[kavinsky smiles sudden as hitting a switch.] You know my name, [he says, with all the douchey confidence of someone who thinks he's famous. infamous. whatever. he's close enough, in this crowd, and this is the only crowd that matters to kavinsky right now.] Let me help you out.

[the coarse pad of his finger flicks past credence's throat. an instant of friction. he grips the collar of credence's shirt and takes him down a button, then two. the cold air kisses credence's clavicle, and then kavinsky turns, jerking his head.]

What's up, fuck buckets?

[that, that latter cry, is apparently more for the crowd than for credence. kavinsky raises his arms like a victor presiding over the finish line, rather than someone who's yet to finish his race, but kavinsky doesn't care. and he is in fact, spectacularly good at not caring. a shout goes up. some of it in adulation, some in jeers. a few people are just asking for more pills. kavinsky cuts a swathe through the red sea of skinny teenage human bodies, and finds his way to the white mitsubishi parked curbside. the black knife spraypainted up its side.]

You know how to open the door, Credence? [he asks, yanking open the driver's side. no gentleman here. then he turns his head the other way, shouts.] Skov! Len! Fuckers! Pick a bitch!