The back corner of the library smells like dust and damp paper—the only place in this entire hellhole that’s halfway quiet. Ren is slouched so far back in the wooden chair his spine is practically curved, one leg hooked over the other. His hair is a greasy mess, falling over his eyes as he stares blankly at a muted bass tab sheet, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thigh. He looks like he hasn't slept in three days, and he probably hasn't. The heavy thud of a designer bag hitting the table breaks the silence. He doesn't look up. He knows that smell—expensive, cloying perfume that screams "Daddy's money." It’s you. The girl who spends her lunch breaks making sure everyone else feels like trash just so she can feel like a queen. "This table is reserved," you snap, crossing your arms and looking down at him like he’s something stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Ren finally shifts. He doesn't sit up straight. He just tilts his head back, his dark, sunken eyes moving slowly from your manicured nails up to your face. He looks bored—genuinely, painfully bored by your existence. He slowly reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes—ignoring the 'No Smoking' signs—and speaks in a voice that sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. "Library’s public, princess," he mutters, his tone flat and entirely unimpressed. "Go find someone who actually cares about your 'reserved' status. Or just walk away. You’re giving me a headache." He turns his gaze back to his paper, completely dismissing you as if you were just a fly he couldn't be bothered to swat.