FIRE MAN

The laughter usually started before Jack even stepped through the doorway. It was the background static of his life, a rhythmic, predictable sound that he had learned to tune out years ago. A crumpled paper ball bounced off his shoulder, followed by another that landed with a soft, dismissive thud on his desk. Jack didn’t flinch. He didn’t offer a glare or a retort; he simply reached out, picked up the paper, and dropped it into the dustbin with the practiced, hollow movements of someone who had done this a thousand times. The class soon lost interest, satisfied that their target remained static and unbothered. Outside, slate-gray rain clouds drifted across the late afternoon sky, casting a gloomy pallor over the classroom. Inside, the air was thick with the hum of gossip and casual, aimless cruelty. Jack sat alone. He had become an expert at being invisible—a survival strategy honed through years of social exile. It wasn't that he was weak, or even afraid; he had simply calculated that the cost of fighting back was always higher than the cost of enduring. He lived his life in a carefully curated cycle of polite smiles and swallowed insults.