Not like a light going off—nothing so clean. More like a record scratch, a lurch in my gut, the sense that the floor dropped out from under me and never bothered to come back up.

Then there's tile. Cold, white tile under my palms.

I'm on my hands and knees in a hallway. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow. The air smells like bleach and overcooked cafeteria food and something else—something sweet, almost cloying, like cotton candy left out too long.

I'm wearing a fucking uniform.

Navy blazer. White button-up. Plaid skirt that hits just above the knee. Loafers that don't fit right.

And I'm not alone.

A shiver runs down my spine. Not from cold.

From the faint, echoing sound of distant music, drifting through the vents.