damn all of them.

The nurse examined the scar on the right eyebrow; the eye was starting to swell. She knew that even if Charles caused a scandal, they had to take the boy to the hospital, risking him losing an eye. The blow was extremely hard.

"Kid, who hit you like this?" Nurse Rose asked.

"Everyone hates me, nurse. Teachers, correctional facility members—they blame me for things I didn't do, for things I did, and, on top of that, they play nasty pranks on me," said Billy.

"Come on, I'll call the hospital for a check-up. They'll have to stitch up that eyebrow," said the nurse.

"Thanks, teacher. Is there anything for the pain? I feel like I'm falling apart," said Billy.

"Nothing. Let's hope the hospital can give you a more essential diagnosis. I only handle some falls, scrapes, headaches, compresses, but I can't perform a healing process," said Rose.

"Can you call my mom? I need to talk to her," requested Billy.

"I can't do that, kid. But I'll send a report; the secretary will take care of giving her the news," said Nurse Rose.

"Doctor, please, tell her it's the second time they've sent me to the hospital. The superintendent wants to blame me and extend my time in prison. Tell her the institution's superintendent is corrupt. I just want her to know. Rest assured they'll blame me for this fight," said Billy.

The surprise came when Rico himself took Billy to the hospital. That day, he missed the music class in a regrettable attempt. The white walls, the bruises on his ribs, the bumps on his feet, the cut on his eyebrow, the swollen nose, and the hospital report once again gave him a bed; for a day, he slept in the hospital like never before.

"Kid, it's time to wake up," said Walter, waking him up.

"You have to go back," continued Walter, this time much gentler. Things were getting out of control, and there was a strong reprimand from the head of guards, James Johnson, regarding the report Spencer made upon learning of Billy's situation and the fact that he was accused of hitting Pablo. Spencer, a strict follower of rules, followed the protocols: three notes, one to the superintendent, one to coordination, and another to the head of guards. He even waited for the coordinator to scan the document and send it to the central by scanner.

"Yes, sir, but they'll give me antibiotics. I have a crack in my left rib," said Billy, in pain. The sorry state of the child marked a sense of guilt for how the situation was being handled.

Rose never called the mother, and Agustina didn't find out that her son was again in the hospital until two days later in a note sent by the hospital itself, about the boy's admission.

"Well," said Walter, going down to ask about the boy's condition. Billy felt like laughing at Walter's face, a middle-class man just following orders, unfortunately in the hands of corrupt people.

He walked to the third floor; there was old Joseph, reading the morning newspaper.

"Old man," said Billy. A woman was next to him.

"Billy, kid, stop getting into fights. Now it's the eye," said Joseph, more cheerful than reproachful, with a much more friendly attitude than punishing.

"Well, I have a problem with the Alcanina gang and the Black gang. Everyone wants to end this face. It came cheap," said Billy.

"This is my daughter. She's come to visit me—quite a surprise. I thought they'd pick me up in a box. The last time they visited was for a heart attack," said Joseph, totally offended, throwing daggers at his daughter, who only had a serious look.

"Well, old man, I'd tell you to go to hell, but how can I refuse when you're my patron?" said Billy, invading Joseph's room. Now, another old man was in the bed in front of them; he was asleep.

"Did you record the demo?" asked Joseph.

"We did it two weeks ago; it's incredible. I even had time to record a song. This time I tried to rhyme a bit more with rap, fast rock to focus on different styles, but I have a feeling I'll do another rock song sooner or later," said Billy.

"Fantastic. More formally, my daughter Edith and my old roommate. This kid promised to sing at my funeral," said Joseph, with his characteristic dark humor.

"Dad!" exclaimed Edith.

"It's natural, dear, even if it's later, it'll be more valuable. If I die, let it be with the chorus of the next Elvis Presley, sweetheart," said Joseph, raising his eyebrow and looking at Billy. It was known that the promise was a binding pact between two men, a repayment. It was sealed in something more than paper, in blood.

"I'll do it. I'll sing the songs we agreed on and some of my own, even if I have to turn down the president, I won't miss this commitment," said Billy.

"See, there's no need to worry. I already have everything prepared. Give the kid one of those roast beef sandwiches you brought me," said Joseph.

Edith could only roll her eyes, but she handed Billy a large sandwich with roast beef, BBQ sauce, lettuce, tomato, and melted cheese. Old Joseph, just by looking at it, almost vomited. His appetite had changed after chemotherapy, and he could only ingest boiled chicken without sauce or white rice with a few seasonings, fruit, and water. Meat caused him severe stomach pain that made him vomit.

"It's delicious, old man," said Billy, savoring every bite of the sandwich.

"Ha, that garbage. The only seasoned food I can eat is your mom's, blessed woman who cooks like the gods," said Joseph.

"You're right. Mom is the best cook there is," said Billy, looking down. He was thinking about his mother. At first, he didn't know how to treat her, but now she was his only strength. He cradled all his sorrows in her warmth and love. For Billy, who had lost that sense of affection, so forgotten by many people, his mother's warmth and love were like heaven on earth.

Walter appeared in the hallway, with renewed anger at losing Billy and walking through the entire hospital. "Kid, you'll have X-rays in an hour," grabbing Billy by the arm.

"I have to go," said Billy, walking with the strong grip that held him. He didn't have time to say goodbye to the old man or his daughter. Walter pushed him onto his bed and threatened that he shouldn't leave the room under any circumstances.

"I understand," said Billy.

"Well, I'll tell you again, punk, you're a criminal, and you're treated as such," said Walter, sitting in a chair with a magazine in his hand, ignoring Billy's rebellious eyes that followed him. A superstar doesn't care about others' opinions, Billy thought.

"Sing," Billy heard in his ears. "Sing... let it out. Sing."

…

I wake up to the sounds of the silence that allows

For my mind to run around, with my ear up to the ground

I'm searching to behold the stories that are told

When my back is to the world that was smiling when I turned

Tell you: You're the greatest

But once you turn, they hate us.

Billy's singing hit Walter like a punch, leaving him dumbfounded with the magazine still in his hands. There was a slight involuntary movement that almost made him fall off the chair. Billy heard the background beat, imagining if Connor could handle a drum set of that style. The chorus and adjustments were in his head as if it were a concert.

Oh, the misery

Everybody wants to be my enemy

Spare the sympathy

Everybody wants to be my enemy-y-y-y-y

(Look out for yourself)

My enemy-y-y-y-y

(Look out for yourself)

But I'm ready

Your words up on the wall as you prayed for my fall

And the laughter in thе halls

And the names that I've been called

I stack it in my mind and I'm waiting for the time

When I show you what it's like to be words spit in a mic.

Billy closed his eyes, allowing the music to resonate with his soul. The spitting, the jokes, the reproaches, the blows—he felt on the verge of exploding. He wanted to hate everyone, recalling the interrogation that aimed to sink him, blame him, and his teacher spewing insults into his ears, making him feel inadequate. Like a fool, unable to decide his fate, drowned and trapped in darkness.

He opened his eyes, and for some reason, Walter saw them as red, as if he were a demon. Billy found in Walter a canvas to express his demons, and he directed his singing at the security guard just a few meters away, so confidently, hating him with all his heart. Billy didn't know when, but the color of his voice began to rise in octaves with each phrase uttered.

By the end of the "mic," his voice was so loud that even the rooms next door could hear it.

But suddenly, he stopped, softer, fresher, and started rapping, with the same strength he had when recording the demo. Even the nurse heard the rap from the young man who kept staring at Walter, with sparkling red eyes. The power to convey emotions through his songs was no joke. Billy didn't know, and no one did, but he had already transported four people to his ethereal world with his rebellious and serene songs.

Walter watched as the small room became darker, and Billy's red eyes shone more brightly. For the devout Walter, he saw the demon coming to punish him.

Uh, look, okay

I'm hoping that somebody prays for me

I'm praying that somebody hopes for me

I'm staying where nobody 'posed to be

P-p-posted, being a wreck of emotions

Ready to go whenever just let me know

The road is long so put the pedal on the floor

The enemy's on my trail, and my energy is unavailable

I'ma tell 'em:

They wanna plot my trot to the top

I've been outta shape, thinking out of the box I'm an astronaut

I blasted off the planet rock to cause catastrophe

And it matters more because I had it not

Had I thought about wreaking havoc on an opposition

Kinda shockin' they wanted a static with precision I'm an automatic quarterback

I ain't talking sacking, pack it, pack it up, I don't panic

Batter, batter up, who is the worst?

It doesn't matter 'cause we at the ya throat

Billy took a breath and ignored Walter's panic. That sigh allowed Walter to breathe, something he had been holding for a minute since Billy opened his eyes, leaving his hands in awe, feeling even his peculiar blood.

Like a puppet held by strings, Billy moved his body and opened his eyes again. This time, they were a bright, strong, and ominous yellow. The way he looked at Walter left him crushed in a haunting silence.

Only to be resumed by the chorus, with power in his unhealthy lungs.

Everybody wants to be my enemy

Spare the sympathy

Everybody wants to be my enemy

Oh, the misery

Everybody wants to be my enemy

Spare the sympathy

Everybody wants to be my enemy

…

The room fell silent. For others, it was just a good song, but for Walter, it was like an explosion of feelings that he had missed. In five seconds, he recalled the last five years of his life when Billy stopped seeing him. Reality hit him like a falling rocket, exploding.

"What do you say, a good song?" Billy asked Walter with a smile—the devil's smile, thought Walter—as he nodded, eager to leave the room immediately.

...