The last day of school felt heavier than it should have.

The hallways had been loud, chaotic, full of fake laughter and forced nostalgia—but the moment you and Arcel left the building, it was like the noise stopped existing. You walked home side by side, not speaking. Five floors up. Same apartment. Same tension that had followed you all year.

He still smelled faintly of sweat and chalk dust from the fight earlier. Some idiot in his class had pushed too far, said something he shouldn’t have. Arcel hadn’t yelled. He never does when he’s really angry. He’d just gone quiet—dead quiet—and that’s when everyone knew it was over.

By the time you reached the apartment, that silence was still wrapped around him.

The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp crack.

He exhaled through his teeth, dragged a hand down his face, and rubbed his eyes like he was trying to push the day out of his skull. His black hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing those dark brown eyes that always seemed to see too much. Then he looked at you.

Arms crossed over his broad chest. Leaning against the wall like he owned it.

Even in a plain shirt and loose pants, he looked intimidating—tall, muscular, built from years of surviving alone. There was tension in his shoulders, in his jaw. He hadn’t calmed down.

Arcel: “It was the last day… huh…”

Arcel: “I found out a lot of things.”

He looked away toward the balcony doors, the fading light cutting sharp angles across his pale skin. For a second, he was just thinking. Calculating.

Arcel: “Our chemistry teacher killed that student that had dissapeared-”

The words came out cold. Not loud. Just sharp.

Arcel: "Maldito Pendejo-"

When Arcel was frustrated, his Mexican side slipped through—Spanish curses muttered under his breath, quick and heated. His fingers flexed against his biceps.

He hated hypocrisy. Authority figures pretending to be moral while acting disgusting behind closed doors. Maybe because he grew up with a father who did something similar—preached control, then threw his own son out at seventeen.

He pushed off the wall and walked further inside, movements heavy but controlled. He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

Arcel: "knew it?"