Page 12 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

A well-dressed blonde in an expensive silk suit showed them out and the walking brick wall opened the car door for them.

A while later, the armoured car rolled to a stop, tyres crunching gravel like bones under boots.

Not a word was exchanged during the entire trip, ending in just a sharp tilt of the chin in way of goodbye.

Zel climbed out first, boots hitting the tarmac with a dull thud.

The battered Camaro was waiting like a stray mongrel that’d seen one too many fights—scraped along the side, bonnet dented from that last cock-up in Salford.

Thane dropped into the passenger seat, silent as ever, and Lirian slid into the back, eyes flicking between them.

No one spoke as the air hung thick with the storm to come.

Then Lirian huffed. “Good job Maro didn’t come. He’d have lost his fuckin’ rag.”

Zel grunted—the sound was agreement enough in Zel-speak.

Everyone knew this particular job would’ve sent Maro nuclear. He had many triggers, but this topped the list. And when he snapped, no one was safe.

Thane broke the silence. “We need to plan this surgical-tight. One slip and it’s all gone to piss.”

His voice had that sharp edge he had developed over the years. The one that meant he’d be stewing on it until it was all mapped out in his head. Ever since the job came through, his brain had been spinning like a fuckin’ centrifuge—figuring risk factors, trails to be explored, breach points.

His tone made Lirian cast him a long look.

Thane was always the cold one, but he hadn’t heard that voice in a while, not since the house burned down and the world they knew crumbled to ash and bone.

Back when Dory vanished into the ash and Thane had folded into himself.

Locked doors he refused to open. Food he refused to eat.

No one was allowed to touch him. For weeks, he wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t shower.

He seemed to exist only in shadows and silence.

In those same weeks, Maro had bolted from foster care more times than they could count.

He’d leg it in the night and end up at one of their doors, soaked to the bone, fists clenched, eyes daring anyone to send him back.

Then the coppers and social workers would come and take him back after a scuffle, only for the cycle to repeat itself over and over again

Eventually, Zel put his foot down and told his dad he’d do a runner if they didn’t take Maro in.

The old man caved, muttering under his breath, and bought a cheap bunk bed from IKEA.

Maro took the top bunk with Zel below. That first night, both of them slept like they hadn’t in weeks.

Just breathing, deep and even as if their safety, bottled in the rhythm of a familiar breath.

Thane started coming round next, then Lirian. Sometimes they all crammed in. Four kids clinging to each other without a single touch.

It was rough back at school. No one said anything in the beginning, but they all knew—or they knew half the story and the rest was speculation.

Old friends turned into strangers. Some looked away when they accidentally met their gaze.

Others stared too long. But no one asked. No one knew what to say.

Then came Horace—the snivelling little gobshite with a mouth too big for his ratty head.

The canteen was loud, the way it always was during midday—metal cutlery clinking against plastic trays, bursts of laughter and raised voices bouncing off the tiled walls.

Lirian sat near the back, half-twisted in his seat, picking at his chips while scrolling through something on his cracked phone.

Maro was across from him, ketchup on his thumb, devouring chips like they might vanish if he blinked.

And then it happened…

“Oi, you bent little slag. Did ya like it up the arse, yeah? You beg for it like a dog?”

Horace’s voice cut through the din like nails on a chalkboard, loud and cruel. The boy was as high as a kite.

The room stilled like a slow, creeping frost as everyone realized what he had just said. It was like everyone was holding their collective breath. Lirian’s shoulders tensed and his jaw ticked, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t give Horace the satisfaction.

Maro, on the other hand, didn’t have that level of self-control.

One second, he was dipping another chip; the next, his tray clattered to the floor, food forgotten.

He cleared the table before anyone could blink.

By the time Horace realised what was happening, Maro was on him with murder in his eyes. One boot on the bench, both fists in motion. The first punch cracked across Horace’s cheek, and the second drove him backward into the vending machine, ribs rattling against the steel.

There was shouting as chairs scraped against the laminate floor. Someone yelled for the teachers. But Maro wasn’t hearing any of it.

He grabbed Horace by the collar, shoved him against the vending unit again, cracking the glass. His voice, when it came, was low, dangerous. “Say that again. Say it again, you festering sack of sewer rot.”

Just for good measure, he punched the little twat like he was trying to rearrange his ancestry. Noone dared to get close. Maro was a big lad for his age and everyone knew he had an anger management problem.

Horace tried to spit something out—maybe a protest, maybe a tooth—but all that came was a garbled wheeze and a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Lirian was on his feet now, not touching Maro, just cautiously watching

“Get him off!” someone shrieked.

“Stop it, you daft bastard! You’ll kill him!” Zel shouted as he came charging in.

A guard shoved into the crowd surrounding the three boys. This was not the first fight the school had seen. Then another guard jumped into the fray. Maro didn’t fight them; he let them haul him back, breathing hard, a red mist still clinging to his eyes like warpaint.

As they dragged him away, he twisted his head, eyes locking with Lirian’s. “Next time,” he growled, “I’ll tear his jaw clean off.”

Lirian gave him a slow nod, a quiet, unspoken thank-you in the storm’s wake.