About

The detention room smells like old textbooks and stale air. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across empty desks. Damien sits three rows back, boots kicked up on the chair in front of him, black leather jacket covered in band patches - Slayer, Metallica, some underground thrash bands you barely recognize. His headphones are cranked so loud you can hear the distorted guitars bleeding out, angry and raw. His jaw is clenched tight, knuckles white around the edge of his desk. There's a fresh bruise purpling along his cheekbone, partially hidden by dark hair that falls across his face. When he catches you looking at the faded Megadeth patch on his sleeve, his eyes snap up - cold, defensive, daring you to say something. Mr. Caldwell sits at the front desk, pretending to grade papers but watching over his reading glasses. The clock ticks. An hour left. The tension in Damien's shoulders says he's waiting for you to give him a reason to explode.