Chapter 12: The S of Suffering
The cafeteria smelled like warm bread, synthetic spices, and cold hierarchy.
Zack stood in line, alone as usual, his tray trembling slightly in his hands — not from fear, but from the fatigue soaking deep into his bones. His back still ached from the 3km sprint, and his stomach was chewing on its own emptiness.
When it was finally his turn at the counter, the lunch lady didn't even look at him. She simply reached behind and, with the same mechanical motion she used every day, dropped two thin slices of dry bread onto the tray. Then she pushed forward a disposable cup filled with lukewarm water — no ice, no smile, no eye contact.
That was the school's version of a free meal.
Just enough to survive. Not enough to forget.
No one else ever took it. Not a single other student in this entire building would dare touch the poor kid's rations — not even for a joke. The free meal was radioactive. And Zack?
He was the walking fallout.
As he turned around with the tray in his hands, the whispers began to seep through the cracks in the room.
Like fog crawling through a broken window.
"...That guy again."
"Still eating the poor kid meal? Pathetic."
"Bro, how is he even still here?"
"I heard Miss Aimee got him in. Vice principal Aimee. Pity case."
"His sister begged, probably. Maybe even cried. Desperate people do desperate things."
"Don't sit near him, man. You might catch it."
"...Catch what?"
"Poverty."
Laughter followed that last line.
Sharp. Cold. Too loud to be private, too rehearsed to be innocent.
Zack didn't flinch.
He didn't roll his eyes.
Didn't even sigh.
He just kept walking, eyes scanning the room for a corner seat — preferably one with no witnesses. The tray felt heavier with every step, like it was absorbing the weight of the stares.
But before he could make it past the second row of tables, they stepped in his way.
Three boys.
Senior year students. Tall, built, dressed in custom-tailored uniforms that screamed inherited prestige. They blocked his path like a wall made of smug.
The one in front had a crooked grin and eyes that enjoyed seeing smaller flames flicker.
He looked Zack up and down, then said — voice slow and loud enough for everyone nearby to hear:
"English... man. English is cruel."
Zack blinked.
The guy didn't wait for a response. He turned to his two companions, raising his hands like a preacher addressing a flock.
"Listen to this, alright? I suffer. You suffer. He suffers. So we all suffer, yeah?"
They chuckled.
He leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "But get this. Three hundred and forty-five people suffered. And this guy? He still suffers."
Zack didn't move.
The student kept going, theatrically now — arms flailing, voice rising with exaggerated emphasis.
"Look at the 'S', man! How much can this motherfucker suffer, huh? How much S can he carry before the English language just breaks?!"
The cafeteria burst into laughter.
Tables shook with it.
Zack stood frozen, the tray in his hands like a shield with no defense stat. Crumbs trembled on the bread. The cup rippled slightly, like a sensor catching tremors.
He thought of a thousand things to say.
And said none of them.
He just stared at the lead boy. Not with anger. Not even hatred.
Just that cold, quiet look someone gives when they're watching a storm from behind a glass window. Drenched in silence. Drenched in memories.
A moment passed.
Then Zack quietly stepped to the side… and kept walking.
The laughter didn't stop. It just followed him — like a leash around his ankle, dragging behind him across the floor.
But Zack Tennyson didn't stop either.
Because he knew something they didn't.
This was still Day One of the daily quest.
And he only had two tasks left.
💞
They had names.
Jace Pollard.
Moses Rad.
Thoe Rolands.
To most people at school, those names meant nothing more than loud voices, easy laughter, and the kind of confidence that came from knowing no one would ever question your place at the top.
But to Zack Tennyson, those names were a sentence carved into his ribs. He'd known them since the first year he set foot in this school. And they'd been there since day one — always watching, always circling, always waiting for when the walls were lowest.
Jace, the loudest of the trio, was the one who'd made the joke about suffering. Always the showman. Always the one who treated every moment like a stage he was born to own. His tongue was a blade dipped in cruelty, and today, he'd used it like a maestro with a violin.
Zack had tried to ignore them. He really had.
He tightened his grip on the tray and adjusted course, aiming for the back wall where the least number of eyes would find him. All he needed was a seat, a few seconds, and the strength to chew on shame like it was food.
But Moses Rad had other plans.
He stepped forward suddenly — tall, broad, and dead behind the eyes — and shoved Zack with the kind of casual aggression that made it clear he'd done this a hundred times before.
The tray flew.
Bread hit the floor.
The cup rolled.
Water spread like a cold stain across the cafeteria tiles, dragging crumbs with it like drowned corpses.
Zack stood still. Staring down. Not blinking.
A single breath pushed past his lips. Then another.
He didn't move to pick anything up. Didn't protest. Didn't scream.
Because he knew.
The school wouldn't give him another meal.
That was it. That was all he got.
His only meal for the day — gone.
And the worst part wasn't the hunger gnawing in his gut. It wasn't the ache in his bones or the rage flooding through his veins. It was that stupid little voice inside his head that kept whispering:
You should be used to this by now.
The three of them laughed again.
Thoe, always the follower, leaned against a nearby table and pointed at the puddle on the floor like he was seeing art. "Look at that. Even his bread wants to run away."
Jace cracked his neck and patted Moses on the back like a proud coach. "Man, English really is cruel. I suffer, you suffer, he suffers. But Zack? He suffers even when he's not supposed to."
They didn't wait for a comeback.
They never did.
Because Zack never gave them one.
The three boys turned and walked off, their laughter trailing behind them like oil smoke — thick, staining, impossible to scrub out.
Zack stood there for a moment longer, staring at the ruined meal.
Then, slowly, he crouched.
Not to pick it up.
Just to look.
The bread was soaked. Torn. A corner had been stepped on by someone's shoe. The water was already being avoided like a biohazard. Students around him had gone back to their own lives, their own laughter, their own untouched plates.
Zack exhaled through his nose, straightened, and turned away from the mess.
He didn't feel hungry anymore.
Just tired.
No — emptied.
A hollow weight pressed against his ribs. Not pain. Not anger. Just… the familiar.
A system notification pinged in his mind, cold and untimely:
[You have not completed today's Situp Challenge. Remaining: 100 Situps before 12:00AM.]
He didn't laugh.
But if someone had looked close enough, they might've seen something flicker behind his eyes. Something dark. Something just waiting for the wrong switch to flip.
Zack walked out of the cafeteria without another word.
Zack Tennyson stood alone at the far end of the training yard, his shoes scraping weakly against the concrete as he slowly knelt to the ground.
The sun was cruel today—hot, white, and high—burning through the holes in the school's cracked ceiling sheets and falling in jagged beams across the yard like punishment. Laughter echoed from the far side of the gym hall, where students gathered in loose groups, messing around or pretending to warm up for the sparring drills to come.
No one noticed him.
Or rather… they noticed, and just didn't care.
A few of them whispered. Others chuckled, not even trying to hide it. To them, he was less than a joke — he was just background noise. A walking punchline in stained shoes.
Zack's arms trembled slightly as he pressed his palms to the ground.
Push-up number one.
His face tightened.
Push-up number two.
It was pathetic, really. His arms already ached, chest barely moving off the floor, body soaked in sweat even though he'd only just begun. It wasn't just heat — it was the shame. It clung to him like damp clothes that would never dry.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The system was already watching.
[Progress: 2/100 Pushups Completed.]