Page 96 of Runaways

His voice. Even expecting it, it hits me right in the chest.

"I don't suppose you're here for the soup special," I say, sliding into the seat across from him.

He smiles a little. "Nope. Well, kind of."

"You can't be here like this, Tate," I say, lowering my voice. "Someone is going to see you and call the police."

Tate scoffs. "No one here is looking for me, and no one is going to recognize me."

I have to admit—the tattoos hide him well. They're loud, distracting from all the things that make him noticeably himself. He has what looks like runes etched across his left cheekbone and a spiderweb covering the majority of his neck with a spider beneath his left ear. I wonder what else is hidden beneath his clothing.

"Your disguise is good, too. You're too skinny—I almost didn't recognize you in the video, you know."

"Yeah, well, that's not on purpose—it's a psychosis."

"Why are you so prickly to me? Hmm?" he asks. "I heard you were pretty nice to Silas—asked him to cuddle. I mean, I don't know if you blocked it out or what, but he's the one who killed your mom and made you eat your dad, not me. I'm just saying."

"He wasn't my…" I pause, exhaling. "What do you want, Tate? I have to work. And don't say you just want to play a game because—"

"But I do," he says. "I want to play with you, and I want money. You're going to help me with both."

"Tate, does it look like I have any fucking money?"

"Not really." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, and I notice for the first time that the eyebrow ring and lip rings are gone. As he licks his lips, and I stare at the two holes where they used to be.

The tongue ring, though—that's still there.

"It looks like you're waiting tables and living on less than minimum wage in a piece of shit town. I thought you wanted to be a mad scientist or something. Didn't really live up to your potential, did you?"

My fist hits the table before I reel myself in. "That'syourfault," I hiss through clenched teeth. "You took everything from me."

"No, it's not; it's your fault," he throws back. "And I'm so fucking tired of your constant need to be a victim—to be seen as innocent—that I could fucking scream."

"Ineverneeded that," I spit back.

"You're not innocent, Noah. You're not a victim. You're just as angry and broken as I am. And you know what? If you would've just accepted it—embraced it, even—you could have been happy."

"Didn't really sign up for a philosophical debate, Tate. I need to get back to work, so why are you here? Are you going to kill me?"

"I haven't decided yet," he says. "Maybe. Maybe I just like to play with my food. You prefer yours raw, though, right? Bloody? Kind of the consistency of gelled cranberry sauce right of the can?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. "We're done with this conversation."

"Not yet," he says. "I have something for you." He passes me a folded napkin with something inside. "I suggest you open it slowly. You could get in a lot of trouble if you freak out."

I do as he asks, opening itslowly, and…

It's a finger—or half of a finger. From the second knuckle to the nail. I barely manage to set it down on the table without dropping it.

"Tate, no." My eyes fill with tears, and I shake my head.

"Hey, relax," he says. He reaches across the table and rests his hand on my arm. "I'm not going to make you eat that. I mean, Silas would, but…"

I wipe a tear away before it has the chance to fall.

"Hey, don't cry. It's all right. You just have to put it in the soup—that's all."

"What?"

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