on. And Jordan was left alone, his notebook a battlefield of scribbled thoughts and shredded dreams.
Jordan didn't move at first, staring after them as they walked off, Red's laughter lingering behind like the toxic exhaust of a fast car. It felt like a ritual, something that happened so often he didn't have the energy to fight it anymore. He knelt down, gathering the scattered remnants of his notes, his hands shaking with the usual cocktail of anger and helplessness.
One page stayed behind, caught under the heel of Red's sneaker. Jordan stared at it for a moment, wondering how long it would take before Red realized he had forgotten it — and whether or not he cared. He also stared at the insignia stitched onto Red's jacket: a stylized golden "P" emblazoned on crimson, the same symbol that shone from every billboard, every rooftop in the city, every digital screen broadcasting Super Pablo's heroics. It was a symbol of protection, of power, of unchallenged supremacy.
But today, it felt more like a branding, a reminder that no matter how many times the hero saved the day, the son could still wreck someone's world without consequences.
Heroes weren't supposed to raise bullies.
But then again, heroes weren't supposed to have sons like Red.
Jordan stood, shoulders hunched, as he stuffed the last crumpled paper into his backpack. He felt the weight of it more than the physical books inside — it was the weight of silence pressing against his chest, the same one he had carried for years. A silence that began to settle deeper into him, a part of his identity as solid as any scar.
He trudged toward class, pushing through the hallway like it was a maze he knew by heart. He was used to carrying this weight, this invisible burden of being small in a world of giants. The school hallways, once vibrant with the hum of students and their dreams, felt like a gauntlet — each step a reminder that he would never be anything more than a ghost in this place.
He just didn't know — not yet — that this was the year he would finally put it down.