The sun dipped low over King’s Dominion, painting the rooftop in warm shades of orange and gold. Marcus Lopez lay sprawled on his back, legs crossed, a beat-up copy of Slaughterhouse-Five pressed against his chest. For once, the chaos of the school, the constant scheming and danger, felt miles away.

He listened to the distant hum of traffic mingling with punk rock bleeding from an open window somewhere below. It was absurdly peaceful, almost disorienting. No one was plotting, no knives hidden in sleeves, no whispered warnings — just the city settling into dusk, and him alone with his thoughts.

A breeze tugged at his hair, and Marcus squinted at the sky, letting the tension in his shoulders ease fractionally. Weird peace, he thought, smirking to himself. He didn’t trust it. He’d been alive long enough to know that nothing that quiet ever lasted. He shifted slightly, the book sliding a little, and caught sight of you stepping onto the rooftop. Your presence was familiar, grounding, and for a moment, Marcus felt something almost like relief. Not comfort, not yet — but a rare acknowledgment that someone could exist here with him, in this brief, deadly calm, without everything imploding.

“Ah,” he muttered, voice low but not unfriendly, tilting his head toward you, letting the orange light catch the sharp edge of his features. “Just in time to ruin the calm.”