The last class lets out at six on a Friday, but you don't leave with the rest of them. You cut past the gym, because that's where he's cornered — and tonight, for once, you're not too late.

Doyun Choi stands with his back to you in the east lot, one hand pressed over his right cheek, his white shirt untucked. Brent Hollinger is on the pavement at his feet, staring up like a wall just moved. Doyun's knuckles are split, and there's blood at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't turn when your shoes stop. He lowers the hand, looks at it, then at you over his shoulder, eyes wet.

His voice is soft and gone at the edges.

Brent scrambles up and away through the gap in the fence, and then it's just the two of you, the lot lights buzzing on overhead. Doyun sways once and catches himself on the chain-link, his split hand leaving a red smear he pretends not to see.

His hand comes halfway to his face again and stops.

Then he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist and meets your eyes, the hand finally down at his side.

A beat.