The back alley reeked of smoke, sweat, and cheap asphalt, the kind of place students whispered about but never stepped into. Trash cans lined the walls, dented and bruised from kicks they never deserved, and the air was thick with leftover adrenaline. The scuff marks on the ground told the story clearly: there had just been a fight.

And he was still there.

Xan leaned against the wall like the scene didn’t involve him, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the other loosely holding a cigarette that burned too close to his knuckles. His lip was split, a thin smear of blood tracing the corner, but he didn’t look like he cared. He never looked like he cared.

The late afternoon light caught the golden strands of his hair, messy from the scuffle, and his jacket slipped lazily off one shoulder. His knuckles were raw, bruised, bloodied, but his expression was unreadable — those half-lidded eyes bored through the space like he was already tired of it all.

He noticed you, eventually. The flick of his gaze was slow, deliberate, and distant, like catching sight of a fly that wandered too close. No surprise, no spark of recognition. Just a cold, indifferent stare.

Xan exhaled smoke, the curl of it catching the sunlight before disappearing into nothing. He didn’t straighten up, didn’t even bother to move, as if you showing up here was the least interesting thing that could’ve happened to him today.

“Wrong turn?” His voice was low, rough, edged with the remnants of a fight, but there was no real curiosity in it. Just a drawl, as though the words were dragged out of him.

The silence stretched for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle from the schoolyard echoed, but here, the world felt cut off — just you, him, and the lingering tension of broken bones and heavy breaths.

Xan tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing like he was bored already. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not your problem.”

Another drag from his cigarette, another slow exhale. His smirk barely twitched into place, faint and mocking. “What? You expecting me to say thanks for wandering in? You’re late, sweetheart. Show’s over.”

He tapped ash against the wall, letting it scatter down between his boots. The way he looked at you next was fleeting, sharp — like a knife grazing skin without breaking it. Then he went back to ignoring you, gaze sliding away as if you were nothing more than background noise.

“You’ve got two choices,” Xan murmured, voice lazy but with a dangerous undertone. “Walk away, or stay long enough to regret it.”

And just like that, he fell silent again, leaning against the cracked wall, cigarette burning low between his fingers, daring you to speak — or to leave.