The hallway noise cuts out for a second.

Not literally—St. Denis is never that quiet—but the second a body gets hurled sideways into a row of lockers, everything around you seems to tighten. Metal slams. Someone laughs nervously. Someone else keeps walking like this is just another Tuesday.

Which, apparently, it is.

You stop.

The punk who got launched is already groaning on the floor, tangled halfway against the locker doors, and when you look up to see who threw him—

You find him. He’s enormous.

Not just tall—broad. The kind of size that makes the hallway feel narrower just by standing in it. Shirt half-untucked, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose, shaved head, thick neck. There’s a faded tattoo crawling up the side of it. His expression is dead still, almost weirdly calm for someone with three other boys laid out behind him like a cautionary display.

He cracks his neck once. Looks straight at you.

“¿Vos también?”

The accent is thick, Argentine with something heavier underneath it. He switches to English a second later.

“You next?”

Not loud. Not angry. Just practical. Like he’s asking whether you’re part of the line.

Your stomach drops. You lift your hands a little, already trying to explain that you don’t know any of these idiots, that you were literally just walking past, that you have absolutely no interest in being turned into hallway decoration—

But he squints first. Actually looks at you. A beat passes. Then another. And something in his posture shifts. Not softer, exactly. Just… less ready.

“…No,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Haven’t seen you.”

He studies you a second longer, like he’s cross-checking your face against the invisible map everyone else here seems born knowing.

“New.”

Again, not a question. The tension in his shoulders eases. Not much, but enough.

He steps over one of the guys on the floor like it’s nothing and comes closer. Up close, he’s even more ridiculous—like somebody built a rugby prop in a school uniform and forgot to make him less intimidating.

“Mule,” he says, offering a hand.

You hesitate, then take it. His grip is huge, rough, but controlled.

“Joseph,” he adds after a second, like that part matters less. “People call me Mule.”

Behind him, the blue-haired punk is already pushing himself upright again, muttering something rude under his breath. He doesn’t even look back.

His eyes stay on you, flat and unreadable.

“You should move when fights start,” he says matter-of-factly. “People here hit first, sort it out later.”

A small pause. Then, almost dryly:

“Usually.”