He sat in a booth by himself, the red seats painted in the warm light. Thomas had his head on his hand, running his finger over the rim of his whistle, head swimming with the two shots he had earlier. Sky High was a draining school, so many kids with so much power and responsibility… and god, were they stupid.

His head shot up when he heard you approaching, instantly noticing your waiter uniform, expectantly fixing up his seat and the spot in front of him, Medula not caring to extend the same courtesy next to him.