Chapter 2: Blood, Candy, and Vulnerability

The realization hit me like cold water down my back. Every weird déjà vu, every off-kilter moment—it all made sense now. I was just a character in someone else’s story.

At that moment, Hunter let me guide him, sinking into his seat without protest. I noticed his hoodie was wrinkled where I’d grabbed it, the fabric creased under my fingers.

He stared at that spot, lost in thought. I felt my cheeks burn and hurried back to my desk, pretending to focus as the comment stream blew up.

[That spot on his hoodie is toast. Bet he’s gonna wear it to sleep.]

I swallowed hard, cheeks on fire. I fiddled with my pencil, staring at anything but Hunter. My thoughts wouldn’t settle.

My heart stuttered. I glanced back—just in time to see Hunter lower his head and press his lips to the place I’d grabbed. It was almost reverent, like a secret. Just then, Benji walked in with the main girl, Sadie Lane, trailing behind.

My breath caught as I watched Hunter’s lips brush the fabric, almost like he was worshiping it. But then the door slammed open and the whole room shifted, energy crackling as Sadie entered.

Sadie strutted in, her skirt the shortest in the room, school polo hugging her chest and making her waist look tiny, her legs going on forever. Half the boys in class couldn’t stop gawking, eyes glued to her every move.

She walked in like she owned the place, ponytail bouncing, lips glossy and shining under the fluorescent lights. The girls whispered behind their hands, but Sadie just tossed her hair and kept moving, unbothered.

As for Benji—the golden boy, the guy everyone expected to win—his crisp white shirt was splattered with blood, his face bruised and a little battered, but somehow he still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie, the kind of boy who’d get cast as quarterback or debate team captain. Even with the blood and bruises, he still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.

He carried a little first-aid kit. Sadie tried to help, but Benji looked down, cold, dodging her hand like it burned.

Sadie’s lips tightened, her hand hanging awkwardly in the air. Benji’s jaw was clenched, eyes flicking to me and then away. The tension between them was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Benji was in that stage where, because he was broke, Sadie kept putting him down. But someday, he’d realize he actually liked the one-of-a-kind Sadie. At least, that’s how the story was supposed to go.

I watched the two of them, feeling weirdly detached—like I was reading ahead in a script I already knew by heart. Was this really my life?

I was still dazed when Benji handed me the ointment. “Emmy, can you help me put this on?”

He looked down, the cut on his arm still bleeding, sounding all helpless. I reached out, about to take the bag, but something made me pause.

A comment floated by: [Main male, this manipulator, plays the knight-and-damsel game with the main girl, while fishing for the supporting girl.]

[He just wants the supporting girl to give him her early college admission, right?]

[Just that tiny cut on his arm, acting like it’s the end of the world. The supporting male has a whole wound on his back still bleeding, but all he can think about is the hoodie the supporting girl touched?]

The words made me freeze, my hand hovering over the bag. I looked at Benji—really looked—and something in me shifted. Was I just another piece in his game?

I glanced back and caught Hunter’s eyes. There was something sharp there, almost mocking, before he turned away, shutting me out.

He looked almost bored, like he was watching the same rerun for the hundredth time. But underneath that cool exterior, I caught a flash of something raw—hurt, maybe—before it vanished.

His face was pale as marble, a few strands of hair falling across his forehead, making him look lonely and breakable. I hesitated, then stood up and checked on Hunter behind me, my heart in my throat.

I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. I hesitated, then stood and walked over, the classroom noise fading into a dull roar as I focused on him.

I ignored Benji’s hand, still hovering in the air. Standing in front of Hunter, I reached out, nervous, and gently touched his back.

My fingers brushed the back of his hoodie, searching for the blood. The fabric was damp and sticky, and I shivered at the thought of him just sitting there, bleeding.

Suddenly, his hand clamped around my wrist. Hunter’s voice was cold, almost biting. “What are you doing?”

His grip was strong—almost desperate. I could feel his pulse pounding against my skin, his fingers trembling just a little.

[Acting all cold, but the want is about to spill from his eyes. When he touched the supporting girl’s wrist, the supporting male’s gaze darkened.]

[He’s a fake tough guy, totally loving this—honestly, same.]

His eyes flickered with something raw—hungry, almost feral. I swallowed hard.

I hissed, low and dramatic: “It hurts.”

I played up the pain, hoping he’d let go. My eyes went wide and innocent, but inside my heart was racing so fast I thought I might faint.

Hunter let go right away. I took the chance, reaching over to touch his back, and felt wetness—my fingers coming away stained red. My stomach twisted.

The blood was warm and slick. I swallowed, fighting down the panic rising in my chest. I had to do something.

[What’s up with the supporting girl? In the original plot, she only put medicine on the main male Benji, totally ignoring Hunter’s wound.]

[Later, Hunter’s wound got infected, he got a fever for a week, almost died.]

[How did the supporting girl suddenly get smart? Her pitiful act—not to mention the supporting male, even I’m falling for it, she’s so gentle and sweet.]

I wiped my fingers on a tissue, hands shaking. There was no way I could just let him bleed out here.

Seeing the blood on my fingers, I grabbed Hunter’s hand—maybe too tight. “Come with me to the nurse.”

I squeezed his hand, pulling, but he resisted, jaw set stubbornly. He always had to make things difficult.

Hunter replied, cold as ice, “Not going.”

He said it like a dare, but his voice was softer than before—almost like he wanted me to fight him on it.

He dodged my hand, stubborn as ever. Panicking, I messed with his hair, tugging at the strands on his forehead.

I ruffled his hair, trying to snap him out of it. It was playful on the outside, but my heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear myself think.

I was standing, he was sitting, and with my tug, he had to lift his head. His jaw was sharp, the corners of his eyes turning red, his breath coming fast and uneven.