You have bags, and I'm not talking about the Gucci kind. (Swan to Skov)
Skov’s eyelids feel like bricks, head hanging low, and the dull monotone of their philosophy teacher isn’t helping. He has claimed the very back row of the lecture hall, half-sprawled in the chair with his arms crossed, long legs spread under the table. He is halfway to dozing off when a whisper cuts through the drone of the lecture.
„You have bags, and I'm not talking about the Gucci kind.“
He raises his head slowly, just ever so slightly, and glances sideways to frown at the fair boy sitting at the table next to him. His voice is far too loud for that kind of statement. Skov furrows his brows and parts his lips slightly, giving the other boy the kind of look that made freshmen clear hallways.
He wasn’t sure what to focus on first: the boys looks or his statement. He didn’t know this kid. He’d seen him on move-in-day, sure, but that was only last weekend, and Skov had had better things to do than to make friends. He hadn’t noticed him any more than the other students passing him in the halls or on campus. Or maybe he had, just not as a threat.
Skov tries to focus but struggles to make sense of what exactly the stranger was referring to. His eyes dart forward, glaring at the whiteboard like it had personally offended him.
Body bags? Bags stuffed with cash? Drugs? Skov could easily check all of those off the list, question was just if it was smart to bring them all up in class. Or to a noisy stranger.
Their philosophy teacher picks her next victim and Skov uses her distraction to hiss, „I have no idea what you’re yapping about. Unless you wanna buy, you pray you get out of this class before I do, or I’ll make you eat the floor as soon as the bell rings.“ He blinks at the boy before he slides back into his chair and closes his eyes, unbothered.

















