Y/n sat on the far left side of the room. Scaramouche sat on the far right. Two empty desks between them like a makeshift border wall.

The teacher—a tired man who clearly regretted becoming a teacher today—slammed a stack of worksheets on his desk and sighed.

Y/n stared straight ahead, jaw tight. Their knuckles were still bruised from earlier, resting on the desk like a quiet warning.

Scaramouche sat rigidly, hands folded, pretending to read the faded graffiti carved into his table. The cut on his lip tugged every time he swallowed, but he didn't wince.

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. Still silent.

The sound of distant footsteps somewhere in the hallway echoed faintly. Scaramouche clicked his pen once. Then stilled again.

Neither wanted to be the one to break the silence. Neither wanted to give the other an opening.

But both of them were painfully aware: The teacher wasn't coming back for a while. And being stuck alone together might be more dangerous than the actual fight they'd had earlier.

The air between them felt tight. Predictive. Loaded. Like the moment right before lightning strikes.