The rain started just after midnight.
Azril sat by the small window of his room, the pale moonlight slicing through broken clouds, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip against the roof.
It wasn't the storm outside that kept him awake.
It was the one gathering inside him.
Every word, every glance, every silent judgment at school — they stacked up, heavy like wet stones on his chest.
He breathed in deeply, letting the cool night air steady his heartbeat.
Some battles you fought with your fists.
Others — the harder ones — you fought with yourself.
Morning came heavy with mist.
At school, the usual routine dragged on: announcements, lessons, tired laughter echoing down the halls.
But there was something different today.
Something wrong.
Azril could feel it the moment he stepped through the gate.
Eyes watching from corners.
Whispers sharper than usual.
A tension thick enough to taste.
Iman found him near the stairwell between classes, arms crossed, face tight.
"You heard?" she asked quietly.
Azril shook his head.
She glanced around, lowered her voice further.
"They're planning something. Hafiz and his gang."
Azril didn't react — not outwardly.
But inside, a cold knot twisted tighter.
"What kind of something?" he asked.
Iman hesitated.
"Something worse than notes in lockers."
Azril closed his eyes briefly.
Of course they wouldn't stop.
Bullies never did — not unless you made them.
Not unless you changed the rules of the game.
The warning came late in the afternoon.
A junior student — barely twelve — slipped him a folded piece of paper near the canteen.
No words.
Just a shaky handoff and a look of pure fear.
Azril opened it with steady fingers.
In messy handwriting: "Field. After school. Bring no one."
A trap.
Obvious as daylight.
He crumpled the paper in his fist, feeling the roughness bite into his skin.
He could ignore it.
Walk away.
Tell a teacher.
Report it.
Do the smart thing.
But deep inside, a voice rose — calm, quiet, unshakable.
Some storms you don't run from.
Some storms you walk straight into.
The final bell rang, long and hollow.
Azril moved through the emptying halls like a shadow, alone, carrying nothing but the clothes on his back and a prayer under his breath.
Iman spotted him near the gate.
She frowned, sensing it immediately.
"You're going," she said.
Azril just nodded.
Iman grabbed his wrist, tight.
"Don't be stupid. You know it's a setup."
"I know," he said.
"Then why?"
Azril looked at her, and for a moment, the weight he carried was plain in his eyes.
"Because if I run now," he said quietly, "they'll keep chasing."
Iman let go slowly, her hand falling to her side.
"Be careful," she said, voice tight.
Azril smiled faintly.
"I always am."
The field stretched out before him — wide, abandoned, the sky bruised with oncoming storm clouds.
Hafiz and five others waited near the far goalpost, their shapes dark against the dying light.
Azril walked toward them without hesitation, every step steady, deliberate.
No fear.
No anger.
Only resolve.
Hafiz stepped forward, cocky and grinning.
"Thought you'd chicken out," he said.
Azril said nothing.
Words were useless now.
Hafiz flicked his chin toward the others.
"Teach him a lesson."
They moved in, circling.
Azril closed his eyes briefly, feeling the earth under his feet, the rain starting to kiss his skin.
When he opened them again, something inside him — old, fierce, and quiet — stood tall.
They could throw fists.
They could throw kicks.
But they would never break him.
Because Azril bin Arif wasn't just a boy with a strong heart.
He was a storm forged from every blow that ever tried to bury him.
And tonight —
he wouldn't fight to win.
He would fight to end it.
[End of Chapter 8]