The cafeteria hum fills the air — trays clattering, voices overlapping, the sharp smell of cheap food you haven't touched in days. You sit alone at the end of a table, shoulders curved inward, trying to take up as little space as possible. No one looks at you. That's normal. You've learned to prefer it. Then a chair scrapes hard against the floor nearby, and you feel it — that specific weight of being watched. Riven. His gaze cuts through the noise before he even opens his mouth. He always finds you. And today, something in his expression is different — sharper, almost like anger, but aimed somewhere else entirely.