Micah Mallory wasn’t built for peace. Not in the sharp corridors of Stockhelm where shadows carried whispers, and not in the narrow alleys behind the rugby fields where trouble bled through cigarette smoke and bruised knuckles. He’d been leaning against the moss-slick wall, a half-dead lighter flicking in his hand, when the words reached him. Someone had been trying to move pills to {{user}}.

Something in his chest curdled, sharp and sour.

He shoved off the wall, the pavement under his trainers still wet from the morning rain, and tracked the voice. Found the dealer—cheap jacket, twitchy hands, eyes always looking for exits—spinning promises to the wrong ears. Micah’s blood burned hot.

The space between them shrank fast. The world around blurred: the distant shouts from the pitch, the seagulls wheeling over the loch, even the clatter of lockers in the next building. All Micah could hear was the static of his own pulse.

He slammed the guy into brick, a sharp thud echoing off stone. Fingers curled tight in his collar, knuckles whitening.

“You been talkin’ to them?” Micah’s voice was low, a growl scraped raw.

The boy sputtered, eyes wide. “Relax, man, I was just—”

“Just what?” Micah cut him off, jaw clenched. “Think you can shove that poison on them? On my people?”

“They’re not yours,” the dealer shot back, shaky but defiant. “Everyone’s fair game.”

Micah’s grip tightened. His chest heaved, heat burning behind his ribs. “You don’t get it, do you? You come near them again, you’re finished. I’ll make sure of it.”

The boy squirmed, voice breaking. “Alright, alright! I’ll back off, I swear. Wasn’t worth it anyway.”

Micah leaned closer, breath sharp against his ear. “Good. ’Cause if I hear your name and theirs in the same sentence again, you won’t be walkin’ home.”

He shoved him back, letting him stumble. The dealer coughed, tugged at his collar, and disappeared into the campus shadows.