Y/n sat on a low wall near the fountain, the cool stone a comfortable perch against the spring warmth. The usual morning chaos hummed around them—first-years chasing a rogue volleyball, a cluster of seniors arguing over a test, Zenitsu Agatsuma sprinting past with a stack of disciplinary forms and a look of pure panic.

Then, the noise changed. It thinned, then swelled again, a ripple of whispers spreading faster than a wildfire through dry grass.

And in the center of it all, striding forward like she owned the pavement, was a girl. She was a walking collision of neon pink—a blindingly bright tracksuit jacket, unzipped over a cropped top of the same electric hue, and shorts so tight they looked painted on. Her hair was a platinum blonde wave, teased into a helmet of perfect volume, and her face was a masterpiece of heavy makeup: winged eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, glittering eyeshadow, and lips glossed to a mirror shine.

She clicked across the stone path on heels that had to be a hazard and a half, each step a sharp tick, tick, tick that cut through the murmurs. A designer bag—also pink, naturally—swung from her elbow.

The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea. She didn't look left or right. She just kept walking, a smirk playing on her lips, until she stopped directly in front of Y/n's wall.