Foreigner

Chapter 17

I know something is off the second I step into the cafeteria.

The usual noise—clattering trays, low conversations, the occasional outburst of laughter—is there, but it's wrong. Muted. Like someone has sucked the air out of the room. Conversations dip when I walk past, and eyes flick toward me before darting away. It's the kind of shift that tells me I've made too much noise.

Then I see him.

Monroe Hayes is already there, lounging on a table near the center of the room, surrounded by a group of first-years who look like they want to be anywhere else. Skinny kids, fresh meat, the kind of boys who don't fight back when someone like Monroe singles them out.

He has one of them by the wrist, turning it over lazily like he's inspecting a piece of fruit. The kid—tall, awkward, with ears too big for his head—doesn't say anything, just stands there stiffly, jaw clenched so hard I think his teeth might crack.

Monroe grins, dragging a thumb over the veins in the kid's wrist. "You know," he muses, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear, "if I pressed down really hard, I could make you pass out."

The kid swallows.

Monroe lets out a sharp, delighted laugh and drops his arm like a toy he's done playing with. "Relax," he says, reaching for a biscuit off one of their trays. "I wouldn't waste my energy on you." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then promptly spits it back onto the plate. "Jesus. What is that? You eating chalk?"

The first-years stare down at their food, too scared to move.

The rest of the cafeteria pretends not to notice.

I exhale slowly through my nose and make my way to my usual table, where Tommy and Max are watching the scene with varying degrees of discomfort. Max looks vary. Tommy looks like he's seriously considering whether jumping in is worth the bruises.

I drop into my seat across from them, grabbing an apple and rolling it between my fingers. "How long has he been at it?"

Tommy shoots me a look. "Since we got here."

"He's extra today," Max mutters, stabbing at his eggs. "Even for him."

I don't answer. My attention is still on Monroe.

He's not done.

He moves on from the first-years and is now circling the tables, hands stuffed into his oversized sweater, expression bright and entertained. Like he's looking for something fun.

Then my gaze flickers to the farthest corner of the room.

Julian is there, hood up, slouched over his tray like he's trying to disappear into himself. His face is swollen, one eye bruised and half-shut, but even from across the room, I can still see how hollow he looks. Like someone has scooped out his insides and left him running on fumes.

His tray is untouched. He's not even pretending to eat. Just staring at nothing.

Whatever the Seven are doing to him, it's working. The ginger I used to know is gone. What's left is just an empty shell of the arrogant, self-important asshole I humiliated in front of the school.

I should feel satisfied. Like I've won.

I snap my attention back just in time to see Monroe slide onto the bench next to me, straddling it like he has all the time in the world. His shit-eating grin makes my skin crawl with disgust and anger, but I don't show it, don't even blink.

"Got real quiet in here all of a sudden," he muses, resting his chin in his hand. He glances at Tommy and Max before turning back to me. "Almost like everyone's expecting something."