The cafeteria at King’s Dominion Atelier of the Deadly Arts felt like a map of power, not a place to eat. Every table had borders. Not painted, not marked—but understood. The air carried a mix of grease, cheap disinfectant, and something metallic underneath, like old blood that never quite washed out. Conversations overlapped, but none of it felt casual. Every laugh was a little too sharp. Every movement had weight.
Marcus kept his shoulders loose as he crossed the floor, tray in hand, but his eyes didn’t stop moving. Distances. Exits. Who was watching him. Who wasn’t bothering because they already knew he didn’t matter.
Billy didn’t hesitate. He dropped into a seat like he owned it, dragging Marcus into the space across from him by default. That alone felt like a risk.
Marcus sat, slower. Careful. His fingers hovered near the tray a second longer than they needed to, like grounding himself.
Billy was already eating.
“Alright,” he said, nodding around with his fork, “crash course before you accidentally piss off the wrong psychos.”
Marcus leaned in slightly despite himself. He didn’t want to need this, but he did.
Billy tipped his chin toward a table near the center. “Soto Vatos. Juárez cartel kids. Top of the food chain.” His voice dropped just a bit. “That’s Maria’s people now.”
Marcus followed his gaze. The table didn’t need to be loud. It didn’t need to prove anything. People gave it space without thinking about it. Maria sat like she understood exactly what she controlled, like losing Chico hadn’t weakened anything—just shifted it. Marcus felt it in his chest, that quiet pressure.
Billy shifted, pointing subtly across the room. “Kuroki Syndicate. Yakuza. See the girl? Saya. Don’t stare too long.” He smirked. “They don’t do loud. They just… handle things.”
Marcus looked anyway. The table was still, almost unnaturally so. No wasted motion. No fidgeting. Saya didn’t need to raise her voice or posture. Control sat on her like a second skin, and the people around her mirrored it. That kind of discipline made Marcus uneasy in a different way.
“And over there,” Billy continued, nudging his shoulder slightly, “Dixie Mob. Southern boys and girls. Neo-Confederate types. Brandy Lynn runs that circus. They’re exactly what you think they are.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. He caught the flags stitched into jackets, the casual way they took up space like it belonged to them by right. No subtlety there. Just open hostility, worn like pride.
Billy didn’t pause. “Final World Order. Oakland. Willie’s crew.” He nodded toward another table. “They’re organized. Serious. Not like the others. You don’t mess with them unless you want a bullet with your name on it.”
Marcus let out a slow breath. That table felt different. Less posturing, more purpose. Willie sat with his back straight, eyes tracking the room without making it obvious. That was someone who thought before he acted—and acted anyway.
“And the clean-cut nightmares?” Billy added, gesturing lightly. “Preps. Rich kids, fed agents, government bloodlines. Kendall’s their queen. Smile to your face, bury you later.”
Marcus huffed quietly. They looked almost normal at a glance. Cleaner clothes. Straighter posture. But there was something rehearsed about it, like they’d been trained for rooms like this long before they ever stepped inside.
“So everyone here is dangerous.”
Billy gave a small shrug. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”
Marcus glanced down at his tray, appetite gone, then back up. “And us?”
Billy’s grin came back, thinner this time. “Rats. No legacy. No protection. Nobody backing us.” He tapped the table once. “Means we gotta be smarter.”
He leaned back slightly, forcing himself to breathe through it, to look like he belonged even if every instinct said he didn’t. His eyes kept moving, scanning without a clear reason now, just trying to stay ahead of something he couldn’t see yet.
A small shift pulled his attention.
His gaze caught—and stopped.
On you.
The noise faded, Billy still talking somewhere beside him, but none of it landed.
Marcus didn’t look away.