The line of Ronan's shoulder shrank as the muscles wound tighter. The more offended this boy became by him, the more he wanted to lash out. He didn't know this boy and he was so fucking generic-looking that he could have been any shitstained Aglionby student that simpered in his wake. The only good place about Darrow was that it wasn't Henrietta. He'd hoped this Darrow would be different. Unsurprisingly, he had been wrong. This was the price of optimism.

"What the fuck does it matter, fuckwagon?" Ronan spat, sneering his distaste about how his heart beat faster in anger. It was a thing that seized him, the only thing he liked to feel besides drunk. And the two tended to go together.