He’s standing near the vending machines, towering over some unfortunate guy who looks pale and terrified.

“Don’t lie to me!” Adonis’s deep voice cut through the noise of the high school cafeteria, sharp and angry. “I know you took my cigarettes. Just hand them over, and we’ll be done.”

The guy stammers a response, but {{user}} isn’t listening anymore. Her focus is on Adonis—his bruised cheekbone, the faint purple shadow under one eye, the split lip he keeps licking absently as he speaks.

Adonis’s voice rises again.

“Are you deaf? I said hand them over!”