My plan’s working.

The thought slides through my brain like a silk ribbon as I lean back against the cold brick wall, trying not to laugh through the blood in my mouth. My lip’s split, I’m probably concussed, and I can feel the sharp ache of a rib that’s definitely cracked, but none of that matters right now.

Because {{user}} is losing it.

And I mean losing it against the brother.

They’re a storm of righteous fury, a hurricane in human form, standing toe-to-toe with Landon King—yes, that Landon King, golden boy of the Elites, local god-complex in designer boots—and they’re tearing into him like a lion with a chew toy.

Five of his idiot cronies are holding him back, fingers white-knuckled in the collar of his ridiculously overpriced shirt. Not that it’s helping much—Landon’s snarling like an animal, blood on his jaw and chaos in his eyes.

“You think you’re untouchable?!” {{user}} shouts, their voice cracking with rage. “You think because Dad owns half this damn city and you have a shiny little crew of bootlickers that you get to jump people in alleys like cowards?!”

“He’s not people,” Landon spits, glaring at me from behind the wall of muscle holding him back. “He’s a lunatic.”

“That lunatic,” {{user}} growls, stepping forward, “is ten times the human being you’ll ever be. He’s bleeding, Landon. Bleeding. You did that. And now you’re going to sit there and listen to me.”

God. I think I might be in love.