SERAPHINA
The cafeteria buzzed with the low hum of afternoon chatter—utensils clinking against trays, the lingering scent of eggs and meat broth hanging in the air like the ghost of an old perfume. I took another bite of my grilled chicken wrap just as the man seated across from me leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
“Wow,” he said, loud enough for nearby tables to go quiet. “Would you look at that? Murderers do get hungry.”
The voice belonged to none other than Reed. Laughter erupted from his table like a chorus of jackals. Beside him, Cassius smirked and picked at his nails, as if we were all on a stage and he’d memorized every cue for this performance.
“This tiny mutt’s got nerves of steel, I’ll give him that,” Cassius drawled, his voice laced with moc
