Foreigner

Chapter 24

The cafeteria is suffocating. Not in the literal sense—there's plenty of space, plenty of chatter—but in the way that silence takes on a different weight when it's intentional. When people don't talk because they're waiting for something to happen.

I sit at the farthest table by the window, hands wrapped around a cooling cup of coffee. My plate sits untouched in front of me. Across the room, Julian is slumped over his tray, stirring his oatmeal in slow, empty circles. His eyes are downcast, his expression blank. No one bothers him.

No shoves as people pass him. No whispered taunts. Nothing.

The Seven have discarded him. Whatever fight was left in him after I ruined him, they took the rest.

And I should feel satisfied about that. But all I feel is a creeping sense of unease. Because if Julian is what happens when you lose, then what happens if I lose?

A tray clatters down across from me.

Christian.

He doesn't say anything, just starts eating, gaze flicking up only once to scan the room with his sharp green eyes before dropping back to his food. It's the same every morning. I sit. He finds me. He sits. No greetings, no acknowledgment. Just quiet, like some unspoken agreement neither of us remembers making.

There's no reason why this should feel reassuring. And yet, it does.

Across the cafeteria, whispers stir. I'm used to hearing them, but today they sound different. Not gossip. Anticipation. The kind of murmurs that build before a storm.

Christian must hear it too because he finally looks at me properly. "They're waiting."

I already know who he means. The Seven. The moment I refused them, I knew it wasn't over. But this—this drawn-out silence, this absence of retaliation—it's worse.

I glance at Christian's hands. His grip on his fork is loose, but he taps it against the tray in slow, even beats. Like he's measuring time. Or preparing for something.

"Do you still have it?" I ask quietly.

His tapping stops. A brief pause. Then, "What?"

I tilt my head. "The polaroid."

His jaw tenses, but he doesn't answer. And that's an answer in itself.

He still has it. The picture of Charlie, beaten half to death.

I don't say anything else. Because I know why he keeps it.

Not just out of guilt. Not just out of anger.

But because it's a reminder.

Of what happens when you lose.

¤ ¤ ¤

The charcoal smears across my fingers as I sketch, the outline of my face staring back at me from the canvas in faint, jagged strokes. The assignment is a self-portrait, but the person on the canvas doesn't look like me.

Mrs. Martin moves through the rows of easels, offering quiet commentary as she observes our work. When she reaches me, she pauses. I can feel her gaze assessing the fragmented lines I've drawn—the sharp cheekbones, the uneven shading, the smudged eyes that don't quite look forward.

Her voice is light but deliberate. "It's... fragmented."

I don't look at her. That's the point.

She hums thoughtfully, then moves on.

The classroom is warm, the windows letting in a soft, gray light from outside. It should feel peaceful. But it doesn't. My nerves have been wired too tight since this morning. The silence isn't natural anymore. It's expectant.