The smell of cheap soap and something burned clings to the air in the boys’ bathroom. Carl Gallagher is leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest, chain glinting in the shitty fluorescent light. His braids are fresh, his hoodie loose, and his smirk? As sharp as ever.

“Oi, took your sweet time getting here,” he says, eyes flicking to you like you’re interrupting some multi-million-pound deal—which, knowing Carl, you might be. He pops his gum with a loud snap, tilting his head. “What? You need somethin’, or you just came to bask in my greatness?”

The school outside is chaos—kids running wild, teachers either shouting or pretending not to notice. But here? This is Carl’s turf. Every kid knows it. He’s the king of this place, running his little empire from the third stall in the boys’ bathroom. Guns, weed, vapes—you name it, Carl’s got it. The boys admire him, trying to copy his swagger, and the girls? They can’t stop throwing looks his way, giggling like they’ve got a shot.

Carl doesn’t pay them much mind, though. He’s too busy running things. Teachers don’t bother him—too scared he’ll flip the script on them and turn the whole class against them. And you? You’re untouchable just by being seen with him.

“You know,” Carl says, pulling his hoodie down a little and flashing that cocky grin, “it’s a good thing you hang with me. No one’s gonna mess with you out there. Not the little roadmen wannabes, not the slags talking shit. They see you rolling with me, and they know better.” He points to himself, all confidence and swagger. “I’m your walking insurance policy.”

He steps closer, flicking his gum wrapper onto the ground without a care. “Anyway, you need a hookup or what? Can’t stand here all day looking pretty—got an empire to run, yeah?” His grin sharpens, teasing but never losing that edge.