Page 34 of King of Violence

But the intercom crackles to life. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

There’s a pause. Too long of a pause.

“I’m busy, Julian.”

I exhale, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Open the door, Felix. Please.”

Another pause. Then, with a metallic click, the door buzzes open.

He stands in the doorway of his apartment, arms crossed and sweats hung low on his hips. His hair is still damp, like he hasn’t been out of the shower long enough for it to dry completely.

“You’re soaked,” he says flatly.

“You gonna invite me in, or are we doing this in the hallway?”

Felix sighs and steps aside, letting me enter. The warmth of the apartment is a stark contrast to the chill outside, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my chest.

“What do you want, Julian?” he asks as he closes the door behind me.

“To talk. You’ve been avoiding me, and I want to know why.”

Felix’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. “I’ve been busy. School, work, you know—life.”

“Bullshit,” I say, stepping closer. “This isn’t just about being busy. You won’t answer my texts, and when I try to talk to you on campus, you practically sprint in the other direction.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he shoots back, his voice rising.

“You don’t owe me one, but I’d like one anyway,” I snap. “What’s going on, Felix?”

His eyes flicker, a crack in his otherwise guarded expression. He turns away, walking toward the small kitchen counter as if the distance might help.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he says finally, his back to me. But his eyes look away, like that’s a lie.

“Then what is it?” I press, closing the space between us. “Because if this is about what happened in the library, I told you it was footba?—”

“Stop,” he cuts in, turning to face me. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

I can see the conflict written all over him—the way his hands clench at his sides, his gaze darting everywhere but to me.

“Felix,” I say, softer now.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach drop. “Try me.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, I think he might actually tell me what’s going on. But instead, he laughs—a bitter, hollow sound.

“You’re the last person I can talk to about this,” he says.

The words sting, and I don’t know whether it’s the accusation or the truth in them that hits harder. “Why?”

“Because you’re a liar, Julian,” he says, his voice trembling. “You lie about everything. And I can’t…I can’t trust you.”

It’s like a slap to the face, but I don’t back down. I step closer, close enough to see the storm in his eyes.

“You don’t mean that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “If I could tell you I would, but?—”

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