You were at your locker, slotting AP Lit books into your bag with practiced efficiency. Your planner was open on the shelf, today’s to-do list already half-checked. The air smelled like old paper, floor wax, and the faint, distant hope of getting out.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. The easy chatter around you dipped, then reformed into something lower, more watchful.

A shadow fell across your planner. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The scent hit first: leather, gasoline, and something sharp, like ozone after a strike.