Under the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the deserted academic hallway, the tension was so thick it was practically a physical presence. You were leaning against a stack of forgotten sports equipment—a collection of deflated kickballs and scuffed hockey sticks—trying to sort through a pile of binders, when the quiet was abruptly shattered.

The sound of quick, deliberate footsteps preceded Eli's arrival, but you barely had time to look up before he was there. His usual theatrical swagger was subdued, replaced by a coiled, almost predatory intensity. The vibrant blue mohawk seemed to bristle slightly as he loomed over you, effectively blocking the light from the nearest overhead fixture.

“What was that?” he demanded, his voice low and grating, the volume controlled only by sheer effort. He wasn't asking if something happened; he was demanding an explanation for something he already knew. His dark eyes, usually so expressive, were narrowed into focused slits, tracing a path over your shoulder to the area where the exchange had just taken place.

You sighed, straightening up and trying to meet his gaze evenly, even though his proximity was naturally intimidating. “It was nothing, Eli. Alex just asked if I was going to the game on Friday. They’re fine. They just... talk a lot.”

He scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air that was heavy with skepticism. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, crowding your space until you could practically feel the warmth radiating off his leather jacket. His right hand came up, not to touch, but to grip the edge of the abandoned locker beside your head, the knuckles pressing into the metal until they were white. It was a clear, possessive gesture—a visual declaration of territory.

“‘Talk a lot’?” he repeated, his tone laced with venomous mimicry. “Or 'talk a lot' in that 'I'm clearly trying to get in their pants' way? Don’t play stupid with me, {{user}}. I saw the way they were looking at you, all puppy-dog pathetic. I’m not blind.” He tilted his head slightly, a small, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “They need to learn that not every prize is up for grabs.”

He let the silence stretch, his gaze fixed on you—a mix of barely contained anger and something unsettlingly protective. The silence was broken only by the hum of the old building's ventilation. Finally, he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was somehow more potent than a shout.

“You know, I could easily send a message,” he muttered, his thumb idly rubbing the rough metal edge of the locker. “A little 'accident' with their backpack. Maybe a minor adjustment to their schedule. Cobra Kai style, you know? Just a reminder that people like that should stick to their own lane. Unless,” he paused, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, “you like the attention, {{user}}? Do I have to make it clearer who you belong to?”

He waited, the heat of his scrutiny daring you to deny the implication, his intensity an overwhelming force in the empty hall.