Asher slipped back into his classroom, the door letting out a subtle squeak as he closed it.

Surprisingly, neither the teacher nor his classmates said anything.

There was an unspoken agreement not to mess with him, not because he was unreasonable, but because he was a member of the school's gang. Even the teacher knew better than to messed with them.

'This problematic kid again,' the teacher clicked his tongue in annoyance, though he didn't reveal it on his face.

Dealing with a student with a gangster-like reputation was not worth his small salary. He decided to let Asher be, silently predicting that in the future, he'd likely end up as either a garbage collector or in jail.

Asher slumped into his seat as the class continued.

The teacher's words blurred into background noise, and he found himself lost in his own thoughts. The monotony of the lecture only fueled his boredom.

He couldn't shake off the feeling that this were all useless, convinced that this third-rate school wouldn't make a difference in his life.

Pondering the fate of those with diplomas, he couldn't shake the realization that most still faced unemployment because they lacked a backer.

He didn't buy into the workings of society, but he believed in a different kind of self-improvement – like honing his fighting abilities. In his eyes, whether you were rich or poor, the ability to fight still depended on your own effort.

Looking around, he saw the kid he punched sitting in a quiet corner, nursing a bruised face. He didn't hit as hard as it seemed; he sort of pushed the kid to make it look worse.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The poor kid sat there, his bruised face attracting more ridicule than sympathy.

Whispers and snickers circulated among the other students, their eyes darting towards the bruised boy in the corner.

It was the harsh reality of things – the weak ones ended up being the butt of the joke, even when they were the victims.

'It's you fault for being too weak,' Asher sighed. If that kid would have work on himself , act not too weird , and train how to fight , he would be able to depend himself. But , instead of doing that he already gave up even before fighting .

The class carried on, unfolding before him like a mundane script, and before he knew it, it was over.

The popular kids wanted to hit the karaoke. The sporty ones were pumped to go to their clubs. The brainy ones split up - some going to the library, others to after-school lessons.

Even the bullies had their own plans, discussing hanging out and smoking, while the losers were organizing a trip to the internet cafe for a gaming session.

For Asher, it was a direct route out of school. He didn't have real friends, but strangely, it didn't bother him.

"Stop," a familiar voice echoed in his ears as he strolled down the hallway. It was the same girl again, Elaine.

"What now?" Asher asked, boredom etched across his face.

"I don't agree with your way of doing things," Elaine mustered the courage to speak up. She couldn't help but feel that Asher was wasting his life.

"Okay," Asher replied and turned away. There was no need to defend himself.

Elaine couldn't believe the indifference in his response.

Normally, guys— even bullies—would get all flustered talking to her.

But Asher remained nonchalant, treating her like she was nothing more than air.

This realization had been bothering her for a while. It wasn't about because she was a narcissist; it was the unexpected sting in her chest every time he brushed her off. It puzzled her, leaving her with a lingering discomfort that she couldn't quite shake off.

"Why does he always get under my skin?" She sighed, running her fingers over her chest, her eyes trailing his departing back. Each step he took felt like widening the gap between them.

"Could it be pity?" she wondered aloud.

This was a new emotion for her, and she tried convincing herself it was just concern for a fellow classmate. Yet, deep down, she grappled with the complexity of her feelings.