It began with whispers.
Andrew had returned to his usual walks again — quiet routes between lecture halls and courtyards, through gardens powdered with snow and across the winding stone paths behind the old chapel. He didn't speak to many. Most days, his voice felt like something that needed polishing to work again.
That afternoon, his steps slowed as he passed the supply shed near the sports field. He heard voices — low, conspiratorial.
He paused, listening from behind the crooked fence.
"…he thinks he can get away with everything," one voice hissed. Michael.
"He got me suspended, humiliated. That smug bastard and his slut girlfriend."
There were three others with him, their faces unfamiliar but tones sharp, eager.
"You sure you want to do this?" one asked.
"I don't want to do it," Michael snapped. "I need to. He walks around like he owns this place, but we'll show him. We wear masks, corner him in the courtyard behind the stables. No teachers around. He won't see it coming."
Andrew froze.
Jason.
He swallowed, took one step back.
But then something surged through him.
A fire. Maybe rage. Maybe justice. Maybe a desire to feel useful again.
"I'm in," he said aloud, stepping into view.
The others turned. Michael narrowed his eyes. "You?"
Andrew nodded. "He deserves it. For everything."
There was silence.
Then Michael grinned, sharp as a broken bottle. "Welcome aboard."
---
The next night, the snow was soft again — the kind that muffled everything, that made even footsteps seem unsure.
Andrew stood with the others near the edge of the stables, masks pulled low. Black wool, cheap fabric, anything to blur their features.
Jason was late, but he always took the back path — alone, confident. Predictable.
Andrew's heart beat harder than it should. He glanced at Michael, who was flexing his knuckles. The others fidgeted, shadows in the dark.
And then, there he was.
Jason.
Hands in pockets. Scarf wrapped loose. A half-smile playing on his lips.
The ambush was swift.
They leapt from the darkness.
Jason fought back, instinct sharp, fists practiced. He took one down fast, but the others swarmed. Michael landed a punch to his stomach. Another clipped his jaw.
Andrew hesitated — and then joined in, just enough to be part of it, just enough to stay hidden.
Jason fell to one knee.
Blood trickled from his mouth. Still, he laughed. "Cowards."
Michael raised a foot to kick him again — but Andrew saw something.
A figure, running.
Emma.
She'd seen them.
"Wait!" Andrew shouted.
Michael turned. "What?"
"She's coming. Don't touch her."
Michael grinned. "Even better. Let's give her a show."
"No," Andrew said, stepping between them. "She didn't do anything."
"She stood by him," one of the others sneered.
"She chose him," Michael spat. "So she falls with him."
Andrew shook his head. "We said Jason. Not her."
"Move."
"I won't."
Michael lunged first.
Andrew blocked, clumsily. He wasn't trained. He took a punch to the side. Another to his ribs. One to his jaw.
He fought back anyway.
For Emma. For dignity. For the line he refused to cross.
But he was losing.
They were too many.
And then Jason rose again.
A roar tore from him as he crashed into Michael, fists flying. He fought like a storm, unrelenting, brutal. He and Andrew fought side by side — not allies, not friends, just two wounded boys defending the only thing they still believed in.
Together, they drove the others back. One by one, they dropped. Michael lasted the longest.
But even he fell.
A final punch from Jason sent him sprawling into the snow.
Silence.
Heavy breathing.
And then — a gasp.
Emma.
She ran to Jason, but her eyes fell on Andrew.
His mask was gone.
It had slipped during the fight.
He stood, bruised and panting, his face flushed with cold and shame.
Jason turned too, frowning.
"…Andrew?"
No one moved.
Andrew took a step back.
"I didn't—" he started.
Emma shook her head slowly. "You were one of them?"
"I tried to stop it," he said quickly. "I heard them. I thought… I thought if I was inside, I could control it."
"But you still let it happen," Jason said. There was no anger. Just tired disappointment.
Andrew looked at the blood on his knuckles. Not all of it was his.
"I didn't want you to get hurt," he said to Emma.
Her expression twisted. "You didn't want it, but you let it start. You stood with them."
Jason stepped forward. "Why, man?"
Andrew couldn't speak.
Emma helped Jason up, his arm over her shoulder.
Andrew turned away.
"I'm sorry," he said, more to the wind than to them.
He walked into the snow, alone.
Behind him, no one called after him.
The snow continued to fall long after Andrew disappeared into the distance.
Emma stood silent, her arms wrapped around Jason's waist as she helped him sit on the low stone wall behind the stables. The light above them flickered, bathing everything in a dim amber glow. His breaths were heavy, and blood still trickled from a split lip, but his eyes weren't on his wounds.
They were on the snow, where Andrew's footprints slowly blurred into nothing.
"He saved us," Jason said at last.
Emma didn't answer.
Jason looked at her. "He didn't have to turn on them. He didn't have to fight them off."
Emma's fingers clenched around her sleeves. "But he let it begin."
Jason nodded slowly. "Yeah."
They sat in silence, the wind curling between them. Jason closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the cold bite at the bruises. A part of him wanted to chase Andrew, to demand answers, to throw more punches. But deeper still, beneath the rage and pain, he knew what he saw.
Andrew, fists swinging wildly, throwing himself between Michael and Emma.
He fought like someone who hated himself for even standing there.
"He didn't want to hurt you," Jason murmured.
Emma looked away. "Then why did he put on a mask in the first place?"
---
Jason insisted Emma go back to the dorms while he visited the infirmary. As she walked alone through the winding corridors, the warmth of the castle's stone walls did nothing to thaw the chill settled in her chest.
In her room, she shut the door and pressed her back against it.
Memories flooded in — all the mornings Andrew waited by her steps, the jokes, the coffees, the playlists. The walks. The silences.
She slid down the door, hugging her knees.
Had she been blind?
Had she ignored the quiet ache in Andrew's eyes while she fell headfirst into Jason's storm?
She remembered how Andrew smiled when she called Jason "interesting."
"Yeah, interesting."
A lie so soft it barely sounded like a wound.
And now?
He was someone she didn't recognize. Someone who had joined in the shadows.
And yet… someone who had broken from them when it mattered most.
---
Jason sat shirtless on the infirmary bed as the nurse dabbed alcohol on his cuts.
He winced but said nothing.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Got into the wrong end of a snowball fight," he said with a crooked grin.
She narrowed her eyes but didn't press.
When she left, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He wasn't used to being saved.
He'd spent years learning how to fight for himself, push people away before they could disappoint him. But tonight, Andrew had stood with him.
Not for glory. Not for praise.
For Emma.
Jason hated him for it. And respected him.
He ran a hand through his hair, then pulled his coat over the bruises and limped back through the snow.
He didn't go to his room.
He went to the chapel.
It was empty, quiet, save for the echo of dripping candlewax.
Jason sat on the last bench, staring at the altar.
He didn't believe in God. But he believed in pain. In choices. In roads that forked with no signs.
"I would've done the same," he whispered. "If it were me in his place."
He exhaled, and for the first time in a long time, the air fogged with something more than smoke.
It fogged with doubt.
---
Emma couldn't sleep.
The night stretched on, shadows across her ceiling like reaching hands.
She found herself at the window, watching snow drift in circles.
Then she moved — coat, boots, scarf — and left the dorm.
She knew where Andrew went when he didn't want to be found.
The greenhouse.
It stood at the far end of the school grounds, always warm, always quiet. Flowers bloomed there even in winter.
When she reached the door, she found it slightly ajar.
Inside, the air was thick with lavender and damp soil.
And there he was.
Andrew.
Sitting on the bench beneath the hanging vines, his hands stained with blood and soil. His knuckles were raw, eyes hollow.
He looked up as she entered.
"Emma."
She said nothing at first. Just walked forward and sat opposite him.
The silence between them was heavy, but not cruel.
"I should've told you," he said. "When I heard them. I should've told someone."
She looked down. "Why didn't you?"
He exhaled. "Because part of me wanted them to do it. I hated him."
Her eyes lifted, sharp.
"I hated that he had your attention. Your laughter. That you looked at him like I've been dreaming you'd look at me for years."
His voice broke, barely above a whisper. "And I hated myself for that."
She swallowed.
He looked away. "But when I saw you running toward us… I couldn't let them hurt you. I couldn't stand there anymore."
She sat with the truth of it.
The ugliness and the honesty.
The hurt he carried so silently.
"I don't know what to feel," she whispered.
"You don't have to feel anything," he said. "I don't expect you to. I just… I didn't want to hide anymore."
Outside, the snow softened everything.
Emma stood slowly.
"I'm glad you didn't."
She turned and left.
And Andrew, finally, let the tears come.