A young guy, classic college jock type, was looming over him. He was taller than James and packed with the kind of muscle that only comes from expensive supplements and a lot of free time.

  James stared at him, genuinely confused by the stupidity of the question. He looked at the seat, looked around, looked at himself, and then looked back at the jock. "Yes, the seat is taken. By me. Can’t you see I’m sitting here?"

  "Sir, you’re occupying a whole booth by yourself. We’re looking for a spot, and, well, we’re starving." The kid plastered on a fake smile, but it came off colder than he probably intended.

  James deadpanned. "If I stand up right now, there isn’t a single empty seat in this whole place. Where the hell am I supposed to go with my noodles?"

  He watched the kid shift, subtly flexing his muscles through his college jacket. A low-key intimidation tactic.

  "Look, you're alone, and there's a group of us. You're hogging this huge table all by yourself. You could be a little more sensible—"

  "I’m eating," James cut him off, his voice flat and final. "You can wait until I’m finished."

  The jock started seething, clearly blindsided by James’s total lack of fear. The kid was a guy who’d probably spent his whole life muscling through obstacles with a mix of fake politeness and quiet threats. But James wasn't buying it.

  As the tension spiked, the jock’s friends began to cluster around. Three more of them—thick-necked and entitled.

  James knew he couldn't take all of them; hell, he probably couldn’t even take one. But he wasn’t in the mood to play the trembling victim, not tonight.

  "I’m eating," James grunted. "Now fuck off."

  The jock finally snapped, the mask of politeness slipping. "You’re an Outsider. You shouldn’t even be here. You belong in… in some slum or a den, not here!" His handsome face was contorted into a grotesque mask of elitist rage.

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  James froze. It wasn't the first time that word had been spat at him, but this time, for some reason, it had a jagged edge to it.

  He turned his gaze slowly up to the jock, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What did you just say?"

  "I said you’re a nobody! An Outsider should stay in an Outsider diner. This is a place for… for normal people!" The kid’s face was flushing a deep, ugly red.

  James was almost impressed. How had a twenty-something greenhorn soaked up the world’s nastiest prejudices so damn early? Or maybe cruelty was just second nature to the youth these days.

  "Outsider is just a word," James said, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his face. It only fueled the jock’s fury.

  James continued. "It’s not a legal status, you dumbass. Did your rich daddy forget to teach you that it’s just a social construct the news likes to toss around? There’s no such thing as an 'Outsider Rim' or whatever border you’ve imagined. I can stay here exactly as long as I like."

  The mention of his dad snapped something inside the jock. Some things never changed, even in the late 21st century. "How dare you! You can't talk to me like that!"

  James could hardly believe the audacity. Outsider was just a polite term for the poor and struggling who received government funds and worked government-assigned jobs. It wasn't a word for an actual pariah, like a junkie or a career criminal. What kind of entitled pricks were raising children like this?

  “What are you gonna do? Clock me right here in the middle of the diner?” James asked, his voice oddly steady.

  He didn't know why, but while his body was surging with adrenaline, his mind was becoming dangerously calm. "Your daddy won't care about my well-being, but he’ll definitely care about your criminal record. That wouldn’t look too good on your transcript or your extracurriculars, would it?"

  The jock looked ready to throw a punch, but his slightly more rational friend stepped in, grabbing his arm. "Don't waste your time on this trash. We can find another place."

  "But he—!"

  "Let’s go. If the owner calls the cops, you’ll be on your second strike. You need to behave."

  With his friend's cooler head winning, the jock decided to rethink his options. But he couldn't resist one last bite. "You're useless scum. Nobody’s going to mourn you when you're dead!"

  He shouted at James's face before practically being dragged out of the diner by his friends. He kept muttering all the way to the door, "How dare that trash talk to me like that... my father this, my father that..."

  Now, James was livid.

  The calm was gone, replaced by a stinging urge to put his fist through that kid's face.

  He didn't even care if he got beaten to death tonight; he’d gladly let his fresh corpse grace the front page of the morning papers if it meant taking a swing.

  What the hell had just happened? He was just sitting there having dinner, at a cheap diner, no more, no less. Why was a rich brat even crawling around here? And why was he so goddamn angry?