I was the kind of kid teachers warned others about—quietly, behind closed doors. Not because I was loud or violent, but because I knew how to humiliate without getting my hands dirty.

My name is Logan Pierce.
Only child. Private school. A house so large it felt hollow even when the lights were on.

My father worked as a senior communications consultant for national campaigns—always on TV, always talking about “values” and “opportunity.” My mother ran a chain of high-end wellness retreats. Everything in our world looked calm, clean, and successful from the outside.

Inside, it was just quiet. Heavy, polished quiet.

I had everything a sixteen-year-old could want: expensive sneakers, the newest phone, clothes that arrived still wrapped in tissue paper, a credit card that worked every time without questions.

What I didn’t have was attention.

And like many boys who feel invisible at home, I learned how to feel powerful somewhere else.

Power at School Came from Fear

At school, power wasn’t about grades or sports. It was about who controlled the room.

I did.

People moved when I walked by. Teachers pretended not to see certain things. Laughing followed me—not because I was funny, but because laughing felt safer than silence.

And like every coward with power, I needed someone smaller to stand on.

That someone was Evan Brooks.

The Boy Everyone Looked Past

Evan sat in the back row. Always.
Wore uniforms that had clearly lived another life before him. Sleeves a bit too short. Shoes cleaned carefully, but never new.

He walked like he was apologizing for existing.

Every day, he carried his lunch in the same way: a thin brown paper bag, folded twice at the top, stained with oil marks from simple food. He held it like something fragile.

To me, he looked like an easy target.