Foreigner

Chapter 19: Lukas vs Monroe (2)

The rain hasn't stopped since the afternoon. It slams against the windows in thick, punishing sheets, a constant static that hums through the empty schoolhouse. The air inside is damp and stale, the kind of cold that settles in your bones and refuses to leave.

I stand at the bottom of the main staircase, hands shoved into my pockets, my back pressed lightly against the railing. The ceiling lights flicker every now and then, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows down the dim hallway.

The front doors groan against the wind. Rainwater seeps in through the cracks, collecting in uneven puddles across the floor. The whole place feels like it's holding its breath.

So am I.

I hear Monroe before I see him.

Fast footsteps. A little uneven, a little too eager.

Then he appears at the top of the stairs like he's been summoned. His wild black hair is messier than usual, sticking up in odd directions, and his fingers twitch against the railing like he's trying to keep them from balling into fists.

I tilt my head, watching him. Waiting.

He's already angry. That's good. I want him angry. I want him reckless.

I want him to pay.

Tommy is in the hospital because of him. Because Monroe thought it'd be funny to make a mess of someone who never did a damn thing to him. Tommy—who took me in like I belonged here from day one. Who always had a stupid grin, a joke, a seat saved at lunch.

And now he's lying in a hospital bed.

Monroe did that.

I roll my shoulders, stretching my fingers in my pockets. I feel wired—my body thrumming with something dark, something sharp.

I want to make Monroe wish I had finished him off, not left him to suffer.

"You took your time," I say, my voice low, even. I shift my weight, glancing down at my wrist like I'm checking a watch. "I was starting to think you got scared."

I found Monroe's locker and left him a little something to make him feel...special. A time and location. Told him to wear something pretty.

He hasn't delivered, wearing the same black sweater, ripped jeans, and boots he always does. I guess it's good enough for a beating.

Monroe exhales through his nose, almost like he's laughing, but his lips curl too tight for it to be real. He's gripping the envelope I slipped under his door a few days prior, raising it into the air. "You. You think this is funny? You think a few photos is gonna take me down?"

"I think you're funny." I take a slow step forward, closer to the bottom of the stairs. "You knew the second I saw you in the library that I had you. But you still came to confront me." I let my voice dip, slow, taunting. "Like a good little dog."

That does it.

Monroe's entire body tenses. His grip on the railing tightens until his knuckles go white. His nostrils flare, his jaw tightens, and I know—I fucking know—I have him.

He wants to prove me wrong.

But he can't.

Not to me. Not to anyone.

"So, what now?" I ask, my voice lazy, unbothered. "You gonna prove you're not the pathetic joke I made you out to be?"

Monroe snaps. He lunges, his fist cutting through the air, wild and desperate, but I'm already moving. I step to the side, just enough for his swing to miss, and his own momentum sends him stumbling forward. He barely catches himself on the railing, wheezing.