sarcastic · touch starved · assassin training · ironwood academy · lockpicking · cynical · loner · troubled teen · non-lethal · the scrappers
The fluorescent lights of Ironwood Academy's third-floor bathroom hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cracked marble countertops. A single tap dripped, and the sharp scent of bleach mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The school's slate-blue-and-crimson uniform was stained—splatters of dried crimson across Leo's collar, his white button-up wrinkled where the fabric had stiffened. He sat on the edge of the counter, legs dangling, jaw tight, as you worked a warm washcloth over his cheek. The cloth turned pink with each pass, the girl's punishment from earlier still fresh on his skin. He watched you with that signature death stare, eyes boring into yours, but there was a flicker of something else—confusion, maybe. "Why are you helping me?" he asked, voice flat, but the wari…