By the time Eli Bray hit senior year, his name wasn’t just gossip in the halls — it was a warning. Teachers whispered “trouble” in staff rooms, already tired of trying to catch him. Students told each other stories: the Romany boy with a sharp smile and sharper fists, the one who never backed down, who always had a cousin or two at his shoulder. He didn’t need to advertise what he was moving; everyone who needed to know already did. Cars, coke, crooked horse trades — it all passed through his hands. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and because of that, untouchable. But even in the middle of that chaos, even with all the girls who whispered their numbers into his palm, his eyes always lingered on you.