The hallways cleared and the whispers from the gossipers, the chatter from the populars, and the fangirling from the anime lovers stopped and silence fell throughout the area. People scurried out of the way to make way for a brown haired and matching eyed teenager with black skinny jeans, a dark gray shirt, matching converse, and a black jacket to top it off. Black earrings adorned his lightly tanned ears, and a scowl to match his dark color palatte.

He confidently walked through the parting crowd, people in his way were easily trampled without the boy giving a dam. His backpack was slung over his shoulder, the contents inside being jostled with every step he took, wrecking his already demolished schoolbooks. His hands were tucked away into the pockets of his jacket, curled into tight fists, his knuckles turning white. Each thud of his shoes against the hard tile struck fear into all categories of people, popular girls clutched onto loners and vice versa, no matter the popularity everyone —or at least for the most part— had something in common, they feared the brown orbed boy that treaded through the hall.

The senior made it to his locker, and opened it swiftly, dropping his backpack to the floor he grasped his uneeded books with ease, shoving them into his locker and pulling out the ones he needed in one smooth motion and practically throwing them into his bag. The zipper being zipped closed echoed through everyone's ears as they held their breaths without even realizing it.

The bully slung his backpack onto his shoulder quickly before taking out his phone, looking down at it he walked back through the crowd as the rest of the school stepped back from the teenager, giving him his space to move wherever he wished without complaint.

The brown eyed boy, Daniel James Howell, better known as Dan Howell walked to the back of the school, taking a cigarrete out of his pocket, placing it between his lips. He searched his pockets once again only to take out a black lighter, placing his palm to cover his cigarrete from the gentle wind that sent shivers down his spine. Flickering the lighter a few times to ignite a small flame onto the end of the cancer stick. Closing the top of the igniter he placed it back in his pocket as he inhaled.

The nicotine that ran through Dan's body certainly didn't solve his problems, he knew that. His addiction was going to kill him, he knew that. No matter how many times it was repeated back to him he could never stop, even if he wanted to —that he definantly doesn't anyway— even if he always knew the risks. The question is; does he give a fuck? The answer to that question is very simple

Goddamn no and he never will