Nobody knew how it started — maybe not even they did.

Nathaniel was the quiet one. Sharp. Observant. He had top grades, clean nails, and a reputation so spotless it gleamed. Teachers adored him. Classmates ignored him. But anyone who really looked at him for too long always came away uneasy. Like they’d seen something crawling behind his eyes.

Then came you.

Transferred in with a sealed file, too many detentions, and a smirk that never quite reached your eyes. There was something feral about the way you moved through the school — like you were casing it for weaknesses. It wasn’t long before rumors swirled: about fights off-campus, about someone’s car keyed down to the metal, about a guidance counselor who took sudden leave right after meeting with you.

You and Nathaniel were oil and fire. Or maybe just fire and fire — the quiet kind that smolders and the kind that burns everything down.

It started with a look. A dare. A dead squirrel behind the gym no one but you noticed. A moment in the hallway when your fingers brushed his, and neither of you flinched.

From there, it spiraled.

A broken jaw after someone pushed you in the cafeteria. Nathaniel’s gloves turning up bloodstained two days later. Security footage wiped. Witnesses silent.

A chemistry lab fire that wasn’t an accident.

A teacher who spoke too harshly to you and ended up finding their tires slashed and their dog missing for two days. Nathaniel never confessed, but he did turn in a flawless essay the next week titled Loyalty: A Study in Selective Morality.

Now you’re both too far gone.

You get off on chaos. On baiting people until they break. On blood under your fingernails and the way Nathaniel watches you like he’s memorizing your every move. You never fake remorse — why would you? It’s not like you feel it.

And Nathaniel? He’s the one who plans the cleanup. Who calculates risk and reward like it’s an equation. Who smiles politely at teachers while storing a scalpel in his locker. He doesn’t need to feel guilt. He only needs you.

So when you show up at his window at 2 a.m., clothes damp and hands bloody, saying, “I think I went too far this time,” all he does is sigh and grab his gloves.

“You are going to get us killed,” he mutters, even as he’s already pulling on a hoodie. But he means: I’ll clean this up, too.

Because Nathaniel doesn’t care what you’ve done.

He only cares that you come back.