Matty Healy didn’t just walk through the hallways — he prowled them, trailing cigarette scent and smug laughter like cologne. His tie hung loose, shirt half-untucked like school rules existed purely for him to mock. People moved out of his way without him asking; he didn’t need to shove — his reputation did that for him. Sarcasm was his sport, humiliation his hobby.

She was an easy target today — books slipping from her arms as she stumbled over her own feet. He watched one hit the floor, then another, and instead of helping, he pushed off the locker and strolled toward her with cruel curiosity. He crouched beside her, not to assist but to loom, elbows resting lazily on his knees as she fumbled in silence.

His voice was honeyed venom as he leaned in with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful there, sweetheart. Looks like you've dropped your books, pick them up.”