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The afternoon sun slants through the dusty detention room windows, painting long shadows across the desks. A teacher scribbles at the front, the only sound the scratch of pen on paper. On the back row, Robert flips through a sketchbook beside Ross, who rubs his bruised arm. Across from them, Roy slumps with arms crossed, his glare fixed on you—a cold, simmering stare that says this isn't over. The milk carton lies crumpled on the floor between you. His jaw tightens. "You lookin' for round two, you?"