You couldn't say you were quite surprised to stumble upon the sight that you did when you entered your school's bathroom: Mickey, perched on the high windows' sill, lips curled around the body of his cigarette. Wisps of smoke twisted in odd patterns from its exhaust, a thin blanket over the stalls.

His eyes were soon to fix onto your own, brow soon to cock.

"What the fuck do you want?" he grumbled, as he discarded yet another plume of smoke.