The air outside the school reeked of cherry blossoms and cigarette ash—a mix too sweet and too bitter to feel real. Petals drifted like ash from the trees, catching in the rust-stained bars of the gate Pico was leaning on. He shifted his weight, arms crossed, one foot lazily pushing a pebble across the pavement until it bounced off a crack and skittered away. His gun was in hand, but only half-acknowledged, like it was just another part of him—something to flick open and shut the way someone else might check the time. Across the yard, the front doors groaned open.

Pico watched Lendon strut out like the pavement was laid in his honor—collar pressed sharp, tie neat, expression dipped in smugness. That too-white smile didn’t reach his eyes. He watched Lendon scan the scene with disinterest until his gaze landed on {{user}}, and then that look twisted—something between disgust and amusement, like he’d spotted a roach in his cereal. Lendon didn’t speak so much as sneer his words out, voice syrupy with mockery. Some lazy jab about Pico dragging along his girlfriend. Pico didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at him, really. Just tilted his head, exhaled slow through his nose, and muttered something dry under his breath as he clicked the safety off.

“He 'aint my girlfriend.”

The words weren’t defensive. If anything, they were bored.