Foreigner

Chapter 22

The cafeteria is loud, but beneath the usual noise—the scraping of chairs, the hum of conversation, the clatter of trays—there's something else. A shift. A hesitation.

I feel it in the way people glance at me and then quickly look away. The way the usual tension in the air has sharpened, like the entire school is waiting to see what happens next. Like they think I made a mistake.

I don't care.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

I adjust my grip on my tray as I scan the room. Julian sits hunched over his plate, picking at his food like he's forgotten how to eat. His movements are slow, and mechanical, like he's just going through the motions. It's a different kind of hollow than before—this one isn't anger or shame. It's something quieter. Resigned.

His eyes flick up once, meeting mine.

It lasts less than a second, but it's long enough. He knows.

Knows that I did what he couldn't. That when the Seven extended their hand, I didn't take it. That I had a choice, and he never did.

I tear my gaze away before I can think about it too much and keep moving.

Max is sitting alone near the windows. His tray is barely touched. He used to eat with Tommy—only Tommy. And now that Tommy's in the hospital, it's like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

I slow down as I approach his table. Our eyes meet.

For a second, I consider sitting down. Just sliding into the seat across from him and acting like nothing's changed.

But then his hand tightens around his fork, his expression hardens, and I see the same thing I saw the last time we talked—the sharp edge of resentment that hasn't faded yet.

I exhale and keep walking.

Christian is at a table near the back entrance, eating like he doesn't have a care in the world. I set my tray down across from him and drop into the seat without a word.

He doesn't acknowledge me at first. Just keeps slicing through his eggs with slow, precise movements.

I grab my fork, waiting. For the scolding. For the lecture. For the inevitable What the hell were you thinking?

But it doesn't come.

Instead, Christian finally lifts his gaze. And for the first time since I sat down, I realize—he's not mad.

If anything, he looks satisfied.

His voice is low when he mutters, "You're not special for saying no. You're just lucky they let you walk away."

I pause, fork hovering over my plate. His tone is calm, but there's something sinister behind it.

Stabbing my fork in a piece of scrambled egg, I stick it in my mouth and swallow, but the food tastes like nothing.

If Christian is relieved, and he's had to reject the Seven to get out, that means I really was lucky.

It also means he wasn't.

As I stare at my roommate, I wonder what the difference is. They could've beaten me up this morning easily. Three vs one isn't exactly hard to predict.

Christian raises his head and catches me staring. His green eyes glaze over with a certain friendliness that he's started showing towards me.

Then I remember what Adrian said on the basketball court. 

No rush. We have time.

They're not done yet. They're waiting for me to say yes, one way or another.