Nolan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling as though the answer to an unsolved riddle was written in the grain of the wood above. His fingers tapped absently against his forearm, and every now and then, his brow would tighten, lips forming the beginnings of a question that never left his mouth. His eyes shifted toward Delo again, and he narrowed them.
There was something about that kid.
He couldn't place it.
"Delo… Delo… where have I…?"
He murmured to himself so quietly it barely touched the air, but his foot began tapping now, impatiently. The others didn't notice at first—they were too busy joking about the gangs in the west wing of the Academy, some nutcases who collected swords but never used them, and others who ran secret auctions in the laundry chambers.
Nolan blinked, then leaned forward.
"You—Delo, right?"
The entire gang turned toward him mid-laughter, like a bar fight suddenly paused.
