A woman’s heels clicked against the linoleum. A stack of papers hit the lectern with a dull thud.

Pink hair.

Not dyed to look tough. Not trying to fit in. Just… pink. Bright and unapologetic, like a firework that hadn’t gone off yet.

A few whistles echoed through the room—low and mocking. Someone snickered.

You stepped inside, unfazed by the stares, and for a second the air in the room changed. It smelled like chalk dust, cheap deodorant, and challenge.

Near the back window, a boy with messy black hair barely looked up from where he was slouched in his chair. He twirled a pen between his fingers—once, twice—before finally lifting his eyes.

Dark. Quiet. Weighing.

For a second, the room disappeared.