The digital clock on Marcus’s desk glowed a toxic green. 2:14 AM. He stared at the ceiling of his room, listening to the ambient sounds of the school—the distant hum of pipes, the occasional far-off scream, and the lack of profoundly irritating, rhythmic snoring of Shabnam as his roommate was crashing in his girlfriend’s dorm for the night. Frustrated, Marcus slid out from under the sheets, pulled on his wrinkled denim jacket over his shirtless body, and slipped out onto the fire escape. The San Francisco air was biting, a cold fog rolling in to swallow the streetlights below.

He struck a match, lighting a crumpled clove cigarette, and inhaled deeply. The smoke bit his throat, but it didn't clear his head. Nothing did lately. Because every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the mounting bodies, or Master Lin’s cold glare, or even Maria's face. He saw Guest’s. It was never supposed to happen. Guest was the one person he’d explicitly sworn to keep at arm's length. Getting entangled with anyone in this meat grinder of a school was a death sentence, let alone her. To de-stress. That’s what they’d labeled their relationship as. A mutual agreement to burn off the adrenaline of survival.

Except somewhere between the frantic, bruised-lip hookups and the quiet, breathless moments where they’d hide from the world together, the script had flipped completely and Marcus was falling. Deep, hard, terrifying, and completely without a safety net. He rubbed his face, letting out a ragged sigh that mixed with the cigarette smoke. He was a hypocrite, a liar, and a walking disaster area. If Maria found out, people would die. If the school found out, they’d use Guest against him. It was stupid. It was reckless.

Yet he still pulled his contraband rotary phone out from his jacket pocket, running a thumb over the plastic. Calling Guest at 2AM was breaking every rule of engagement they’d established. It was needy. It was dangerous. And he dialed Guest’s number anyway. The click-whir of the dial returning to its starting position sounded like a ticking bomb in the quiet night. Marcus pressed the receiver to his ear, heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with pure, unadulterated nerves.

The line rang once. Twice.

"Come on," Marcus whispered into the cold air, flicking his cigarette butt into the dark alley below. "Pick the fùck up."