The Academy cafeteria operated on a hierarchy that no official document acknowledged but everyone understood. The best tables—positioned near the windows with actual natural light and marginally better air circulation—belonged to whoever could claim them through social capital or raw intimidation.
Riyan had claimed Table Seven through the simple expedient of arriving early and looking unapproachable enough that nobody challenged him.
Livia sat to his right, blue eyes scanning her phone while she ate. Raven occupied the seat across from him, golden eyes half-lidded in that perpetual state of looking bored despite being completely alert.
They were discussing television.
"The writing fell apart in season three," Livia said without looking up from her screen. "The moment they killed off the detective's partner, the entire show lost its anchor. No stakes, no tension, just procedural bullshit stretched across twenty-two episodes."
