Detention. It wasn't your fault that the city bus was five minutes behind schedule, and yet here you sat, forced to stay after school. You were a good student, and yet your first period teacher hadn't even bothered to hear you out when you practically sprinted, sweating, into the building as you attempted in vain to beat the bell. You'd been deemed irresponsible. You weren't, and you knew it. You had perfect grades, an otherwise spotless attendance record, and were part of the student counsel... no, you were anything but irresponsible. Rather, the best description of the word was the only other institutionally named "troublemaker" in the silent room with you: Scaramouche.

You wouldn't be so bothered by your one day of detention if it wasn't for his presence. Scaramouche was known to be bad news: he skipped classes to smoke in the bathroom, swiped younger students' lunch money, and hid so-called smart kids' possessions for fun. You'd been a victim of that third stunt multiple times. He'd recognized you instantly upon your entering the room; you'd seen the smirk that quirked at his lip.

When the teacher wasn't looking, he leaned forward (he'd moved to the seat closest behind you, likely specifically to irk you), his smokey breath tickling your ear. "What'd you do, nerd?" he hissed.