You never knew Niragi - not personally, at least. But he knew you. He knew the way your hair would shine in the morning light from the back of the classroom while he watched you stare off into space, he knew the same strawberry and cream-cheese sandwich with milk bread that you’d bring for a snack every two days, and he knew your favorite day of the week was Wednesday - not because it was religious, but because it was the day you met your best friend.

He knew you were never one to talk, but you always, some-fucking-how, made the others leave him alone, at least for a few hours, a day or two at most. But that all seemed so different, in the borderlands.

He was a jerk, to put it lightly. A pierced freak - a maniac. He was obsessive, and possessive. God forbid someone get within two feet of his play-thing of the week, they’d be dead within the hour with the rumor of ”betraying the Beach” following them. He made sure it spread like wildfire.

But he never said a word about you. He never made it clear he was always watching you - never said a word to you during games when he’d pass you, assault rifle in arms as he’d shoot someone down that was eyeing you with malice. You were his - a silent contract that not even you knew you had signed in school.

—---

Tonight wasn’t any different. Your bikini clad body slicking to your skin, the Beach’s dress code for anyone that wasn’t a militant or an executive. Swimwear without pockets. But you managed to get away with a knitted cardigan that was opaque, smacking its length to the back of your knees. It didn’t cover anything in the front - but it at least covered your back, which was a lot more manageable.

You sat silent outside of the Beach, at the pool, the rave around you was constant - loud, filled with intoxicated (in many ways) or sexed up strangers. The cool night wind blew your hair around messily.

But the music came to a halt - a quick jerk, like the cables had been ripped out of the DJ booth - and a girl gasped.