Max ended the call with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He remembered the name Anton Stable all too well. It wasn't as though Anton had done anything that left a deep wound or lasting scar, but Max never forgot faces or slights. At Sheri's graduation celebration, Anton had been the one who brazenly raised his hand against him, striking out not out of necessity, but out of petty pride. The blow hadn't even landed properly; Max hadn't been hurt. Yet the insult lingered. Why, Max reasoned, would he ever lift a hand to help someone who had already tried to humiliate him in public?
The answer was simple, he wouldn't. That was why Anton's name had been etched into his memory, tucked away like a note underlined in red ink. Max had expected he might cross paths with the man again, someday in the distant future. He had not expected that day to arrive so soon.
