Chapter 29 Ginger snap vs Shovel boy

Chapter 29 Ginger snap vs Shovel boy
Hazel’s POV
He stared at me. 
Hard.
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “A common response from individuals with limited vocabularies. When articulation fails, hostility usually follows.”

His fingers curl slowly.
Dangerous.
“What the fck did you just say?”

I smiled, polite and sharp. “I said your anger appears inversely proportional to your intelligence.”
His jaw clenched. Vein in his neck pulsed.
“Say that sht again,” he growled, “slow this time, so my fist can keep up.”

I shrugged. “I’d dumb it down for you, but I’m afraid even monosyllabic explanations might exceed your cognitive bandwidth.”
That was it. He looked like he wanted to commit several crimes and invent a few new ones.
“You think you fckin’ clever, eh ginger? Hobblin’ behind a dumpster poppin’ off like you hard. Shut yo dumb ass up ‘fore I－”

“Before you what?” I cut in sweetly. “Trip over your emotional support shovel?”

His hand tightened around Thrasher.
“Don’t talk about my shovel.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely talking about your shovel,” I said, glancing down at it. “I’ve never seen someone project this much unresolved intimacy onto gardening equipment. Honestly, Freud would have a field day.”

“Keep. My shovel. Outta your fckin’ mouth.”

“Or what?” I asked lightly. “You’ll serenade it with another cigarette and whisper sweet nothings about violence?”
He swore long and creatively, then glared at me like I’d personally insulted his bloodline.

“You’re insufferable,” he said. “Like－ like a headache that learned how to speak.”
“Coming from a man who drags metal around like a security blanket?” I smiled wider. “Devastating.”
His jaw flexed.
“Keep runnin’ your mouth ginger snap,” he snarled. “I’ll knock all those fancy words right outta it.”

I looked him up and down, deliberately slow. Did this dude just seriously call me ginger snap－oh it’s on now.
“With what?” I asked. “Your charming personality? Or are you going to ask Thrasher for permission first?”
“Shut your trap,” he growled, “or I swear I’ll－”

“Oh?” I interrupted. “You’ll do what? Chase me? Limp aggressively in my direction eh shovel boy?”
His face twisted with fury. “I’ll fck you up.”

I tilted my head. “You can’t even sit up without leaking.”
He shifted, clearly trying to stand.
“Say one more thing,” he warned, hauling Thrasher up with him, teeth bared. “One more fckin’ word and I’ll－”
He didn’t finish.

A sharp hiss tore out of him instead as his movement pulled at his side. His face went tight, color draining, and he collapsed back onto the ground with a guttural curse, blood seeping darker through his shirt.
There it was.
The crack in the armor.

I froze for half a second, pure instinct, then immediately pretended I hadn’t just been preparing to sprint for my life.
And then I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.

I pointed at him, laughter spilling out sharp and breathless. “Oh no. What happened?” I wheezed. “Did Thrasher fail to protect your honor?”
“Shut the fck up,” he snapped, breathing hard.

“oh I definitely won’t” I said between laughs. “Did your emotional support shovel forget to emotionally support you?”
He glared at me like murder was his hobby.

“Laugh all you want,” he spat. “When I’m back on my feet, I’ll use Thrasher to rearrange all your shitty ass teeth.”
I wiped my eyes, still grinning.
“Correction,” I said lightly. “If you get back on your feet.”

I laughed again, ignoring the spike of pain in my hip, the sound echoing ugly and triumphant off the brick walls. He turned his head away from me, jaw tight.
“Fck off,” he muttered. “You’re unbearable.”

I leaned back against the wall, still smiling when it slipped out.
“That shovel thing really is pathetic,” I said, waving a hand. “I mean－ naming it? Carrying it everywhere? What is it, compensation? Or did you just never have anyone
else stick around long enough?”
The second the words left my mouth, something shifted.
Not explosive. Not loud. Just… still. He stopped moving entirely. No cursing. No snarling. Even the cigarette froze halfway to his lips. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me.

Then he laughed. Once. Low. Empty.
“…Heh.”
Slowly, he turned his head and looked at me properly for the first time, not annoyed, not feral, not pissed.
Flat.
“You done?” he asked quietly.
My smile faltered. Just a millimeter.
“I was just－”
“Yeah,” he cut in, voice calm in a way that made my skin prickle. “I know what you were doin’.” He shifted, wincing but forcing himself upright enough to lean back against the wall. His jaw was tight now, words clipped.

“You think I’m some dumb delinquent you can poke at ‘cause I’m bleedin’ and stuck sittin’ down.”
I scoffed, trying to regain ground. “If the shoe fits－”
“Funny thing,” he interrupted. “You talk a lot about brains for someone who doesn’t know when to shut the fck up.”

That stung. I opened my mouth. He didn’t let me.
“You don’t get to say sht about why I keep Thrasher,” he said, eyes sharp now, dangerous. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. Or what I grew up with. Or what happens when you don’t have anything or anyone that sticks.”

My throat tightened despite myself. He wasn’t yelling. That was worse.
“You think it’s funny,” he continued. “You think it’s sad. You think it’s small.” His lips curled, not in anger, but contempt.
“At least I don’t run my mouth to feel taller.”

Silence dropped between us like something heavy. My pride flared immediately. Defensive. Sharp.
“Oh please,” I snapped. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not some tragic novel protagonist.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes burning now. “You’re the one actin’ like pain’s a competition.”
That landed harder than I expected. I crossed my arms, chin lifting. “You don’t know anything about my pain.”
He snorted quietly. “Didn’t say I did.” Then, softer, too precise to be accidental: “But I know what it looks like when someone’s runnin’ their mouth so they don’t have to think.”

That one hit close enough that I felt it in my chest. I hated that.  “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I shot back. “You can barely string a sentence together without swearing.”
His eyes flicked up, unimpressed. “And yet,” he said, “I still figured you out faster than you figured me.”

I swallowed. 

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air felt tighter. Even the dumpster smell faded into the background. 

Then he reached for his cigarette again, hands shaking just a little now, not from anger, but pain. “This is where you fckin’ walk away,” he said. “Before you say somethin’ you can’t take back.”
I hesitated. 
Pride screamed at me to fire back. But something colder, smarter told me I’d already crossed the line. “…Whatever,” I muttered, turning slightly away. 
He didn’t respond.

I was already walking away, absolutely seething. I came here to make a fool of him. Somehow, against all logic and basic fairness, I was the one leaving irritated, humiliated, and limping harder than before. I hated him. I hated his stupid shovel. I hated his face. I hated that my hip seemed to hate him too, because every insult he threw somehow made the pain spike like it was taking notes.

I stomped off, muttering curses in my head like a priest gone rogue. I hope he’d trip over his stupid shovel. I hope his shovel betrays him in his sleep. I hope termites eat it from the inside out. I hope every sandwich he ever loved was forever soggy. I hope he steps barefoot on a Lego made entirely of nails.

Talking to him somehow made my hip throb harder, like my body itself was offended by the interaction.
Betrayal.
Absolute betrayal. I limped faster, fueled by spite and wounded pride. 
Then I heard it. A low, ugly sound. A pained grunt that didn’t sound performative or dramatic.

Just… raw. I paused. 
I told myself I was stopping to look, not to care. Big difference. I glanced over my shoulder. He was dragging himself farther into the corner, movements jerky and strained. Blood had soaked through the side of his white shirt now, dark and spreading, dripping onto the concrete like it had a personal vendetta. The sight made my stomach flip.

Good. Serves him right.

That pain looked way worse than mine, and frankly, that felt like justice. Poetic, even. He hurt my pride; the universe stabbed him in the ribs. Balanced.