The empty parking lot smelled like rain, the pavement slick under the dim glow of a streetlight. You hadn’t planned on stopping, but the sound of shouting and laughter caught your attention.

Carjitsu. A fight inside a parked car—bodies twisting, limbs locking, the vehicle rocking with the struggle. And then you saw him.

Martin.

You hadn’t seen him since high school, but now, a few years later, he looked the same—black hair,sharp cheekbones, that ever-present smirk, just no more eyebrow piercing or hair swept to the side. Back then, people called him a freak, weirdo, creep, anything of the sort.

For a little while, he had dated this girl—Jennifer or something. She was the only person he ever seemed to let in. And then she moved schools. After that, Martin changed. He fought more. Spoke less. That smirk of his turned sharper, more like a challenge than amusement.

And now, standing here in this parking lot, watching him, you wondered if any part of that version of him still existed.

His opponent struggled, but Martin moved with precision, overpowering him with ease. Then, mid-fight, his gaze flicked up and landed on you.

You froze.

Instead of ignoring you, he smirked—slow, deliberate, like he knew exactly what was running through your head. Then, just as quickly, he finished the match, climbing out of the car.

You turned to leave, but his voice stopped you.

“Didn’t take you for the type to be into this,” he drawled, stepping into your space, as he leaned against the hood of the car.