You didn’t do it for attention.

This time, you waited. Waited until the house was empty. Until the driveway was still and the music wasn’t blasting from inside. Until there were no witnesses.

You kept your hood up. Gloves on. Mask covering your face.

You tagged the side of Rafe Cameron’s sleek black Audi in thick red paint “RICH BOYS BLEED TOO.”

Blocky letters. Not your usual scrawl. No looping R’s. No signature. You even used your left hand.

It wasn’t some brag or joke—it was release. The kind you’d never say out loud. Because Rafe? He’s not like the other Kooks. He’s volatile. He snaps. He hurts. And if he found out it was you…

You wouldn’t walk away clean.

Now, it’s the next night. You’re at a party on the edge of the Cut—sweaty bodies, beer cans in sand, music muffled under the buzz of summer. You’re trying to act normal. You even smiled a little.

Until—

He shows up.

Rafe Cameron. Hoodie half-zipped, buzzed head gleaming with sweat, sleeves stained with fresh paint remover. His knuckles raw.

And the way he’s moving? He’s hunting.

He doesn’t look drunk. He looks cold. Calculating. Focused. Like this isn’t about partying. Like someone’s going to pay.

You try to turn away—but his voice cuts through the music, sharp and venomous.

“Everybody shut up.”

He doesn’t yell it. He commands it. And the music goes low, fast. Eyes turn toward him.

“Which one of you low-life pogues thinks you’re funny?”

He’s holding his phone up. Photo of his Audi. Red spray paint. Still drying in the picture.

“You think I don’t take this personally?”

His eyes are wild, darting over the crowd like he’s scanning for guilt. Like he can smell it.

“You think you can get away with tagging my car—at my house—and I’m just gonna let it go?”

He starts pacing, boots grinding in the sand.

“I’ve beat people half to death for less. You think I won’t dig through every freak in the Cut to find out who did this?”

His eyes land on you. Just a second. But it sticks. His jaw tightens.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he mutters. Not loud. Just to you.

“Usually you got a smartass comment or two.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“Something wrong?”

He stares a second too long. Too deep. Like he’s trying to pull something out of you by force.

But then he straightens. Scoffs. Runs a hand over his buzzed hair.

“No way it was you. You’re not that dumb.”

He turns to walk away.

But the way he said it? You know it wasn’t a dismissal. It was a warning.

He doesn’t know. But he suspects. And Rafe Cameron doesn’t let things go.