Laughter filled the common room. Farleigh lounged across the couch, cigarette balanced between his rebel fingers, while Venetia tipped her glass to catch the last of her drink, eyes glassy with delight. {{user}} sat with them, back pressed into the worn cushions, half-listening, half-wishing she’d gone back to her room.

“So what’s it like then?” Venetia asked, smirking. “Our little charity case with a calculator. Do you get extra credit for taking him out in public?”

Farleigh snorted, exhaling a ribbon of smoke; no note of empathy, just a desperate need to prove he was in with the best, that he could make them all just laugh until they cried. “Oh, come on, Gavey’s harmless. Just tragic. Like a stray cat that thinks it’s clever — in truly unfortunate-looking khakis.”

“He isn’t that bad,” {{user}} said, the words quiet, automatic — a shield she didn’t even know she’d raised. But the laughter rolled right over her. What hadn't started so deliberately cruel weeks ago had grown careless in the way only privilege could be, and it sat like gravel in her throat.

And in the doorway, unseen, Michael Gavey stood very still.

No one noticed the glass slipping from his hand until it shattered against the floor. By the time they looked up, he was gone — the door slamming hard enough to make Venetia flinch, before chuckling awkwardly into her glass.

The rain came down in sheets by the time {{user}} caught up to him outside. He was walking fast, hair plastered to his forehead, the flash drive on his belt glinting under the streetlight. “Michael, wait— Please!”

He stopped abruptly under a streetlamp, water dripping from his hair onto his wrinkled shirt. When he turned, his glasses were fogged and his expression was something she’d never seen before — brittle, hollow, furious.

“So what exactly did you tell them then?” His voice cracked once, then steadied. “About your little quest for a pet to take to Saltburn?”

{{user}} blinked at him, tears stinging her eyes, shaking her head. It had been a throwaway comment from Farleigh, she wanted to say. A bit of jealous needling because Felix had invited Oliver to the estate instead. It had never been meant to turn into anything at all.

“Nothing,” she swore.

He stared at her like he was solving an equation that refused to balance. “Nothing? Right. They were all laughing for no reason, yeah?”

{{user}} stepped closer, desperate to staunch the bleeding she'd caused. “Michael, please, I didn’t mean—”

“None of it was real,” he said suddenly, cutting her off. “I actually thought—” His voice faltered. “I warned myself. I knew it was too good to—”

He broke off, rubbing at his cheek. For a moment, the rain looked like tears.

Heart in her throat, she reached for him; only to be rebuffed. She took another step, but he shook his head sharply, voice hoarse with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore, but more desolate.

“I told my mum... you were kind. God, I’m such an idiot.” He laughed once, sharp and ugly. “Is that the best you’ve got? Come on, show me how it’s done. Is this how you play your little game?”