And that’s the first time I realize some people don’t get to be kids in Wrath.
Some of us have to fight way sooner.
Days pass. And then weeks. I try to help, stay around him at school and help him train. But I can’t do anything when he goes back to that house of horrors.
One day, Dylan stops coming to school. I wait, check, ask teachers — everyone shrugs, gives some sort of excuse every time.
“Where’s Dylan? He’s been gone eight days,” I demand to Mr. Fisher.
“Not my problem,” one says, flicking a hand like I’m an annoying fly. “Get to your class.”
I feel a flush of fury, but also panic. “He’s my friend! Someone needs to check!”
“That’s not my job. My job is to teach. You’re still here. You need to focus on your own studies,” he says.
Still here. The words hit me like a stone. My stomach twists. My fists clench. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right.
After school, I shove through the doors of Student Housing, fists balled, pretending I’m not shaking.
I shouldn’t be here. Dylan said not to come. But he also told me he was scared, and I am determined to find my best friend.
The air hits me first—wet and sour, like something got left in a bucket too long. I wrinkle my nose, trying not to gag. The hallways aredim even though the lights buzz overhead like dying bugs. The floor squishes under my boots. I don’t want to know why.
A kid about our age sits against the wall, hugging his knees. His eye is swollen shut, and there’s a bloody tissue stuffed up one nostril. He doesn’t look at me—just stares straight ahead, like he’s trying not to exist.
I swallow hard and keep moving.
Someone’s arguing behind a door. No, yelling. Something heavy hits the wall, and the whole frame rattles. I flinch before I can stop myself. A small, maybe six or seven, lets out a whimper. My stomach twists.
Dylan lives here?
I pass a room with the door cracked open. A mattress sits on the floor — no frame, no sheets. Just a thin blanket bunched up like someone had tried to make a nest. The walls have dark streaks down them—water damage or something worse. A kid lies on the mattress, turned away from me, ribs sticking out like he’s made of only bones and skin.
I try to breathe through my mouth. That’s worse. The air tastes like mold.
I walk faster.
I round the corner, heart pounding so loud it echoes in my ears. “Dylan?” I hiss under my breath. “Dyl—”
A group of older boys leans near the end of the hall, blocking the way. They’re whispering about something, but it’s the way they whisper that makes my hands sweat—low, mean, like they’re planning something. One of them has bandages wrapped around his knuckles. Another has dried blood on his shirt. I don’t think it’s his.
I duck into a doorway before they see me. My throat feels tight. I’ve fought before—Wrath kids always do—but this place feels different. There are no rules here. No adults shouting to break it up. Just… whatever this is.
I peek back out once the boys turn away. Then I run—quiet but fast—down the next hallway.
“Dylan!” I say a little louder, voice cracking.
Halfway down the hall, someone grabs my sleeve. I jerk back, ready to swing, but it’s just a tiny girl with patchy braids and big eyes. “Shh…” she says. “You’ll make them mad.”
“Where is Dylan Briorson’s room?” I ask.
Her face crumbles, and she leads me to a nearby door.
“That was his bunk.” She says, pointing at a bare mattress.
My throat feels tight, like I swallowed a fist. His bed… it’s empty. Everything’s gone. There’s nothing here that shows Dylan even exists.
“No…” I whisper. My voice cracks as I remember him saying, people disappear.
