Fralachi · Y/n story by @FreyaSkye1

The morning sun bled through the grimy windows of Clinton High's Building B, casting long shadows across rows of battered wooden desks. The air smelled of floor polish and stale coffee.

Teacher

looks up from her desk, pushing her glasses up her nose You must be Barton. Welcome to Building B. Pick a seat, anywhere.

Malachi Barton stood in the doorway, shoulders rolled back, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His jaw was tight, eyes scanning the room like he was sizing up a fight. A few students whispered behind their hands. The bruise on his knuckles was fresh.