It wasn't until senior year that Danny Fenton started to change.

All throughout high school, he'd been the scrawny, kind of lanky pasty kid with the weird family. His attendance was trash, and his grades were worse. It seemed like he only really had two friends, the nerd boy Tucker and the spooky goth chick Sam. He was such an easy target, it was almost as if he sent out a personal ad to be bullied.

Sometime when they were sophomores, he started ditching his standard white and red t-shirt in favor of a long sleeved red shirt. Rumors floated around that he was going all emo goth on them—cutting, and using the shirts to hide the scars. Dash wasn't sure if he'd believe that. Fenton didn't seem the type. Then again, he did seem to get…darker, the older he got. Sometimes the light would catch his eyes just right, and Dash swore, they were the eyes of a war veteran. Someone who'd seen more pain and darkness in a single lifetime than most others combined. The moment would pass, of course, and he'd be his smartass, sarcastic self, levity in his voice and person. But it was definitely there.

Junior year, he started showing up to school with injuries. He had a deep scratch, starting at his cheekbone and disappearing down the collar of his shirt on picture day. No one had the nerve to ask what it was from. The week after that, people started talking—why was it, exactly, that Fenton waited until after the bell to change after gym? It easily cut his lunchtime in half. During spirit week, he sported a black eye, and on the last day of school, he darted out in the middle of Lancer's final, despite the way he'd been limping all week, and didn't show up again all day. Dash heard he had a week's worth of summer detention to make it up.

Despite whatever weirdness was going on with him, he took his still regular pummelings like a champ—as smartmouthed and wise-cracking as ever. Dash almost felt bad, like maybe he should pick a new, less damaged target. But then Fenton was arguably the freakiest, weakest, weirdest kid in the school, and put it all together? It was too good for Dash to pass on. The little dweeb had it coming.

Then senior year started. Dash realized in a huff that suddenly, he had to pull the little nerd down to look him square in the eyes as he wailed on him. He had Fenton pinned up against the lockers, like he always did, and Fenton didn't fight back, Fenton never fought back, but maybe—no, definitely, Dash realized while a lump formed in his throat. He definitely could fight back. His shoulders were almost as broad as Dash's own, his chest a little leaner than Dash's, but hard, solid muscle, if the way the tightness behind his fists was any indication as he grabbed fistfuls of the kid's shirt. His arms looked like he'd been wrestling with alligators—lean, but solid, and strong in a way that almost intimidated Dash. He had a good two inches over Dash, yet even then, he allowed the other boy to toss him around like he was no more than the lanky wimp he'd always been.

Dear God, what had happened to him? Granted, with that giant oaf of a father, it wasn't that farfetched that Fenturd would grow into a larger frame. But this?

He was still as chummy as ever with Manson and Foley—he'd even seen him hang out with Valerie Gray, once and a while. As far as Dash could tell, he was as infuriatingly lighthearted as ever, even though sometimes he walked into school with a limp, or a sling on his shoulder. He was the same over confident little bastard as ever, making bad puns and lame excuses, only now they were coming from a person who looked like they'd taken on a freaking army and won. Sometimes when Dash had him cornered, his mouth would pull up into a sly little smile, almost as if he just wanted to laugh.

Rumors floated around as to what he had gotten himself into. There must be some explanation for all of it, right? At first, people thought maybe the kid was abused at home. That would explain some of the injuries, even the supposed "cutting", the darker humor in his eyes. Wouldn't quite explain the consistent absences, though. Besides that, as soon as the rumor became popular, people realized how impossible it would be—Jack and Maddie Fenton, as crazy as they were about fighting ghosts, were known to be arguably the most kind-hearted adults in the town. Whenever there were ghost attacks, ghost invasions—which happened a lot more frequently than anyone liked—they were always the first to open their house to the general public to get them to safety. They installed ghost shields in almost every public facility, and one in the hospital that would run off of outside energy were they ever to experience a blackout. They upgraded the police with ecto-weapons, wanting to take every precaution to protect their town. They once sent out a city-wide search for their son when he was an hour late for curfew.

It was impossible. The Fentons weren't capable of being abusive, let alone so abusive that their son would show up to school so hurt all the time.

The next and most probable theory was that Fenton somehow got involved in ghost hunting. Joined in on the family business, or whatever. But that didn't make much sense to Dash—because as soon as a ghost came within a five mile radius of the kid, Fenton would practically wet his pants and run into hiding. It happened every time, without fail. For living in a place that was donned the title "The Most Haunted Town in the World", that kid was as skittish around ghosts as a cat in a doghouse.

And suppose the nerd did take up ghost fighting. How come his parents, who were the experts, were never that beat up? How come they always seemed to be perfectly fine, and healthy, whenever he saw them out? It didn't add up. Not to mention that he wasn't sure they'd ever let their son continue doing something that he got that hurt that frequently to do. They'd never allow it.

Something wasn't right. Of course, nobody had the guts to ask Fenton about it straight out. No, his hands were rough with callouses, and his chest was broad and strong, and his arms looked like he spent his free time fighting off monsters, and no one besides Dash and his crew dared to roughhouse him, anymore. Even Paulina, who used to scoff and laugh when he had a crush on her, would follow him with her eyes as he moved, something almost predatory lurking in them—the way she used to look at Dash. Dash figured, can't let him get too comfortable, right? Someone's gotta put him in his place.

That didn't mean he wasn't insanely curious. While pretty much everyone in their class knew Fenton could take him in a fight, just by sizing the two up next to each other, he still let Dash wail on him every other day for no apparent, actual reason. Why would he let him do that? What had given him that dark, world-weary look in his eyes? That sly, knowing smile? That air of "come on, give me your best shot"?

Dash didn't know, but he was sure as hell going to find out.