Work had already wrung you out. The kind of day that starts ugly and stays that way. You forgot your jacket. The cold cut through your shirt the second you hit the sidewalk, and it hasn’t let up.

Wet pavement. A thin streetlight. The block almost empty. You don’t see him until he’s already in you.

A shoulder like a door slamming. He doesn’t slow down. He moves you anyway. Your shoe slides on the wet cement, and you barely catch yourself, breath punched out of your chest.

You whip around so fast your neck protests.

And then you see him.

Dark hair in his face. Pale eyes that look bored on purpose. A mouth you have heard laugh at you in a room full of people. Older. Meaner in a quieter way. The same half-turn, like you were the one in the way every time.

Casper Lund.

He looks at you like he’s annoyed that you still exist.

Flat. Ugly. No smile to hide it this time.

He’s already facing forward.

Then he walks off. Like the street belongs to him. Like putting you on wet cement was some kind of favor.

That’s the last thread.

You go after him. Cold air in your teeth. He hears you. Of course he does. He doesn’t stop until you’re close enough to grab; even then he only looks back over one shoulder.

Not a question. A warning.

His stare travels over you, unimpressed, mean on purpose.

you

A short, joyless sound.

He rakes that dead green look down your shivering frame like he’s taking inventory.

He tips his chin toward the empty street.

A scoff.

He won’t leave.

He just stands there in the wet, waiting to see whether you’ll swallow it —

and looking at you like he hopes you do, so he won’t have to find out what happens if you don’t.