Number one and only. [Nicholas &team]

Chapter 8 - Unseen Angles

The next day, Northbridge High settled into its usual rhythm. Laughter spilled through the halls, sneakers squeaked against polished floors, and the occasional basketball thudded from somewhere in the distance.
By the time math rolled around, most students were already zoning out. Miss Yuna, chalk in hand, scrawled a complex equation across the board. “Alright,” she said, brushing her palms together. “Let’s see who can solve this one.”
The room stayed quiet. Pencils tapped. Whispers filled the air. Ava sat with one elbow propped on her desk, already mapping out the answer in her head.
“Anyone?” Miss Yuna asked.
Ava’s hand rose lazily — but at the exact same moment, another hand went up.
Two hands.
Miss Yuna froze for a second, her eyes flicking between them. Ava Thompson… and Nicholas.
A ripple of murmurs ran through the room. Someone whispered, “No one’s ever raised their hand with Ava before.”
Miss Yuna’s curiosity sparked. “Alright, Nicholas. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Nicholas stood, taking the chalk without hesitation. He began writing — not hurriedly, but with deliberate, clean strokes, every number perfectly aligned, each step spaced with precision. The board, by the time he finished, looked less like a scrap of calculations and more like a work of art.
Miss Yuna blinked, then smiled faintly. “Correct. And… neat.”
The class was silent, except for a few exchanged looks. Even Ava tilted her head slightly, studying him from across the room — her pencil idle against the paper. So he’s not just smart. He’s precise.
Nicholas returned to his seat without acknowledgment, sliding his notebook back in place as if nothing had happened.

Recess.
Nicholas pushed open the men’s washroom door, the metallic creak echoing against the tiled walls. The air inside was cool and faintly smelled of disinfectant. He walked over to the long mirror above the sinks, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt in slow, neat folds before turning on the faucet.
Cold water gushed out, pooling into his cupped hands before dripping steadily into the basin. The soft rush of it filled the silence.
The door slammed open behind him, the bang ricocheting through the room.
Four boys swaggered in, their sneakers squeaking faintly against the wet tiles. They carried the kind of loud, restless energy that filled a room before they even spoke. One pulled a lighter from his pocket, the metallic click slicing through the quiet. The flame flared, and within seconds, ribbons of grey smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, twisting in the fluorescent light.
Nicholas glanced at them through the mirror, his face calm but his eyes sharp. “You can’t smoke in here,” he said evenly.
One of the boys snorted, stepping forward. “And who’s gonna stop us? You?”
The others chuckled low, muttering curses under their breath. The tallest cracked his knuckles deliberately, his shadow falling across the sink beside Nicholas. “Let’s teach the new kid something about respect.”
He swung his fist.
It never landed.
Nicholas’s hand shot up, palm closing around the boy’s wrist with precise timing. The grip was strong, unyielding. In one fluid movement, he twisted it sharply, the sudden torque forcing the boy sideways until his shoulder nearly hit the sink.
“Argh—!” the boy yelped, knees buckling from the pain.
The others tensed. One stepped forward, his own fist curling, but before he could make contact, a voice cut through the smoke and tension — sharp, demanding.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
All heads turned.
Ava stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. Her brows were drawn tight, eyes narrowing as they swept over the scene — the smoke, the boy half-doubled over in pain, Nicholas standing still with his grip locked.
“This is the men’s bathroom!” one of them blurted, half defensive, half startled.
Her glare was ice-cold. It made even the boldest of them take an instinctive step back. Without breaking eye contact, she strode in, the soles of her shoes clicking sharply against the tiles.
She stopped in front of Nicholas, her hand closing around his wrist. “Let’s go,” she said, voice low but firm.
Nicholas didn’t argue. He let her pull him toward the door, his expression unreadable, eyes steady on hers for a fleeting second before they stepped out.
The heavy door swung shut behind them with a metallic slam, the sound bouncing off the empty hallway walls. Ava didn’t release him until they were halfway down the corridor, the faint scent of chalk dust and cigarette smoke lingering between them.They stopped halfway up the main staircase, the echo of their footsteps dying into the vast stillness above. Afternoon light streamed in through the towering windows, casting golden bars across the steps. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, catching the light like slow-falling sparks.
Ava’s hand slipped from his wrist, but her gaze held firm. “Second day at this school,” she said, voice steady but edged, “and you’re already picking fights?”
Nicholas stood motionless, his posture loose but unreadable, eyes fixed on her without giving anything away.
She crossed her arms, her blazer tightening across her shoulders. “Don’t get involved with the bullies. Stay out of it, and you’ll be fine. What would’ve happened if I wasn’t there at the right time? They would’ve beaten you into a pulp.”
Still, no reaction.
“I’m serious,” she continued, leaning in slightly. “Stick with me so no one can—”
“I don’t need a saviour, Ava,” Nicholas cut in. His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was a firmness in it, a quiet finality that left no room for argument. “I can manage.”
For a beat, neither moved. The light shifted, glinting against the black frames of his glasses, and in that moment, Ava caught the faintest flicker in his eyes — something she couldn’t quite read, but it was there.
Then he turned, the motion fluid and unhurried. His dark hair caught the sunlight in soft glints as he climbed the remaining stairs. The corner swallowed him whole, the sound of his footsteps fading until there was only silence.
Ava stayed rooted on the step, her eyes still fixed on where he had been. A slow scoff escaped her lips, but it wasn’t dismissive — it was tinged with something else.
“There’s a lot more to him than he shows,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her lips curled faintly, as if the thought both annoyed and intrigued her. “He’s… mysterious.”
She started walking again, her steps slower now, each one pulling her further into a maze of questions she hadn’t been expecting to ask.