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</div><br/>​</div>The jeering insult drew little more than a low scoff from Darius.<i>Nerd. </i>Was this some kind of high school? He hadn't been paying much attention to the others in the facility, but did take a moment to look over at the man who had addressed him. He looked young, but moved with an arrogant confidence that could have only come from money and privilege, reminding Darius quite swiftly that he was here as the state's charity case. All these other people had money-more money that Darius would likely ever have in his lifetime. The idea filled him with a mixture of jealousy and annoyance.<br/><br/>Either way, he wasn't about to go chasing after the guy. He'd gotten called much worse things, after all. And-as it turned out-someone else wasn't too happy about the way he'd spoken to Darius, either. His brown eyes flickered over towards another young man with darker skin and very intense eyes. He looked older than Darius himself-a good person to have in your corner, but Darius wasn't about to go simpering all over him in hopes of some protection. He merely continued going through his back, delighted to find that the carton of cigarettes and the cheap Bic's lighter he'd gotten at the gas station were still in their rightful place at the bottom of his backpack. He sighed in releif, shoulders relaxing. Nicotine would surely get him out of this slump.<br/><br/>Funny-tobacco was perhaps the single most dangerous drug nation-wide, the number one killer, but it was somehow more socially acceptable than shooting up. The thought was a little amusing. Deftly, he pocketed the items and stepped out of his room, locking it behind him. Bunch of junkies living together, one of them was sure to try and steal something if they could get away with it. As he made his way outdoors, he passed the young woman in the room next to his and did a double-take before he could catch himself. Not at the woman-but at her bags.<br/><br/>Jesus. She knew this was a rehab, right? Not a hotel suite? Hoping he hadn't drawn too much attention to himself by staring, Darius muttered a terse "'Scuse me," before exiting out into the blazing sun. It hadn't gotten any cooler outside, that was for sure. At least the familiar action of flicking his lighter, igniting the tip of his cigarette, and inhaling deep brought him some comfort and stilled his nerves.<br/><br/>A small plume of smoke left his nostrils as he exhaled, the back of his head coming to rest against the side of the building.<br/><br/>A few weeks of free food and lodging. Surely he could play along for a while. Assuming that everyone else just left him alone. All of them so far struck him as obscenely rich spoiled brats; probably never worked a day in their lives. Was that judging too harshly? Maybe.<br/><br/>But this wasn't the place to make friends. They were all like crabs in a bucket, tearing each other down. At least Darius was good at playing dead.<br/><br/>He'd been playing dead almost ten years, now. He just somehow hadn't died yet.<br/><br/>A few minutes and his cigarette was half-smoked. He had to admit defeat and remove his sweater, leaving him in just a t-shirt. It was a good thing he was alone, too-his arms looked horrible. Old scars mingled with fresh injuries, cuts and slashes from knife fights or attacks on the streets. Most notable, though, were the track marks-tons of them. The hallmark of the experienced user.<br/><br/>Cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, Darius lifted his left arm, squinting down at the large, nasty scar on the inside near the crease of his elbow. The infection was supposed to be gone now, and he had to say that he felt better. But it still looked ugly. According to the clinic, it was going to look that way for a long time. Maybe forever.<br/><br/>No use whining or feeling sorry for himself. It had been his own fault, after all.