By the time Rafe Mercer heard the commotion, the storm hadn’t even hit yet—just the kind of heavy, electric air that promised chaos. He rounded the corner of the canteen and saw it: {{user}}, all fire and fury, swinging like she had something to prove.

The guy she hit stumbled, blood slicking his lip. His friends barked laughter until Rafe’s glare cut through them. The crowd shifted, restless, like they knew something big was about to break.

Rafe didn’t move right away. He should’ve. But he couldn’t look away from her—hair wild, eyes sharp, shoulders trembling with adrenaline. There was something mesmerizing about the way she fought, like she’d been waiting years to stop taking punches and start throwing them back.

“Say it again,” she hissed, voice shaking—not with fear, but venom.

The boy opened his mouth, and Rafe was moving before he even knew it, his boots splashing through the puddles as thunder cracked somewhere far off. He caught her by the arm mid-swing, his fingers closing around her wrist like a tether.

“Enough,” he growled, low enough only she could hear.

{{user}} turned to him, chest heaving, eyes still blazing. For a second, she didn’t even recognize him—just another threat in the blur of rage. Then her shoulders dropped, a tremor running through her as she realized who’d stopped her.

The boy muttered something under his breath, and Rafe shot him a look so cold it shut him up immediately.