Chapter 2: The Wolves
Shams sat at the far back of Room 2B, second seat from the window.
The teacher, Mr. Kendricks, was lecturing about World War I, something about alliances and domino effects. Students barely listened. Some doodled, others scrolled through their phones behind textbooks. Shams, however, watched everything—especially the people.
Tyler sat front and center, pretending to be interested, occasionally cracking jokes that only the teacher laughed at. Max lounged near the windows, AirPods half-hidden beneath his hoodie. Zoe sat diagonally in front of Shams, clicking her pen nonstop and whispering to the girl beside her.
No one looked at him.
No one spoke to him.
That afternoon, during lunch, everything changed.
The cafeteria was chaos—sticky trays, the stench of grease, the roar of a thousand teenage voices. Shams walked through the crowd like a ghost. He didn't know where to sit. Every table seemed occupied by invisible walls: athletes at one, drama kids at another, the loners in the corner.
He picked a table near the back—empty.
Until it wasn't.
Tyler dropped his tray across from him, his smirk wide. Max and Zoe flanked him on either side. A few other students nearby went quiet. Watching.
"Shampoo Macas," Tyler said. "We missed you."
Shams didn't respond. He took a bite of his sandwich.
"You know," Zoe said, twirling a strand of her hair, "you really should smile more. You always look like you're waiting to die."
Shams paused. He looked up slowly, swallowing his food.
"I smile when it matters," he said.
Max burst out laughing. "Creepy little bastard."
Tyler leaned in. "Here's how it works, Shampoo. This table? Ours. This school? Ours. You're just a tourist. You don't belong here. You don't talk weird. You don't eat weird. You don't exist. Got it?"
Shams stared at him. Something flickered in his eyes—something ancient. Cold.
Then, calmly, he nodded.
"Got it," he said.
Tyler grinned, satisfied. "Good talk."
Before he left, he knocked over Shams' tray, spilling spaghetti across his lap. Laughter erupted from nearby tables.
Shams didn't move.
He looked down at the mess. Steam still rising. Red sauce spreading like blood.
Then, without a word, he picked up each strand of spaghetti and placed it back on the tray.
A janitor passed by, offering to help. Shams shook his head.
"No need," he said, voice low. "I'll clean it up."
Later that day, during PE, Shams stayed behind after class. The locker room emptied. His gym shorts were soaked, and the laughter still echoed in his ears.
He opened his backpack, took out his notebook, and flipped to the back pages.
He wrote three names.
Tyler
Max
Zoe
Then he drew a small smiley face beneath the list.
Not happy. Not sad.
Just... smiling.
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