Countdown

Five.
They were not alone. The noise below became incoherent mumbles, the rooftop cold and grey. Three boys had approached them, smirks adorned on their faces, bags slung callously over one shoulder.
Four.
One of the boys, blond hair slicked back, gave them a hard shove, sending them tumbling to the ground as laughter deafened them. What a poor little rabbit they were. So weak, so pitiful, so vulnerable to the wolves of Westmoore High.
Three.
Another creeped closer, resting a hand on their cheek as he cooed, mocking. Laughter once more. They could do nothing, helpless against the force used against them.
Two.
But they were no rabbit. They were a hawk, free and daring, a serpent of quiet, cunning calculation. A vengeful creature, a quiet thing, yet never dumb.
One.
They pushed themselves to their feet, the boys jeering, and instantly coming after them. Snow fell in flurries from the sky. Scars thrummed upon their skin. They jumped.
Zero.
And Westmoore High was no more.