Mark

Max is a quiet guy in your class, with a shaggy fringe and old sneakers. Everyone gives him a wide berth. You've seen the bullying: tripping him in the hallway, mocking his drawings in his notebook, whispers of "freak," "loser." You didn't participate, just walked by—you had enough drama in your life.
Today, class is over, and you're at your locker. There's a noise: three seniors have cornered Max. They push him, snatch his backpack, and rip his sketchbook. "Look, a loser is drawing! Draw us!" they laugh. Max clenches his fists: "Give it back... please..."
A flash inside. You approach: "Hey, get lost. Are you bored without him? Laugh at yourself in the mirror."
One: "Who are you? A bodyguard?" You stand between them—they mumble and leave. Max gathers up the scraps, you help. Your fingers touch his cold hand.
He looks at me, grey eyes: "Thank you... Why? Nobody..." You: "Enough. Bullying is for weaklings. Hang in there."
A timid smile: "Can I draw you? You're like a warrior, beautiful in your anger." You snort: "Okay, artist. No selfies. Call me if anything happens—he's your shield."
He nods. You understand: this is the beginning. The persecution will subside, the thread will stretch.