Page 33 of King of Violence

I hate him for saying it because he isn’t wrong.

The campus cafeteria becomes my hunting ground, the perfect place to overhear complaints about money, rising tuition, or unpaid internships. I’m not proud of it, but I’m damn good at spotting the students who’ll bite without asking too many questions.

Like Brendan, a junior studying finance whose internship fell through last summer. He’s drowning in debt and trying tosave face with his frat brothers. When I casually mention a “side hustle” that pays in cash, he practically begs for details.

Or Professor Acker, who was on the verge of retirement until he found out his pension isn’t what he hoped. I spin it as a harmless favor—running “inventory checks” for the store in exchange for a generous cut.

He never asks what the inventory is.

They don’t want to know. That’s the secret to all of this. People crave plausible deniability, and I give it to them, wrapped in a neat little bow.

Today, I’m meeting someone new, a sophomore named Tasha who works part-time at the library and barely makes enough to cover rent. She’s bright, ambitious, and exactly the kind of person I hate pulling into this mess. But when she sits across from me at the campus café, her wide eyes betray how much she needs this.

“So...what’s the job, exactly?” she asks, stirring her coffee nervously.

“Simple,” I say casually. “We just need someone to run errands for the store—pick up inventory, deliver invoices. That sort of thing.”

“And it pays...how much?”

“More than your library gig,” I say with a smirk. “A lot more.”

She hesitates, her fingers tapping the edge of her cup. “It’s legal, right?”

“Of course,” I lie, the words sliding off my tongue with practiced ease.

She nods slowly. “Okay. I’m in.”

I smile, the familiar churn of guilt rising in my chest. “Welcome to the team.”

By the time I leave campus, the rain is coming down in sheets, drenching the streets and turning the city into a blur oflights and water. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, shoving my hands into my pockets as I make my way across town.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. Hell, I know exactly why, but admitting it feels like crossing another line I’m not ready for.

Felix hasn’t spoken to me in days, not since that night in the library. At first, I think he’s just busy—midterms are around the corner, and he has a lot riding on his GPA. But now?

Now it feels like something else entirely.

He doesn’t answer my texts, not even the harmless ones about upcoming assignments. I catch glimpses of him on campus, but every time I try to approach him, he ducks into a classroom or vanishes into the crowd.

It’s not like him. Felix isn’t the type to avoid confrontation, which only makes his silence sting more.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I have bigger problems to deal with. But I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. Something I can’t fix with a smooth line or an easy apology.

Felix’s apartment building looms ahead, a nondescript brick structure tucked between a laundromat and a corner store. I linger across the street, half-hidden beneath the awning of an empty bus stop.

His window is lit, the faint glow spilling out onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, I see him moving around—barefoot in sweats, his hair damp like he just showered. He looks…normal.

Comfortable.

Safe.

I shouldn’t have come. This isn’t safe—for either of us. But I can’t tear my eyes away. Felix sits down on the worn couch, a book in hand. The faintest smile tugs at his lips as he reads, and for a moment, the storm raging inside me quiets.

But then my mind races. Why isn’t he talking to me? Has he figured something out? Did someone say something? A bitter voice in the back of my head whispers that my father or Elijah could have done something without telling me. I press my forehead against the cold metal pole of the bus stop, letting the rain drip off the edges of my hood. What am I doing here? He deserves better than this. Better thanme.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I already know it’s Elijah, or worse, my father, demanding updates. Demanding compliance.

I cross the street and press the buzzer for his unit, my finger lingering too long. A part of me hopes he won’t answer, that he’ll keep the door shut and save us both from what this is bound to turn into.

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