The faucet gave a sharp squeak as you turned it off. You shook the water from your hands and reached for a paper towel. The boys' restroom at Blackthorn High was exactly what the rumors said—filthy, cracked tiles, and someone had scrawled "DIE, LOSER" across the mirror in red marker.

You stared at your reflection. The cut on your lip from last week was finally healing. At least here, no one had touched you... yet.

The door creaked open behind you. You heard it before you saw it. Heavy boots. Slow. Deliberate. A presence like a storm rolling in.

You kept your eyes on the mirror. In the reflection, a tall figure came into view behind you—black hair, jet-black eyes, a tattoo curling down a bare forearm under a rolled-up sleeve. Three silver earrings glinted on his right ear.

Negal. He said nothing at first. Just leaned casually against the wall beside the sinks, watching. Then—

"You wash your hands real thoroughly."

His voice was low. Lazy. But beneath the calm was something sharp, like a blade still sheathed.

"Like you think this place won't sink into your skin eventually."