Author Note: Hello! This is my first Gallagher Girls fanfic. I'm so excited to be writing this, especially in Zach's perspective. I had so many questions after finishing the series it felt right to make answers. How did Zach exactly feel as a student at Blackthorne? What did he go through? How did this school shape his personality? These questions haunt me even today. I'm so excited to be writing from Zach's POV, especially since we don't know much about him and his life. Thank you so much for reading. As always, reviews are always appreciated. I will be updating it as much as I can, until next time! :-)

P.S. This is rated M for future violence and the nature of events. As you may know, Blackthorne Institute is not a pleasant place, so I felt as the author I would try to do that justice in portraying it as the total opposite of Gallagher Academy. Expect weapons. Expect injuries. Expect blood. Expect violence. That is all I will say for now as I do not know the future of where this is heading. I do not recommend reading if you are queasy to violence. I am also not responsible if you read a spoiler and blame me because I got a lovely spoiler warning below.

**WARNING MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS READ AT OWN RISK**

DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE FINISHED CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO SPY

Blackthorne Boys

Chapter 1: Visitor

"You're back early."

I limp towards the bottom bunk bed, checking my watch. 0200 hours. Great, I still have a few hours to spare.

"I'm fine," I reply. I pull open my drawer, finding a familiar set of gray clothes. It's become a routine now. Put away my training clothes. Clean up. Make sure it's neat. Put on my sleeping clothes. Bed. My socks and shoes are neatly placed underneath my bed. No mistakes. Sleep, I tell myself. It sounds bizarre in my mind. I can sleep. It almost feels like a dream. And yet, I can't sleep. I never can. It feels endless. An hour later, I glance at Grant and Jonas. They're glaring at me.

"I'm flattered you're watching me sleep-"

"Zach, you have a giant cut on the side of your head," Grant points out angrily. "We're not blind you know." Figures.

Jonas sits there for a second, then reaches behind his bed after having an aha moment. He pulls out a bottle of water and cotton balls. Typical Jonas. Where he got the cotton balls I don't bother asking. "Do you mind?" He says, but it doesn't feel like a question. He's pissed. I'm surprised he can even see in the darkness, but I don't complain. The smell almost feels comforting.

"I told you, it's nothing. I tripped coming upstairs." Lie.

"You told us Foer was making you run laps," Grant snaps. He points at my head. "How do you explain the cuts from 2 days ago?"

"I wasn't completely lying-"

"What is he making you do?" Grant swears loudly. Jonas jumps in fright, but continues cleaning my head up. "I'm so sick of you lying behind our backs."

"You're not running laps, Zach. We've known for a while," Jonas adds.

I look away, refusing to answer them. They can't know.

"Look, I can't tell you."

"You think this is funny? That this is a game? You are such a stubborn, thick headed-"

Grant doesn't finish because a screaming alarm interrupts him.

We fumble in the darkness, grabbing our shoes and socks. We know drills like these. Jonas quickly stashes the first aid supplies back behind his bunk. Boys have started pouring out of the dormitories, sending students young and old into the frigid cold of October.

"This is not a drill," Kreminski barks. "OUTSIDE, NOW." He's fuming with rage, I never seen him this angry.

I can't help but roll my eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my head. I haven't slept enough the past few days. Not since Foer has started "extra training". I'm shocked at myself for wanting to sleep in my cold concrete of a bed. Jonas is already up and has his boots laced. He glances at me, but I can tell he's more nervous. Even in the darkness, I can see Grant hunched over at the window, peering outside to get a better window fogs up, but the steel bars made it hard to get a clear picture.

"What do you think is happening?" I say sleepily.

"I don't know, they're all lining up."

"It's probably nothing," Jonas says, reassuring us as always. "You sure you're okay Zach?"

"Yeah." Lie.

I wish I could agree with him.

Before we leave our rooms Grant shoots me another dirty look. "Don't think we're not going to discuss this." I give him a sheepish grin.

Everyone shuffles outside, without any reluctance or trouble. We're greeted instantly by a cloak of darkness, the only source of light coming from the nearby security tower. Sweeping for intruders. Or runaways. I try not to shiver so much, but wearing a tshirt in October isn't exactly comfy in weather conditions like now. The alarm continues to scream, then it suddenly goes off. Nothing. And it returns back to the way it was. Silent.

Kreminski steps out, a wicked glint in his eye. Behind him is a boy, not much older than 13. I recognize him right away. Straw colored hair in curls, it's Alex. Little Alex that could barely do twenty push ups. Alex, whose glasses always seemed to be crooked. This is the same Alex that picked a fight with the seniors.

"I hope you're all looking at me, because if you're pitying this pathetic shrimp here you should be up here with him." Kreminski surveys the rows and rows of boys in formation. "Why don't you tell us what you did, Alex?" He sneers, unapologetic.

Alex is nothing more than a boy, cocooned by the same set of gray clothes we're all wearing. He cries like an abandoned animal in the dead of the night. We continue to stand still. No one dares to step out of line, to say something rational, to comfort him even. Alex is a child crying for his missing parents. Whoever. Anyone.

We all know what happens if we don't follow the protocol.

I feel myself gritting my teeth when he slaps Alex firmly in the face with his clipboard, leaving behind a red welt. My knuckles are itching to punch Kreminski unconscious. Grant looks straight ahead, following orders. Jonas is shaking, whether from the cold or fear I couldn't tell.

"Blackthorne Institute does not tolerate what?"

"HESITATION," everyone shouts in unison.

"Let Alex set an example for you all. This is not once, but his third time trying to run away. Do you know what we do to runaways?" His face is ridden with humiliation, shamed by the fact a 13 year old nearly escaped the premises. Escaped the barbed wire, security guards, cameras, guard dogs, and all. It's not normal. It's not typical.

This isn't right.

He's just a kid.

A Blackthorne Boy.

A boy who doesn't belong.

Strike One is punishment and isolation. No food or water in the cells. Strike Two: The Basement. Whatever happens down there we don't question it. We see the results.

We're about to find out is what happens at strike three.

A gun materializes from Kaminsky's belt, and he points it at Alex, who is cowering on the ground, his face blotchy with tears.

For a moment I start to hesitate, but I've made up my mind.

Before he can even aim, I side step him, twisting his arm far back enough to hurt. He elbows me in the face, hard enough to render me useless momentarily. He attempts to fire, but decides to kick me squarely in the stomach instead, knocking me off balance. A ripple of pain sends me clutching my stomach. Grunting with my last effort, I swing my leg, knocking him off balance.

Bang.

Situations like these they ingrain the same things into your head. Never. Panic. Instincts kick in and I'm already checking for an exit wound. Kreminski is cursing on the ground like crazy. Alex was jostled to the ground during the confusion, but is alive. He has a grin on his face. That punk. A blank. It was a blank. I should have known. Tired..I feel so tired.

"Demonstration is over, gentlemen. Return to your rooms. Well done Zachary, but not good enough," a voice calmly says. "Your technique was sloppy. I'm disappointed in you all. Back to your quarters, tomorrow morning is technique day. 5 am sharp." It seems to be coming from the speakers, but I'm willing to bet it was a set up. Everyone is staring at me in shock. I stepped out of line. I pushed an instructor onto the ground.

I don't care.

My ear is still ringing. I feel a faint trickle of blood from my cut. No one dares to move, until a figure steps out onto the middle of the field. I'm on my knees, too weak to stand up. Drowsy. I feel like slipping...tired. So tired. My vision has started blurring, shapes becoming unrecognizable. Focus. I don't know who he is. But I do. I should. I've seen him before, a picture in a file tucked safely away. A name that matches the face staring right at me. But they don't know that. Of course they don't.

"Joe Solomon,"I say faintly, before passing out.

TO BE CONTINUED