Guard Me, Angel

CHAPTER 1

THE bruise along Zathura's ribs throbbed with every breath, a souvenir from last night's underground match. She shifted in her desk chair, trying to find a position that didn't feel like knives between her bones. Lincoln High's fluorescent lights made everything look sickly yellow, including her reflection in the grimy windows.

Focus, she told herself, the way Master Feng had taught her. Pain is temporary. Discipline is forever.

"Good morning, class." Mrs. Henderson walked in carrying ancient books, her tired eyes scanning the room. "After today's lecture, we'll be having a pop quiz."

The collective groan made Zathura wince—not from sympathy, but because it amplified her 3 AM headache.

"Richmond, feet off the table. Luce, read the first chapter, and Zathura..." Mrs. Henderson's gaze landed on the boxing glove in her hands. "Please focus."

Zathura met her stare without blinking, then set the glove on her desk but kept her fingers wrapped around the worn leather. It grounded her like other kids' security blankets.

Whispers rippled through the classroom like poison.

"She thinks she's hot s**t. I expect nothing less from an orphaned emo freak."

Carrie Morris. Of course.

Zathura didn't turn around. She'd learned that acknowledging Carrie was like feeding a stray cat—do it once, and it never leaves. Instead, she counted breaths the way Master Feng taught her.

"What kind of freak brings boxing equipment to English class? Planning to beat up some books, psycho?"

The laughter felt like acid on Zathura's skin. She could picture Carrie perfectly—blonde hair that cost more than rent, designer clothes screaming daddy's money, that practiced smile that fooled teachers but never her.

"Can't you just not talk to me?" Zathura asked, finally turning. Her voice came out flat. "What do you get from it anyway?"

Carrie's eyes widened in mock innocence. "I never mentioned names. I was referring to a certain monster in our class. You're the one with the guilty conscience."

Monster. The word hit different than usual insults—specific, venomous. Someone had been talking.

"Really?" Zathura raised an eyebrow, knowing she was walking into the trap. "And who might that monster be?"

"You, of course!" Carrie exclaimed loud enough for everyone to hear.

Laughter exploded around Zathura. Even kids who usually ignored her were smirking, eyes bright with cruel joy.

She turned back to the board, jaw clenched. You should know better. But some part of her kept hoping this time would be different. This time, she wouldn't be the freak who didn't belong anywhere.

She hated that part of herself more than she hated Carrie.

"Appreciate the compliment, Sensei," Zathura said without looking back.

Silence. Even Mrs. Henderson stopped shuffling papers.

Zathura felt Carrie's shock radiating like heat. She'd expected tears or anger, not gratitude.

"Well," Mrs. Henderson slammed her hand on the desk. "Can we proceed with the quiz now?"

The final bell couldn't ring soon enough. Zathura was shoving books into her backpack when Carrie's voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey, b***h!"

Zathura closed her eyes, summoning patience she didn't have. When she turned, Carrie strutted toward her in expensive heels, her usual entourage trailing behind—three nameless girls and Richmond Hayes, the quarterback who'd broken her heart freshman year with a cruel prank.

The memory burned. Richmond asking her to homecoming in front of half the school, her believing someone might actually want her there, only to discover it was all a bet. How much money to get the freak in a dress?

She'd learned a lot about trust that night.

"What now, Carrie?" Zathura hefted her backpack, ignoring how the strap pressed her bruised ribs.

"Whoa, take it easy, girl." Carrie invaded her personal space, perfume cloying. "That's a good girl."

The condescending tone made something dark unfurl in Zathura's chest. Her hands curled into fists, muscle memory taking over.

Control, Master Feng's voice whispered. A true fighter chooses when to fight.

"I don't want to start anything," Zathura forced her voice. "Just stay out of my life ."

Carrie's laugh could cut glass. "You think you have a life? Look, everyone! Little Zathura thinks she has a life!"

Her posse giggled while other students stopped to watch. Nothing drew crowds like promised violence.

"What kind of dumb parent names their kid that anyway?" Carrie stepped closer, then tangled her manicured fingers in Zathura's hair and yanked hard.

Pain shot through her scalp, but it wasn't the physical hurt that made her snap. It was the casual cruelty, the assumption that Carrie could touch her like she owned her. Like she was nothing.

The world narrowed.

Zathura drove her elbow toward Carrie's throat with surgical precision—hard enough to drop her, controlled enough not to crush her windpipe. Years of training made it smooth and effortless.

Carrie hit the ground with a satisfying thud, her designer skirt riding up as she clawed at her neck, making dramatic choking sounds. Her perfect hair was a mess, lipstick smeared.

She looked mortal for the first time.

"You crazy b***h!" Carrie wheezed, grabbing for Zathura's ankle. "My father owns this school!"

Zathura stepped back as students pulled out phones, recording everything.

"Ms. Feng!" Mrs. Henderson pushed through the crowd, face flushed. Mr. Whitmore, the vice principal, followed, looking miserable.

"My office. Now," he said grimly.

Principal Whitmore's office smelled like expensive cologne and disappointment. Zathura sat across from his mahogany desk, studying wall photos of him with politicians, all wearing the same practiced lying smiles.

"Our school doesn't condone violence, Ms. Feng." He didn't look up from his papers. "The Morris family has been generous benefactors. They've funded our gymnasium, computer lab, and scholarship program."

Zathura waited for the part where any of that mattered to his daughter, assaulting her first.

"Ms. Morris claims you attacked without provocation."

"She grabbed my hair."

"According to witnesses, you were arguing."

"According to witnesses, she put her hands on me first."

Whitmore leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You have quite a reputation. Students are intimidated by you. Your association with that martial arts instructor—"

"Master Feng is my legal guardian."

"Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "There have been rumors about your living situation. How you support yourself? Some find that... concerning."

Heat flooded Zathura's face. The rumors started in her first week when Master Feng picked her up after detention. Someone saw an older Asian man with a teenage girl and jumped to the worst conclusion. Now she was everything from a kept woman to a Yakuza member.

"Those rumors are lies."

"Perhaps. But perception is reality in high school." His smile was oily. "I strongly suggest you avoid further conflicts with Ms. Morris. Clear?"

Zathura stood slowly, letting him see exactly what she thought. "Crystal."

His smile faltered as she walked to the door.

"Ms. Feng? Lincoln High has been accommodating regarding your... unique circumstances. It would be unfortunate if that ended."

Zathura didn't respond.

The parking lot was mostly empty when she reached her beat-up Honda. Across the lot, Carrie sobbed dramatically into Richmond's letterman jacket while friends offered sympathy.

Richmond caught her eye and smirked—the same expression from homecoming night.

Zathura slammed her door and started the engine. As she backed out, something flickered in her peripheral vision. She glanced at the rear-view mirror and froze.

For just a second, her eyes had flashed gold.

Not reflected light or sun tricks. Gold. Bright, molten, impossible.

She blinked hard. Normal brown eyes stared back, tired and unremarkable.

What the hell?

She sat there, engine running, staring at her reflection. Master Feng said fighting could unlock hidden potential—discipline, focus, inner strength. But he'd never mentioned glowing eyes.

She pulled out and headed home, trying to shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The girl who'd entered Lincoln High this morning wasn't quite the same one driving away.

Beyond her, on the horizon, storm clouds gathered.