Sparky's POV

The recess bell echoes like a gunshot in my head.
When it fades, all that's left is the shuffle of shoes, the murmur of voices, the sound of metal cuffs as I'm led back into the courtroom.

The lights feel too bright.
The walls too close.
I wish the sedatives were stronger.

Dr. Saunders told me to breathe, to count, to remember that I'm safe — but there's no such thing as safe in a room full of people who lost everything because of you.

When I sit, I keep my eyes on the table. My lawyer, Mr. Sorensen, murmurs something about staying calm. I nod even though I can't hear him over the pounding in my chest.

The judge returns, papers in hand. "Court will resume. The defense may call its next witness."

Mr. Sorensen stands. "The defense calls Dr. Caleb Saunders."

Dr. Saunders walks up, every step deliberate. His voice, when he's sworn in, is the same one he's always used with me — even, steady, controlled.
He talks about the diagnosis. About my treatment. About the changes in my behavior since I was admitted.

The prosecutor interrupts him. "Doctor, are you saying the defendant didn't know what he was doing?"

Dr. Saunders's answer is quiet but firm. "I'm saying that his mind had fractured so severely that reality and delusion were indistinguishable. He believed he was defending his brother from a perceived threat. It doesn't make it right — but it makes it illness, not intent."

I stare at the table harder. My hands won't stop shaking.

Then they call Mrs. Katie Jackson.
She walks with her husband's help, still pale but standing straight.
Her voice breaks once — just once — when she says Ahri's name.

She talks about the students, about the chaos, about how fast it all happened.
She says I was "just a kid who lost control."
She says she wishes she'd seen the signs sooner.

I want to tell her it wasn't her fault.
That I was the one who ignored every warning.
That I saw myself cracking and didn't care until it was too late.

The prosecutor presses her. "Do you believe he deserves another chance?"

Katie looks over at me for the first time.
Her eyes are wet, her jaw tight.

"I believe no one deserves to die in chains," she says softly. "But I also believe choices have consequences. Forgiveness and punishment aren't the same thing."

Her words carve something deep inside me.
She leaves the stand without looking back.

Next comes Mr. Ryder Jackson. His left arm is still wrapped, healing from where the bullet went through.
He doesn't hesitate when asked if he remembers my face.
"Yes," he says. "I remember every second."

His voice is steady, but the anger in it is a quiet, patient kind — the kind that doesn't fade.
He talks about his students. About Rex, Ahri, the fear that spread like smoke.
He doesn't raise his voice once, but every word feels like a sentence I deserve.

When they ask what he thinks should happen to me, Ryder exhales through his nose. "I'm not a judge. I'm a teacher. My job's to believe kids can change — even when they don't deserve the chance. But that doesn't erase what they've done."

I don't know if that's mercy or a curse.

When he steps down, Dr. Saunders puts a hand on my shoulder — just a light touch. "You're doing okay," he whispers.

I want to believe him, but the walls feel like they're closing in. Every voice echoes. Every memory comes back sharper.

Flint's laughter.
The gun.
The screams.

I lower my head, and for a moment, I can't breathe.

The judge calls for a short break, but I stay seated. My cuffs clink when I move. Dr. Saunders asks if I need a moment, but I shake my head.
I need this. I deserve this.

Because whether they send me away forever or lock me behind hospital doors, the truth doesn't change —

I killed people.
And no amount of medication, forgiveness, or therapy will ever make that untrue.

The sound of my name hits harder than any sentence.

"The prosecution calls Sparky to the stand."

For a second, I don't move.
Then the guard at my side nods once, and I stand — legs trembling, the chain at my wrists whispering against the floor.

The courtroom feels smaller up here.
Every breath sounds like an accusation.
Every face feels like a memory I broke.

I take the oath. My voice cracks on the word truth.

The prosecutor — a tall woman with steel-gray eyes — doesn't waste time.
Her tone isn't cruel, but it's cold. Calculated.
She wants answers. And she already knows mine won't be enough.

"Sparky," she begins, "you've heard the testimony from multiple witnesses. You've heard about the lives you took and those you harmed. You've also heard from your doctor, who claims your illness impaired your judgment. Do you understand what you did?"

My mouth is dry. My voice is a whisper. "Yes."

"Then tell the court. In your own words."

I swallow hard. "I thought— I thought Chase was the one who killed my brother. I was sure of it. I kept seeing his face when I closed my eyes. I thought... I thought it was justice."

Her expression doesn't change. "And now?"

Now.

Now it's all noise. The kind that lives under your skin. The kind that keeps you up at night.

"Now I know I was wrong," I say quietly. "I didn't see the truth until it was too late."

She steps closer. "And you expect this court — these families — to believe you're sorry?"

"I don't expect anything," I whisper. "I just am."

There's a murmur through the room. The judge glares, and it fades.

The prosecutor studies me for a long moment. "Do you think saying sorry brings them back?"

My throat burns. "No. Nothing will."

"Then why say it?"

I look down at my hands, at the cuffs that bite into my skin. "Because they deserve to hear it. Even if it doesn't change anything."

For the first time, her expression softens — not pity, but understanding, maybe. Then it's gone.
"No further questions."

Mr. Sorensen doesn't cross-examine. He just shakes his head slightly, as if to say enough.

The judge calls for the jury to retire.
The shuffle of movement, the creak of chairs — it all blurs together.

When they leave, I'm escorted back to my seat. Dr. Saunders leans over quietly. "You did well, Sparky."

I almost laugh.
Well?

I can still feel the eyes on me — the families, the students, the empty seats where the ones I killed should have been.

The bailiff closes the door behind the jury. The courtroom settles into waiting.

Hours stretch thin.
Every tick of the clock feels like a countdown I don't deserve to survive.

I stare at the grain in the wooden table, tracing the lines with my eyes — anything to avoid the faces around me.

My stomach twists. My pulse won't slow.

Because whatever they decide — hospital, prison, guilty, insane — it won't change the truth.

I did this.
And now all I can do is wait to find out how the world plans to make me pay for it.

Time stops meaning anything once the jury leaves.

No voices. No movement. Just air so still it feels heavy enough to drown in.

They've taken my fate behind closed doors, and I'm left here — nothing but shaking hands and the echo of every word I wish I hadn't said.

Dr. Saunders sits beside me. He's not talking; just... being there.
The guard stands by the door.
The clock keeps ticking.

I can hear it too clearly.
Every second sounds like judgment.

"I shouldn't have said anything," I whisper.

Dr. Saunders looks up from the papers in his lap. "You told the truth, Sparky. That's what matters."

"I don't think it does."
My voice is shaking now. "They still hate me."

He sighs softly. "Hate is easier for them than grief. Don't confuse one for the other."

I shake my head. "You didn't see their faces. You didn't hear them cry."

He doesn't argue. He just studies me for a long time, like he's weighing something invisible.
Finally, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small plastic bottle the nurse gave him before we left the facility.

"Here."

He shakes two pills into his palm and passes me a water cup. "Your midday dose. It'll help steady the noise."

I stare at them for a moment. The tiny white shapes blur in my vision.

"I don't deserve to feel better," I say quietly.

"Maybe not yet," he answers. "But you still deserve to live."

The words hit harder than anything the prosecutor said.

My fingers tremble as I take the pills. He waits until I've swallowed them, his hand hovering just above mine — not touching, but near enough that I can feel the presence of someone who doesn't flinch when I breathe.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours.

I start to feel that familiar fog roll in — the sedative calm that dulls the edges of the world but never really silences it.

The whispers start anyway.

You killed them.
You failed Flint.
They'll never forgive you.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "They're back," I whisper.

Dr. Saunders leans closer. "What do they say?"

"They're mad. They won't stop."

He lowers his voice until it's barely above a whisper. "Listen to me. Look at me, Sparky."

I do. Slowly.

"They're echoes," he says gently. "Not ghosts. They sound like the people you lost, but they're your fear talking. Take a breath. In through your nose."

I follow his lead. It's shaky at first, but the air starts to come easier.

"Now out," he says, voice steady. "Good. Keep going."

I breathe again. Again. Until the whispers fade to a hum — not gone, but quieter.

The bailiff steps back into the room briefly. "Jury's still deliberating. It could be hours."

Dr. Saunders nods. "Understood."

When the door closes again, he looks at me. "We'll wait together."

I nod. My body's heavy, the medication dragging me under just enough that the panic loosens its hold.

"Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think they'll ever forgive me?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I think forgiveness takes time. And some people may never get there. But that doesn't mean you stop trying to deserve it."

I nod weakly, eyes falling shut.

The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is his voice — calm, solid, a tether in the noise.

"You're still here, Sparky. That means you still get a chance to be more than what you did."

And for the first time since that day, I believe him.

Even if it hurts.