Dorian Matthews sat behind his desk in the dimly lit detention room, the usual discipline of the setting feeling almost surreal given all of the recent upheavals of the campus. With Doctor MacGowan missing and Doctor Shaw dead, there was no other trained mental health professional to manage the students, and the atmosphere was a mix of subdued chatter and uneasy silence. Dorian found himself even more lenient than usual lately. The weight of recent events—the death, the destruction, the looming threat of a demon—had left him with little energy or conscience for enforcement.

The students, sensing the extra leniency, were chatting in low voices, trying to find some semblance of normalcy. There were only six of them in total tonight. Glancing over the room, Dorian noticed that Lucas was conspicuously absent. Rayne, who had been unusually quiet, was now visibly tense. Her gaze darted toward the door frequently, fingers drumming anxiously over the desk.

Dorian's concern grew as he noticed her increasing distress. He, too, glanced toward the door, the awareness of Leviathan making the student's absence even more troubling. With a sigh, he decided it was best to cut detention short. "Alright, everyone. It's been a rough week," he said somberly, rising from his seat. "I'm going to release you early. I trust you'll use this time wisely and stay out of trouble."

A murmur of relief and gratitude swept the room as the students gathered their things. Dorian's eyes, however, remained fixed on Rayne. She fumbled with her belongings, her unease growing by the second. When the classroom had cleared, Dorian approached her, his footsteps light on the polished floor; his heart was anything but.

"Miss Foster," he said quietly, taking a seat next to her at the back of the room. "Can we talk for a moment?"

Rayne's eyes flicked up, only to slide away again. "I need to find Lucas."

"He doesn't know detention has been dismissed. Why don't we give him a few more minutes to show up?"

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine."

Dorian exhaled too. Relief. The tension between them had been palpable ever since Rayne found out he'd been meeting with Emma Scott. She hadn't said anything directly, but the cold distance in her eyes every time they crossed paths spoke volumes. And the fact that this revelation had come on the same night as Hillary's death—on Homecoming, no less—had likely turned her mind into a storm of fear and anger. He couldn't blame her for doubting his intentions with the policewoman. Though, it also didn't seem relevant. He couldn't protect her if she kept locking him out. He cleared his throat and offered, "May I wait with you?"

"Can you wait in silence?" she shot back. Her voice was sharp, like the edge of a blade, ready to cut him down if he got too close.

Dorian nodded, a small smile tugging his lips. "I can do silence."

It was quiet for a moment, but it was the kind of quiet that buzzed with unsaid words. Rayne looked out the window, almost like she was searching for answers only the sky could give. Her fingers traced the edge of the desk, restless. Finally, she said, "Did you enjoy your date with Officer Traitor?"

The question hit him harder than it should have. He let out a slow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest grow. "Ah, yes, I love the sound of silence."

"Did. You. Enjoy. Your—?"

"It wasn't a date," he interrupted, his eyes sliding to meet hers in his periphery.

"Why is she here, then? She should be in Michigan. With her husband."

Dorian swallowed the guilt that rose in his throat, though he had no reason to feel it. He looked down, pinched the bridge of his nose, faced forward, and realized, even now, he looked guilty. He hadn't done anything wrong, but he had this gnawing feeling that Rayne's judgment was already final. No matter what he said, he would never change her mind.

He shifted in the seat, trying to anchor the conversation. "How are you?" When she didn't answer, he pushed further. "I'm more interested in why you're upset, Miss Foster."

"You wanna know why I'm so pissed?" Rayne scoffed, leaning back with crossed arms. "Mr. Matthews, my mom doesn't love me, did you know that? In fact, she hates me. But Officer Scott? For some stupid reason, I always thought that at least she cared about me."

"She does."

"Don't talk about her like you know her better than me," she spat.

"Sorry," he murmured. But she had it all wrong. Dorian hadn't been on a date—not even close. He couldn't tell her the truth though. His late-night meetings had nothing to do with some secret love affair—they were about demons, about Leviathan, the very thing threatening her now. Just the thing's name sent a shiver down his spine. Rayne was better off not knowing, safer in the dark, at least for now.

Rayne shook her head, her glare dripping with disappointment. "You were supposed to be Mr. Righteous, and she was . . . like, The Law, in human form. And if you two are together . . ." she trailed off.

He was beginning to understand her anger now. "So you're worried the needles on your moral compass are broken?" he inquired. He wasn't sure he could ever convince her otherwise, but he had to try: "We're not anything, I promise."

Rayne's gaze did not soften. If anything, her suspicion seemed to deepend. "Are you lying to me or yourself?" She scoffed. "Look at us. Even this conversation's inappropriate. I'm a minor. You shouldn't be talking to me about your relationship problems."

Dorian let out a humorless chuckle, his eyes drifting upward, toward the ceiling, a silent prayer. "Somehow, everything with you always gets so twisted."

"That's not funny."

"You're right, it's not," he said, bitter laughter dying on his tongue. He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I'm here because I'm worried. Doctor MacGowan's been missing appointments, and I . . . needed to know how you were holding up." He leaned his elbows on the desk, facing the front of the room. "You're the one making this about my dating life."

"Ugh. How did I ever think of you as Mr. Righteous?"

He ran his fingers over his chest, massaging the strange tense feeling that began to ripple across his torso. "Look, I care about you, okay? Both of you. Maybe more than I should. But don't you mistake that for anything else. My moral compass isn't broken."

"Why?" Rayne's voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "Is it because . . . you see Daniel when you look at me?"

Dorian hesitated, then nodded. "I do. But that doesn't mean I don't see you, too." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the sunlight was beginning to fade. "It's just . . . I feel him when I look at you. Like, he's watching." He met her eyes again. "Have you ever . . . seen him?"

"Seen him?" She appeared startled. "Wh-what do you mean by that? I'm not crazy."

"No, I didn't mean—" Dorian pressed his hand to his chest once more, his brother's presence almost tangible, steering him toward something. "I wasn't trying to call you crazy. I just get the feeling he's still around," he whispered. "Like he wants me to look after you."

Rayne's face softened for the first time that night. "Would you . . . be weirded out if I said I dream about him?"

Dorian shook his head slowly. "Not at all." Although logic would say that he should. Still, nothing made sense anymore. "What does he say to you?"

"Presumptuous of you. To assume he talks." Her eyes settled over the window again, eyes caught somewhere between the twinkling starlight and the sinking sun. "He's . . . horrifying in them."

"Oh." Dorian frowned, absentmindedly rubbing his chest again. "I wonder why."

◢✥◣

A cacophonous confrontation echoed throughout the music chamber as Cole and Lucas clashed, the impact of each blow reverberating off the walls. The sound of gritted teeth and labored breathing, the sharp crack of fist against skin—a symphony of stubbornness, neither one willing to give an inch or let the other win.

When it was all said and done, Lucas Abbott stood with a resolute posture, the bruises along his jaw throbbing as they deepened. His clothes were a mess—shirt rumpled, collar nearly hanging off his shoulder—but that was the least of his concerns. He rolled his shoulders back, forcing himself to stand taller despite the ache settling into his muscles. It didn't matter how disheveled he looked; what mattered was that he was still standing. And Cole? Well, Cole was the one bleeding this time.

Next to him, Cole leaned against the wall, tattooed arms crossed. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and clamped it between busted lips. Fresh blood seeped onto the filter, staining it a deep, dark red. He lit it anyway, smoke curling through the faint cracks of a frown. The edge of his mouth twitched with pain, once, twice, before his expression settled into something cold and unbothered. There was a shallow cut along his cheekbone, his lip torn open, crimson dripping down the side of his face and over his chin. Somewhere in the scuffle, Cole had lost his dress shirt too, now down to just a white undershirt.

Eventually, they both found themselves sliding against the wall and down the floor. Cole flicked ashes into the space between them. For a while, neither spoke. The silence was thick, neither comforting nor hostile. Their breathing synced, slow and heavy, as the proverbial dust settled all around them. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, yet miles apart, each nursing his own thoughts, his own wounds.

Still something like brothers. For now.

Lucas took a deep breath, his voice strained. "So . . . who won?"

"Don't act like it's not obvious," Cole muttered, his voice muffled by the cigarette.

At the same time, they both said, "Me."

"Yeah," Lucas scoffed. "Tell that to your face."

"Fine." Cole winced slightly as he took a long drag. "What's the favor?"

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, letting it curl between them like the remnants of an old flame, not quite dead but far from raging. Without thinking, Lucas plucked the cigarette from his lips, their eyes meeting briefly, something silent but charged passing between them. He held it with languid ease, settling the crimson-smeared filter between his lips, the sharp tang of iron and smoke filling his mouth as the burn clawed its way down his throat. There was something about this moment—the slick warmth of Cole's blood over his lips—that had finally felt like a reclamation of control. Of power.

Lucas handed it back without a word, a faint crimson stain over his bottom lip. A stream of smoke drifted through slightly parted lips, billowing in lazy, sinuous trails. Cole's eyes darkened with a simmering intensity, but he said nothing, accepting the cigarette back with a fluid, almost ceremonial movement. Without breaking eye contact, Cole brought it back to his lips, the subtle shift in his expression an unspoken challenge. Waiting.

Lucas stood, extending a hand. "First, I need you to believe everything I'm about to say. No questions asked."

Cole's eyes flickered with suspicion, but after a beat, he took Luke's outstretched hand, rising stiffly to his feet. "I used to," he said, and that stung more than any of the punches they'd thrown.

Lucas hesitated, their hands still locked. Slowly, he pulled away. "I lied to you," he admitted, the words coming out rough, uneven. "I know that. It was a shit move, and I'm sorry."

"See, I don't believe for one second that you're actually sorry."

"Dammit, Cole! You think this was easy for me?" Lucas spun on his heel, running a hand through his curls. The memory of the marks on his door flashed over his eyes. He tried focusing on the grand organ in the corner of the room, but he could still see them. The symbols. His death—taunting him. He shook his head. "The one time I need something from you—"

"Well, fuck me for having feelings, I guess."

Lucas whirled back, anger flaring as he stormed toward Cole. "I followed you blindly for years. Years, Cole! I did things I would've never dreamed of—I hurt people, changed everything about who I am just to be loyal . . . to you! And now, when I need you to shut up and listen, for once, you can't even do that?"

"You? Lecturing me about loyalty? That's rich." Cole flicked his cigarette butt toward him. "You were weak, Lucas. You couldn't handle shit without me!"

"Is that what you think, huh? That you're strong?" He looked him up and down, eyes searing with indignation. "All I see is a guy so terrified of losing control, he destroys everything he touches. Just to feel something."

Cole's eyes blazed, and in one swift motion, he shoved both hands into Lucas's shoulders, slamming his back against the wall with enough force to rattle the instruments nearby, strings vibrating with the impact.

Lucas inhaled sharply, refusing to break his glare. "You broke me," he continued, raising his voice, "beat me into something I hardly recognize! And for what?"

Cole's chest rose and fell as he bellowed, "Everyone here wanted one thing from you! They circled like vultures before you met me, just to get a piece of you! Your name, your money, your stupid Foundation! But I took care of you! I made sure that—"

"Like you didn't benefit—"

"—no one, absolutely no one—"

"—from my money!"

"—messed with you after me!" With every subsequent word, Cole began hurling punches into Luke's shoulder: "I. Fixed. You. You ungrateful shit!"

"Yeah well, who asked you to!?" Lucas's eyes were wild, incredulous, his shoulder trapped between Cole's fist and the wall behind him. He gritted his teeth, but never backed down. They had been here so many times before—Cole turning him into his own personal punching bag, and Lucas just . . . letting him. The hits hurt, sure, but it wasn't the physical pain that made Lucas's chest tighten; it was the fact that he was still here, still taking it, the ever self-loathing glutton for punishment.

Cole's fist hovered, ready for more, but he hesitated. For all the rage burning in his eyes, there was something else too: a flicker of frailty. Perhaps he needed Lucas broken—just as much as Lucas needed to be—to avoid facing his own cracks.

The sad, cold truth was that Lucas hated himself.

The mistakes he'd made, the lives he took, the person he'd become . . .

Lucas squared his shoulders, a sudden realization threatening to pull him under.

His stoicism had never been resilience. It had always been a profound surrender—an anesthetic of the soul. A longing for apathy, for the death of feeling, the end of everything. But now . . .

Now, he wanted to live. He wanted to smile. To laugh. To hold Rayne in his arms and watch her thrive. And for the first time in a long time, Lucas realized he wasn't afraid of wanting those things.

The silence that followed Cole's punches crackled with a sort of cosmic energy, like the rumbling of soil before an earthquake, an alarming reflection of what their friendship had become: a battlefield of emotional scars, broken trust, and a mirror of their deepest insecurities.

Worse yet, Lucas was going to die. Soon.

"This is my legacy now," he whispered. "Beating Spence to a pulp for nothing. Terrorizing every girl on campus. Sending people to the infirmary just for looking at you the wrong way." He met Cole's eyes, raw and pleading. "Is this what you wanted? Is this how you fix people?" His voice rose, cracking into a desperate howl. "Look at me! I don't even recognize myself anymore! You turned me into this demented, monstrous shadow of you!"

Cole scoffed, rolling his eyes. "First off, spare me the self-pity. Second, monstrous? Don't flatter yourself." He stepped back, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "If I had turned you into a monster—really, turned you into one," he said, flicking open his Zippo, the flame dancing over his lips as he lit another, "then maybe . . . Olivia would still be alive."

He paused, letting the words hang, as if expecting an outburst—perhaps something violent, something rather Cole-like.

There was none.

Lucas nodded, lips tight, gaze shifting away. "Yeah, okay. That's how you wanna play this? Fine." He stalked toward Cole, noting the smug curve of his mouth behind the smoke. But he didn't lay a hand on him. Just glared. "What exactly do you think you are, huh? You pretend to be so big, so bad, but the truth is, you're soft. A victim to your rage. It blinds you. Turns you into a selfish prick—"

"Better a prick—"

"—with zero critical thinking."

"—than a coward."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and bitter. Cole blew a cloud of smoke directly into Lucas's face, the taunt thick and deliberate.

"You really like the view from up there, don't you?" Cole asked, nice and slow. "That high horse Rayne propped you up on. It's cute."

"I did what you couldn't. You knew how I felt about Olivia—"

"Oh, not this again." Cole threw the cigarette on the ground, still smoldering.

"—and still, you made me terrorize her. I did that for you, no questions asked."

Cole waved his arms theatrically, bellowing, "Yes, yes, go ahead—!"

"It took me months to gain her trust again!"

"—tell me more about how you're just an abused little lapdog!"

"And then Rayne storms into that same stairwell—all wild and unpredictable—and suddenly, your rules didn't mean shit!" Lucas's fury found new fuel. "And if they didn't mean shit to you, why the fuck should they mean anything to me?"

The words hung in the air, each one laced with desperation and resentment.

"So what," Cole said slowly, "you hooked up with Rayne to get back at me? To show me what a piece of shit I am, for taking it easy on her instead of your dead girlfriend?"

"Rayne is my girlfriend, and if you mention Olivia one more time, I swear to God, I will bust open more than that lip."

"Did you," Cole began, stepping closer, "pursue Rayne . . . just to spite me?"

Lucas looked away, laughing darkly. "Man, I think it says so much about you . . . that you even think that's an appropriate response." He shook his head. "I feel like, somehow, that would make it better for you, wouldn't it? Make you respect me, even if just a little. Well, I hate to break it to you, Cole, but—using someone like that? To punish someone else? That's something you would do, not me."

Cole eyed him, unmoving. "You don't get second chances, Luke."

"She's not a—"

"That's why Olivia's body—"

"—second chance."

"—hit the fucking . . . ground!"

Lucas hurled his fist into Cole's face one last time. Cole staggered back, his nose gushing blood, but a feral grin spread quickly across his face—a twisted, crimson-toothed smirk of euphoric satisfaction. Even as the blood dripped down, it was clear that he reveled in the fact that he had broken Lucas. Again.

Cole may have been the one bleeding, but Lucas was the one truly broken.

"I love her, Cole," Lucas said, his voice low and raw. "And I know that pisses you off because, for once, it's something you can't control. But I do. And from the moment I saw her, I just wanted to get her as far away from you and your sick games as possible."

"Fine." Cole was rigid. He picked up his dress shirt from the ground, pressing it to his bleeding nose. As the stream slowed to a trickle, and crust began to form, he said, "Look, whatever we had? It's done. Brotherhood, loyalty? Doesn't mean a damn thing anymore. So, go ahead. What favor could you possibly need from me?"

Lucas stared back, his expression hard—until something flickered in his eyes. A plea, silent and desperate, mingling with the shadows of resignation. Did his eyes betray the truth?

He was a dead man walking. And his time was running out.

Cole's eyes narrowed, seeming to have sensed the shift. He took a deep breath. "Lucas," he said, his voice dropping into something that nearly resembled concern, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," Lucas whispered. Anxiety whirled in his chest, making it harder to breathe all of the sudden. "Just forget it, Cole. I don't need anything from you."

Because Lucas had realized, with a finality that cut deeper than any punch, that he couldn't count on Cole. And he was truly all alone.

Would he also . . . die alone?