Though the chill gnawed at him through his thin clothes, Andrew felt a steady, flickering warmth kindled by the sun. It beamed directly into his eyes, drowning his pupils in pools of molten gold, and the burgeoning hope of a homecoming – of seeing familiar faces once more – kept the frost at bay. As the first houses finally loomed into view, a thin smile quirked his lips. Burying his hands deep in his pockets, he began to meander through the streets with a keen, darting curiosity, searching for any scar or shift the town might have gathered in his absence. The outskirts were deserted; not entirely unexpected, for while the town was modest, it felt sprawling for a soul-count of barely six thousand.

  As he turned onto Main Street, he was met by a silence so heavy and muffled it felt as though the world had been packed in cotton wool – the peculiar, breathless hush that only follows a monumental snowfall. The shaded lawns, which in summer would have boasted their lush, emerald pride, were now entombed under great, heavy drifts that put one in mind of thick royal icing slathered over a Christmas cake.

  The rows of single-story cottages, with their steep, triangular gables, resembled a line of disgruntled old men who had pulled their white fur caps down over their very eyebrows. From the soot-stained brick chimneys, thin ribbons of smoke uncurled lazily into the twilight sky, carrying the crisp scent of pine logs and a sense of domestic sanctuary that felt, from his vantage point on the freezing pavement, almost achingly out of reach.

  The white picket fences, once so primly manicured, now poked tentatively out of the snowdrifts like a row of broken teeth. Along the kerbside, the 'iron beasts' lay dormant – heavy Fords and Chevrolets. Their chrome bumpers, which had once dazzled in the sun, were now choked with a dull crust of rime, their massive frames looking for all the world like great, slumbering whales beneath the white tide.

  Andrew might have lingered longer, soaking in the nostalgia of the familiar streets, had his attention not been snagged by the sudden appearance of figures up ahead. For a few moments, they stood huddled in conversation, casting darting glances his way before detaching themselves from the shadows and beginning a steady march in his direction. Andrew kept moving forward to meet them, his internal compass spinning wildly; he oscillated between dropping his gaze to the pavement – hoping to remain invisible to these strangers – and stealing furtive, guarded looks from beneath his brow, much like a cat nursing a guilty conscience.

  Then came the moment. The kind where you can hear the frantic thudding of your own heart against your ribs. He felt the sharp, electric spike of adrenaline; he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he was afraid. Was it his mind sounding a klaxon of impending threat? Who were these faceless figures? Would they accost him? Why did his neck feel too stiff to lift his head? If he dared to meet their eyes, would it be seen as a challenge? What were they murmuring about? And that low, bubbling laughter –was it directed at him? All these questions hammered at the inside of his skull like a dozen miners swinging their pickaxes in a hollow cavern.

  Just as it seemed they had safely navigated the encounter and passed one another, the rhythmic crunch of boots on snow ceased abruptly behind him, barely a yard away. Then, slicing through the frigid air, came a voice – young, slightly raspy, and unmistakably masculine.

  'Hey, you,' he said, the words pinning Andrew to the spot.

  Taking two final, faltering steps, Andrew was forced to a halt. His breath hitched in his throat as he turned to face them. There were four of them – a ragtag band of ruffians. Three stood roughly his height, while the fourth loomed slightly taller. One was entirely bald and, by the looks of it, exceptionally dim-witted; only a fool would parade through such a frost without a hat when his scalp offered no protection whatsoever. His scowl was heavy, and his eyes were like twin nuggets of coal, as deep and vacant as a starless midnight. He wore a hooded parka with a ragged fur trim.

  Beside him stood a blond boy, also hatless. Andrew would have liked to assume this one possessed more sense, but the vacant expression on his face suggested otherwise. He was swathed in a dark jacket that hung clumsily down to his knees. The third, sporting a beanie, seemed the most hostile by far, judging by his posturing – a display of swaggering, unearned confidence. He toyed with a toothpick between his teeth, rolling it with his tongue in a mimicry of a cinematic tough guy, though he was clearly no such thing; he was merely a common bully with a dull, pitiable life. The final figure remained shrouded in a hood, the most reclusive of the lot. With his face half-hidden and hands buried deep in his pockets, he stood slightly apart, hunched as if retreating into a shell, yearning to remain a shadow even whilst standing in plain sight.

  Andrew's mind worked with a frantic, analytical speed. Though the sprawling city he'd just left had spared him from such unsavoury encounters, his previous life here in Oakvalley had been peppered with minor skirmishes. He was never the provocateur, yet he was often the target. His sensitive nature meant these clashes left more than just physical bruises; they inflicted deep, internal welts. He knew he would agonize over this moment for days, the memory staining his world in shades of charcoal and ash. This 'sketch' of an analysis told him everything he needed to know: these were not the sort of boys who would simply offer a polite nod and pass by. He also knew, with a cold sinking in his gut, that they would best him in eleven cases out of ten. The odds were not just against him – they were nonexistent.

  Before Andrew could so much as part his lips, the dim-witted blond spoke up in a high, jarring pitch.

  'Yo, dumbass. You deaf or something?'

  This is it, Andrew thought, a cold stone of certainty settling in his stomach. The end.

  He felt himself unraveling. He stood rooted to the spot, his throat as parched as a desert, while a traitorous tremor began to creep into his legs. He was acutely aware that if his adversaries caught scent of his frailty, the situation would go from precarious to catastrophic. While his lips and tongue struggled to find their rhythm, his mind was frantically preoccupied with a single command: stop shaking. He was well aware that the human brain was a peculiar organ, capable of conjuring salvation or sealing one's doom with a single thought. And yet, primal fear proved a far more potent master than logic; his knees continued to knock.

  'I figured him for a nerd at first.' the blond said again, tilting his head slightly toward the bald boy.

  'Nah,' the one in the beanie interjected, his voice dripping with disdain. 'He looks a bit too dumb to be a brainiac.'

  A sharp, biting retort flickered in Andrew's mind – something about the irony of being called 'dumb' by a group that looked like they struggled with basic shoe-tying but he stifled it instantly. He was quite fond of his teeth and bones remaining in their current, unbroken state.

  'Cat got your tongue, or did it fall out in your pants?' the bald boy demanded, his brow furrowing ominously.

  'I… I, um…' Andrew finally managed to wheeze out.

  'Well. He can actually move his jaw,' the boy in the beanie sneered. 'Looking for something here?'

  'W-what? N-n-no, I'm just… just taking a walk,' Andrew replied, the familiar terror beginning to settle into a dull, manageable ache.

  'Don't think I’ve seen your face before,' the bald one observed, his tone cold, measured, and dangerously imposing. 'You seem new here, don't you?'

  'I… hah, well, I suppose I could say the same about you,' Andrew blurted out.

  The words were out before he could catch them. In that heartbeat, he realised he had made a monumental blunder. Though he hadn’t intended a shred of mockery, the phrase had acted like a spark dropped into a powder keg – the very match the bullies had been waiting to strike since the moment they laid eyes on him.

  He'd helped to light the match that the bullies had intended to set fire to since the very beginning of their meeting.

  'I don't follow. What d'you think you're trying to say?' the boy in the woollen hat snapped, taking a menacing prowl toward Andrew.

  'N-no, no, I-I just--' Andrew stammered, the words sticking like dry wool in his throat.

  'Relax, Cole. He's just a bit stupid, remember?' interjected the boy in the hood, speaking for the first time with a voice like sliding gravel.

  The one in the hat gave a sharp, derisive snort but held his ground.

  'Right then, four-eyes,' the bald one added. He spat the insult with a sneer, clearly marking Andrew as a 'nerd' despite the lack of spectacles on his face. 'Empty those pockets and you're free to go. This time.'

  Andrew didn't dare to be indignant, though a desperate urge to protest rose within him, given that his pockets were entirely void of currency.

  'B-but I haven't got anything on me...' Andrew managed to whisper, praying they might find him too pitiful to bother with.

  The bald boy's face contorted into a mask of irritation as he looked Andrew up and down. The one in the hat let out a long, weary sigh, turning his head aside as if suddenly captivated by the winter scenery. Meanwhile, the hooded boy remained motionless, watching Andrew with a predatory stillness from beneath his brow. Then, the blonde one chimed in:

  'Well, well. You've shown a real lack of respect. And now youcre telling us you've the cheek to walk our streets with empty pockets? Looks like you're overdue for an ass-kicking.'

  Andrew barely registered the threat; he found it hard to take the blonde boy seriously compared to the looming presence of the other three. But while he was busy trying to decipher the thoughts of the boy in the hat, the bald leader snapped his head up, his voice returning to that habitual, gravelly bark:

  'Playing deaf again, are you? No matter... Kenny's right. You've got a reckoning coming.'

  Andrew's gaze snapped to him, his tremors worsening until he was shaking like a leaf in a gale. He scrambled to find the magic words that might grant him a reprieve, but as he struggled to force a sound from his parched throat, the boy in the hat fixed him with a cold, renewed interest.

  'Don't worry about it... really. Next time, you'll think twice before stepping on our turf with nothing to show for it.'

  Panic began to claw at Andrew's chest. He felt utterly 'boxed in' by the four bullies: two who radiated a silent, calculated cruelty; one who remained a shadowed enigma; and the last who, despite his apparent dim-wittedness, possessed a volatile edge. Andrew could almost see it already – the moment he'd be swept off his feet, this boy would be the first to pounce, kicking out like a small, rabid dog driven mad by hunger and spite.

  But then, quite suddenly, the knot of anxiety in his stomach unravelled. Why had the dread vanished as if swept away by an invisible hand? In that precarious second, just as his spirit was sinking into a dark, hopeless abyss, the world seemed to reset.

  Movement behind the group caught his eye. Two figures were approaching, their silhouettes sharpening against the snow. The bullies, backs turned, remained blissfully unaware of the newcomers, but Andrew saw them clearly. He didn't dare let a smile break across his face, yet his features softened, the sharp edges of his terror smoothing out. A radiant sense of hope surged through him – it was as though Superman himself had descended from the heavens with Batman on his side to pluck the boy from the clutches of these four strangers. For there, walking toward him, were the two pillars of his childhood: Finn and Max.

  The bullies were forced to abandon their grim designs on the defenceless sixteen-year-old as the crunch of approaching footsteps reached their ears – steps that seemed deliberately heavy, announcing a challenge. They spun around to face the newcomers.

  Finn enjoys fights and the attention of his female classmates. He comes off as a troublemaker and is known for his unfriendly, slightly cocky demeanor, but deep down, he is a kind, sensitive, and caring guy. He is always ready to stand up for his friends at any moment. He is a boy whose audacity was matched only by his irrepressible need to show off whenever a girl might be watching. He possessed a mop of dark, undulating waves, warm hazel eyes, and skin as pale as parchment. He habitually dressed in light, athletic gear, favouring agility for the inevitable scrapes he found himself in; today, he wore a dark tracksuit top beneath a heavy winter jacket, which he left pointedly unzipped. A hat was nowhere to be seen. After all, what was the point of a woolly cap if it served only to hide his crowning glory from the local girls?

  Max may seem like a slightly dim-witted brute, but in reality, he possesses excellent strategic skills and is one of the top students at Oakvalley High School. Like most teenagers, he'd fond of cartoons and draws inspiration from "The Dark Guardian". He also has a tendency to overdramatize situations, which often comes off as silly and absurd. He isn't good at showing feelings. He has a rather calm and carefree personality, often using sarcasm and lazily teasing his friends, which tends to annoy Finn even more. And he is a stark contrast in his long, moss-green parka and a beanie that sat so precariously high on his head it seemed moments away from a tumble. He was sturdily built, with handsome, stern features and eyes the vibrant green of sun-drenched grass. His light chestnut hair was parted neatly down the middle in a pair of 'curtains' that framed his face with effortless style.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Catching the hostile glares of the four bullies, Finn didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a mock-startled cry, his voice ringing out across the frozen street:

  'Ooh, look at this. Are you guys... from Wiz's crew?'

  Once they had closed the distance, the two boys came to a halt. Finn flicked a glance toward Andrew and, with a subtle twitch of his lips, offered a bold wink – looking for all the world like a knight who had arrived to rescue a princess from a particularly dim-witted dragon. Max, for his part, let out a weary, rhythmic exhale.

  'I'll say,' he replied, his voice draped in his usual cloak of indifference. 'Just look at those silly mugs.'

  'Hey, what's your problem?' the blonde one rasped, his voice cracking slightly. 'Can't you see we're teaching the new guy some manners? Now get off. Begone.'

  'The new guy? Really? You sure about that?' Finn inquired, his smile widening even as his hands remained tucked casually in his pockets.

  'This "new guy" was born here,' Max added coolly. 'Though I can't say I recall ever seeing your face around.'

  'What?! You saw me last week!' the blonde barked, indignation rising.

  Max paused, narrowing his eyes as if performing a deep, mental excavation of his memories. He leaned in, his mouth hovering open as he slowly began to draw back, nodding as though the penny had finally dropped. The blonde boy's lips began to curl into a triumphant smirk, only for it to be utterly demolished by Max's next words.

  'Mmm... no. Still nothing.'

  'Are you two idiots thick or something?' the bald leader snarled, his fury beginning to simmer over. 'We told you to fuck off. You won't get another warning.'

  Finn looked away for a moment, a faint, knowing smile playing on his face. He let out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing in mock contemplation before he snapped his gaze back to the gang.

  'Well,' he said airily, 'I think we'll take our chances. And besides, look who's talking. Soon we'll be able to play hockey on your head, ha-ha.'

  'Big mistake,' the boy in the hat muttered, shifting his weight and bracing himself for the coming storm. 'You could have walked away in one piece.'

  Suddenly, and for reasons known only to himself, Max stepped forward. He cast his gaze upward, looking somewhere just above the bullies' heads with an expression of such sweeping, theatrical drama that he seemed to be addressing a sold-out theatre rather than a frozen street.

  'I felt it,' Max proclaimed, his voice ringing with mock-grandeur. 'I felt that today would bring new refuse – clutter that must be gathered and cast into the bin. And here they stand. Four souls who do not comprehend who it is that bars their way. Four who surely ask themselves: "Who is this guy, truly? What does he desire?" And my answer to them is: "Justice!"'

  A profound, staggering silence followed. It stretched for a good eight seconds, thick enough to cut with a knife. Andrew's eyes darted frantically between the faces of the group, his brain struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the speech. Finn had crossed his arms over his chest and was slowly shaking his head, a look of profound disappointment etched on his face.

  The bullies, for their part, exchanged a series of bewildered glances before they spoke, their voices rising in a ragged, confused chorus:

  'What?'

  'Idiot...' Finn muttered under his breath, the word barely a puff of steam in the cold air.

  In an explosive blur of motion, the boy in the woollen hat lunged at Finn. Before Finn could even cock a fist in retaliation, Max had surged forward, shoving the attacker with such raw, unbridled force that the bully was sent hurtling into the blonde boy – who, as it turned out, was as cowardly as he was loud-mouthed. The two of them collapsed into a tangled heap upon the frozen earth. Such a shame.

  A sudden, stony resolve settled over Max's features; he stood firm, an immovable monolith against the winter wind.

  The bald leader didn't hesitate. He launched a vicious kick aimed straight at Max's midriff. Max managed to catch the boot, but the momentum was too great; the bully used the leverage to shove him back, and Max went stumbling clumsily through the drifts until he landed hard on the seat of his trousers, his hands skidding across the icy grit.

  'Haa!' Finn let out a guttural battle cry, his teeth bared in a snarl as he threw himself at the bald boy.

  Thud. Crack. Wallop. The air filled with the sharp, rhythmic sounds of flesh meeting bone as the two became a whirlwind of violence. Finn rained down a barrage of punches so rapid the bald boy was forced into a desperate, cowering guard for several long seconds. They began to 'dance' –a lethal, circling prowl, trading bruising blows. Finn's past spent sparring with his father lent a terrifying weight to his movements; his speed was staggering, as though a swarm of angry wasps had taken human shape to sting with relentless precision.

  Dark, plum-coloured welts began to bloom across the bully's face, and his breath started to come in ragged, wheezing gasps. He was clearly outmatched in technique, yet he was likely the brute strength of the quartet. Weathering the storm, he finally found a gap in the 'round' and delivered a sickening blow to Finn's ribs. Finn doubled over with a sharp gasp of agony, his arms reflexively shielding his torso and leaving his head fatally exposed.

  Seizing the opening, the bald boy unleashed a devastating right hook. It caught Finn squarely on the chin, a blow intended to snuff his lights out entirely. Finn was saved only by the frantic pace of the fight; the fist grazed him slightly as it connected, but the power behind it was enough to send him spinning backward into the snow. Without missing a beat, the bald bully turned his sights back on Max, his heavy boot pulled back for a spiteful kick just as Max was struggling to find his feet. But Max blocked it.

  'Not bad,' Max murmured, a thin, ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. 'But hardly impressive!'

  If Max possessed a superpower, it was his unwavering, ice-cold composure in the heat of a fray. He was a creature of calculation and tact, never allowing the red mist of rage to cloud his judgment. There was a reason, after all, for his perennial stillness. Parrying the bully’s desperate lunges with surgical precision, he struck – first a stinging left hook to the jaw, then a heavy, driving boot to the stomach. He followed with a snapping right to the face, batted away the leader's counter-attack, and surged into the gap. Closing the distance, he locked his fingers behind the bald boy's neck; for a fleeting second, they were a frantic tangle of straining muscle and bared teeth. In the clinch, Max drove his knees into the bully's ribs with sickening thuds before shoving him clear, ducking a wild swing, and putting the full weight of his shoulder into one final, pinpoint right hand. The leader crumpled into the slush like a sack of potatos. Such a loser. But fought well.

  But Max had no time to draw breath. The hooded boy, who had remained a silent shadow until now, suddenly struck. His fighting style mirrored his temperament: he was a viper – shifty, sharp, and entirely unpredictable. He darted in with jagged, erratic movements, but his bite lacked the necessary venom. Max dismantled him with a clinical sequence of jabs and elbows, finding the boy surprisingly frail beneath his layers.

  As the hooded figure retreated, nursing his bruises, Max turned his gaze toward the boy in the woollen hat and the blonde, who were finally bracing themselves to re-enter the fray. At that moment, Finn hauled himself upright. With a theatrical flourish, he spat a glob of crimson into the snow and began a slow, swaggering march to join Max's side. The odds had evened; it was two against two, and the air crackled with the static of the final standoff.

  Max's breathing remained measured, though a creeping fatigue had begun to settle into his limbs. His adrenaline was spiking, causing his right knee to twitch with a rhythmic, involuntary tremor. He shifted his weight, his eyes narrowed and fixed; he was like a sniper in a belfry, silent and perfectly still, waiting for the precise moment to strike. Beside him, Finn presented a far more battered picture. His face was a map of angry red welts and fresh scrapes, and his knuckles were raw, yet he wore a grin that defied the pain lancing through him.

  'How about it, big guy?' Finn panted, his breath hitching slightly. 'Ready for round two?'

  'Take a break,' Max replied, his gaze flickering right for a fraction of a second to ensure his friend was still upright. 'I can handle these two.'

  'No chance,' Finn countered, cracking his bruised knuckles with a grimace of satisfaction. 'I'm just getting started.'

  But where's Andrew? What was he doing? He was frozen, a useless, shivering spectator while his friends – the only people who had ever truly stood by him in situations like that – were being battered into the slush. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to vanish back into the safety of the shadows. He wasn't like Finn; he wasn't a whirlwind of fists and fury. He wasn't like Max, a pillar of ice and calculation. He was just Andrew, the boy who looked at the ground, the boy who let people walk over him. But as he watched a heavy boot draw back to strike Max, something snapped. A cold, sharp clarity washed away the fog of his fear. He couldn't be a coward today. Not today. Not when the sun was shining on them like that.

  The bullies were closing in, their faces contorted with renewed malice, when a sudden, ragged cry shattered the tension.

  'Take that!' Andrew bellowed. He had appeared from the periphery like a whirlwind, brandishing a stout wooden branch he must have scavenged from the nearby drifts.

  Before the pair could even turn, the blonde bo – perpetually the target of misfortune – took the full force of the blow across his shoulder.

  'ARGH! Fuck! You rat!' he howled, clutching his arm as the wood splintered against his coat.

  Andrew faltered for a heartbeat, his own audacity surprising him. The boy in the woollen hat let out a low, dangerous growl.

  'You miserable little...' he spat, lunging toward Andrew with murder in his eyes.

  But he never reached him. Finn had surged forward, his fingers hooking like talons into the bully's shoulders, dragging him backward until he hit the cobbles with a bone-jarring thud. In a flash, Finn was astride his chest, pinning the boy's flailing arms to the icy ground. A rain of rapid-fire punches followed, Finn's face set in a mask of fierce determination. Max cast a fleeting, slightly disapproving glance at the lack of finesse in Finn's 'ground-and-pound' approach, but he didn't linger; the blonde boy, his face twisted in a snarl of pure indignation, was already charging at Andrew.

  'You, b-bitch! T-think you can interfere, do ya?! I'll make you regret that!' the blonde boy roared, his face mottled with fury.

  Andrew swung the branch with a desperate, frantic energy, a makeshift shield against the oncoming assault. The wood connected with the bully's forearms several times, but the thick, padded layers of his winter coat muffled the impact. Gritting his teeth against the stinging blows, the blonde boy lunged and landed a heavy fist on Andrew's jaw.

  Andrew reeled, his head spinning. He had the chance – the opening was right there – to bring the branch down across the boy's face, but his heart seized at the thought. To inflict such jagged, bloody damage was a line he couldn't bring himself to cross, even with the metallic tang of his own blood in his mouth. He faltered, stepping back, and for a moment, the blonde boy paused, a brow quirked in mocking surprise at the younger boy's hesitation.

  But then, fueled by a sudden, molten surge of adrenaline, Andrew found a different kind of strength. He didn't think; he simply acted. Tossing the branch aside, he dived low, catching the bully squarely in the midriff. It was a move born of half-remembered evenings watching wrestling on the telly while Joe sat in his armchair, nursing a bottle of "Dorivve" beer. With a grunt of pure effort, Andrew tackled him to the ground, pinning him into the slush.

  Yet, once he was on top, Andrew froze. The instinct to strike simply wasn't there. Sensing the lapse, the blonde boy gave a violent heave, throwing Andrew off and raining down a frantic series of blows. Andrew curled into a ball, his arms clamped over his head, yelping as he took the brunt of the attack.

  Suddenly, the punches stopped.

  A shadow fell over them. Andrew peered through the gaps in his fingers to see Max and Finn standing over them like twin towers of judgment. Their silent, towering presence was more terrifying than any shout. The blonde boy looked up, his eyes darting from the two menacing figures to his broken, groaning comrades behind them. He let out a long, disgruntled huff and scrambled to his feet, the fight completely drained out of him.

  'Be thankful my buddy's letting you leave in one piece, scum," Finn muttered, his bloody knuckles still tight.' Finn said darkly, his bruised knuckles still bunched into tight, dangerous knots. 'Get your friends and get gone. Now. Before I rethink it.'

  The blonde boy opened his mouth as if to hurl one last insult, but Max cut him off with a sharp, warning tilt of his head.

  'Don't,' Max said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum. 'Don't even try it. You're outnumbered now. Make a stupid move and you know exactly how this ends. If you've forgotten, take another look at those bodies behind us.'

  With a final, scowling grimace of wounded pride, the blonde boy retreated toward his comrades. One by one, they began to haul themselves up – battered, weary, and utterly defeated. Their arrogance had evaporated into the freezing air. They knew the day was lost; to strike back now would be suicide, for though Finn and Max were heaving with exhaustion and bore the marks of the fray, they still stood like unshakable guardians. Slowly, the gang began to slink away.

  'And one more thing,' Max called after their retreating backs, gesturing toward Andrew. 'Lay a finger on this boy again, and you'll answer to us. I guess you already know that it's not a good idea.'

  The bullies cast a single, lingering look over their shoulders before vanishing into the shadows of the street, eager to put distance between themselves and the scene of their humiliation.

  On the frozen ground, the evidence of the struggle remained: crimson blooms of blood were already beginning to crystallise against the white crust of the snow. Amidst the churned-up slush and muddy bootprints, a few stray teeth – likely belonging to the bald leader – lay scattered like macabre pearls.

  Mud-splattered, drenched in sweat and melted snow, and wearing their bruises like medals of honour, Finn and Max turned to Andrew.

  Their smiles were soft, carrying the weight of a dozen shared summers. It was as if they had been transported back to that first day on the primary school playground, when they had stepped in to shield him from a similar shadow. Andrew looked up at them, his vision framed by the brilliant, golden halo of the sun which had turned the pale winter sky into a canopy of amber and blue. To him, they didn't just look like friends; they looked like titans, like superheroes descended from the heavens to prove that even when the world feels cold and predatory, you are never truly alone.

  'Well?' Finn asked with a roguish smirk, extending a hand to haul Andrew up. 'You planning on lounging there all day, "Sunshine"?'