THE PERSON THEY CAN'T BUY

At the University of Westford, laughter and screams echoed through the hallways like it was a normal Tuesday. Because for them, it was. Three rich kids stood in the center of it all, blocking the corridor. Students walked around them, heads down, pretending they didn’t see the blood on Charlie’s knuckles. Their uniforms were spotless. Pressed. Expensive. Their smiles were wider. "Hey, Charlie, you went too hard on him this time," Jake said with a wide grin. He nudged Charlie with his elbow, like they were sharing an inside joke. "The guy wasn’t even fighting back anymore." Charlie just shrugged. He was still bouncing on his feet, adrenaline high, like he’d just won a game. "He deserved it," he said simply. "He looked at me wrong." Lucien didn’t even look up from his phone. He tapped the screen, sighed, then checked his Rolex. "It’s fine," he said, voice bored. "Dad’s lawyer is already outside. Money will cover it." Charlie’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "See? Lucien agrees with me!" He started dancing in the middle of the hallway, humming some pop song. "Told you it’s fine, Jake!" Jake laughed. Real, genuine laughter. He threw an arm around Charlie’s shoulders. "You’re insane, bro." Outside the building, an ambulance wailed. The sound cut through their laughter for exactly three seconds. Nobody moved. Nobody ran. Nobody cried. Teachers turned away. Students scrolled on their phones harder. Because this was their seventh. Seven. Seven students who chose death over living one more day with them. Seven families who were handed checks before they were handed death certificates. Six names already buried. Not just in the ground, but in paperwork. Non-disclosure agreements thicker than textbooks. Bank transfers that could buy a house. Gag orders signed in grief. Three more still breathing in St. Luke’s Medical Center. Ward C. Private rooms. 24/7 nurses paid by Sinclair Holdings. Not to heal them. To watch them. To make sure they don’t talk when they wake up. As the paramedics rolled the stretcher past them. A white sheet covered the body, but a single sneaker hung off the edge. Blue. Size 9. The lace was still untied. Jake stared at it for half a second. Then he smirked. "Same shoes as last week’s guy." "They all shop at the same cheap mall," Lucien muttered. Finally, he slipped his phone into his pocket. "Predictable." Charlie stopped dancing. He tilted his head, studying the sneaker like it was a painting in a museum. "You think they talk to each other? Like, before they..." He made a vague gesture with his hand. A falling motion. "Who cares," Jake said, already bored. He checked his own reflection in a classroom window. Fixed his hair. "He was weak anyway." The ambulance doors slammed shut. The siren didn’t turn on. There was no rush. Not for the seventh one. From the second floor, Dean Whitaker watched behind his office blinds. He didn’t move. He didn’t call the police. He just picked up his phone and dialed one number. "Mr. Sinclair? It happened again," he said quietly. "Yes, sir. The same three. We’ll need the usual paperwork... Yes. And the family’s contact details. We’ll send the check before sunset." He hung up. Then he opened his laptop and started typing the statement. He already had it saved as a template. [Student passed away due to personal reasons...] He just had to change the name. Again. Downstairs, the hallway was already filling up again. The bell rang. Students flooded out of classrooms, stepping around the spot where the body had been. There was a dark stain on the tile. Someone would mop it later. "Got chem next," Charlie announced, stretching his arms over his head. "You guys coming?" "Nah," Jake said. "I’m starving. Let’s go to the rooftop. I told the cafeteria to send up our lunch." Lucien was already walking. "Tell them to bring the good wine this time. The last one tasted like vinegar." They left. Just like that. Laughing. Talking about lunch. About wine. About chemistry homework. As if seven lives weren’t worth more than a missed meal. Behind them, a janitor in a faded blue uniform appeared with a mop and a bucket. He was old. His hands shook. He didn’t look at the three boys as they passed. He just started cleaning. He’d cleaned this same spot six times before. He knew the stain would come out. It always did. But the names? The names stayed under his tongue. He’d memorized all seven. He said them every night before he slept, like a prayer. Because someone had to remember. When the janitor was done, the tile was white again. Spotless. Like nothing ever happened. Like Westford was the safest school in the country. Like it was all just an accident. Then the school bell rang for the last period. And the Dean’s secretary walked past, reading from a clipboard. “Caleb Hayes, transferee. Report to the office. Monday, 8 AM.” The janitor’s mop clattered to the floor.