Rafe Cameron. ⁴

The Boneyard was littered with the wreckage of the fight—glass, trampled sand, and the faint glow of the barely surviving campfire. The Pogues had vanished into the night, leaving behind a trail of rage that followed them like ghosts. Rafe was at the center of it all, his fists still clenched, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes bearing the remnants of his fury. Topper, Kelce, and Ruthie remained nearby; their presence fueled the tension that still hung in the air.

You stood right behind Rafe, close enough to be there, but always with the feeling of not truly belonging to that group. You were his girlfriend, although no one in his social circle really acknowledged it—least of all Rafe himself when they were together. The weight of that world oppressed you, reminding you that you weren't really part of it.

Ruthie glanced in your direction; her smile was thin, barely concealing the sharp malice behind it. "It's funny," she said, her voice light and casual, but her gaze fixed on you for far too long, "how some people think they can simply overcome their origins. As if being poor is something you can shake off and leave behind." Her words hung in the air; the subtle jab was unmistakable, though disguised enough to seem like a casual comment. The look she gave you made it clear exactly who she was referring to.

Rafe didn't answer; his attention remained fixed on the spot where the Pogues had been moments before. "They'll never understand," he muttered, his voice low and bitter. "The Pogues think they can just take whatever they want. They're nothing. They've always been nothing and always will be." The contempt in his words was palpable; each one was like a dagger pointed at the people he hated—people like you.

At that moment, he had forgotten that you were also a Pogue.