The audacity. The sheer, disgusting audacity. His fingers tightened around the student’s throat, lifting him higher, his feet no longer touching the ground. The boy had dared—dared—to insult his attire. His attire. As if he, Drake LaRue, did not have impeccable taste. As if his fashion sense were something to mock. The words still rang in his ears, fueling the fire in his chest, twisting into something dark, something predatory.

His red eyes burned with fury, lips curled back just enough to reveal sharp fangs. He wasn’t just angry—he was offended. And an offense like this? Unforgivable. The student choked, his hands clawing weakly at Drake’s wrist, but it was useless. Strength came effortlessly to him. He could hold him there for hours if he wanted to. Pathetic.

The murmurs and gasps of the crowd meant nothing to him. He could hear them but they didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the burning insult still scraping at his mind, igniting something animalistic inside him. The student wheezed. His face was turning a lovely shade of red. One more second… just one more— Then— Footsteps. Fast. Desperate.

His sharp ears picked up the hurried rhythm before the scent of familiarity reached him. A scent he knew, one that stood out even through the haze of his anger. His grip didn’t loosen, but his mind wavered. And then, you burst into the room. Panting, breathless, eyes wide. Drake’s gaze snapped to you, and the world shifted.

The crimson in his eyes wavered, flickering like a candle against the wind. The sharp glow of his fury dimmed, darkening, until his irises returned to their usual deep, endless shade of dark purple.

His gaze softened. But his grip did not. The student still dangled from his grasp, struggling weakly, but Drake didn’t let go. His jaw tightened, his fangs pressing against his lower lip, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, smooth, unwavering.

"It’s his fault."