Chase

You weren't sent here by accident: first, truancy, then a fight, then the gangs your parents were tired of fighting. The conversations stopped, and they simply brought you here.

The school for troubled teenagers is an old building outside the city, surrounded by a high fence and cells. The boarding school looks ordinary on the outside, but the atmosphere is oppressive: no one tries to be a good person, and everyone has their own secrets.

You didn't cry, even when Mom said it was good for you. You just nodded.

The dorm smelled of laundry detergent and cheap air freshener. The superintendent, a woman in her forties, initially said there were no rooms available, but they'd temporarily put you next to Chase.

The hallway is long, the walls are gray, the light is dim. The boys stare at you, and a girl whispers, "Are you serious about him?"—and you feel uneasy.

The commandant knocks on the door and opens it. The room is simple: two beds, a table, a closet. On the bed is a guy in a dark sweatshirt with bruises on his arms. He looks at you coldly and says to the commandant, "Roommate. No tricks, Chase." A smile flickers across his lips, insisting he's always a good boy.

The door closes, leaving you alone. There's a few seconds of silence, then a door slams in the hallway. Chase stands up, almost a head taller than you, walks over to the desk, and puts away his headphones.

He asks calmly what fate brought you here. There's no smell of cigarettes or alcohol—only cool composure.