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I pull my Zippo and light his cigarette, then get one of my own. “Then go to someone who does.” He pauses with his cigarette dangling, then wraps an arm around my shoulder, virtually squeezing the fuck out of me. “You’re a motherfucking genius, Kill.” “And you’re just figuring that out?” He continues the mission of being a clingy fuck. “You’re right, I should just change scenery. Care for some shooting lessons? That instructor is good at getting on her knees.” “Can’t. Busy.” I slip out of his octopus hold, then swiftly shove him away. “Boo. I’ll go with my fave cousin, Gaz. You can kindly fuck off.” I flip him off on my way out, then instead of lighting my cigarette, I throw it away. Something tastes off about it. After attending my first class, I take a mock test that my colleagues basically flip their shit about. With their dark circles and tiresome dramatics, one would think they’re not fit to be the elite of the elite. If these bitches can’t calm themselves over some test, how are