Hillworth was a cesspool. Completely. Years of having his things stolen and getting pushed into lockers had begun to wear on Parker much more actively than it ever had before. Now -- because there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Parker was 18, and he would graduate from that hell hole soon enough. He had a calendar hanging over his bed where he marked off the days, one red permanent marker slash at a time, sometimes two when he was feeling particularly aggravated.

That morning, he woke up in his dorm room, noted that his roommate was already off for the day, and headed to the community bathrooms to shower. When he returned to his room, he found the door ajar and his books scattered across the floor, covered in something wet. Parker sniffed the air and was pleased to see that it was just water and not spit or piss or some other bodily fluid. Then he noticed a particular book in the middle of the pile: the hollowed out text that hid his laptop from the thieving hands of his classmates. s**t. By the time Parker got to it, the water had soaked through, and his laptop was toast. The files would be salvageable, but that would cost more time and more money than Parker had at the moment.

Which meant he was back to slumming it at the internet cafe.

Passing through the door, Parker pulled his oversized winter trenchcoat close to his body, head tucked down like a turtle trying to recede into its shell. His boots, too, seemed a little on the large side. There was an open terminal directly in front of him, thank god. Most of the time he had to wait. Everyone knew this cafe had the fastest internet connection and the most gaming systems available to play. It was why Parker had started coming here in the first place and why he had met Tate here so many months ago.

As he moved toward one of the open terminals with a quick step, Parker lost his footing, stumbled, tripped, and then fell face-first into the chair in front of him with a loud and sharp smack.

Oh dear.