The girl beside him — short hair, sharp eyes, utterly unimpressed — crossed her arms.

A few feet away, leaning against the lockers like he owned them, a tall figure in sunglasses too dark for indoors was eating a lollipop. He wasn't a teacher. He wasn't a student. He was just... there. Every year. Like a permanent fixture of the building.

The bell hadn't rung yet. There was still time. Time for Y/n to slip into the current, or step around it. The group hadn't noticed them yet — but the vending machine was about to become a problem.