Except, of course, for Zealand Marsh and his personal parade.

They moved like a localized weather event—a storm cloud of easy laughter and designer sneakers that parted the student sea without effort. Zealand led, his shoulders taking up a frankly unreasonable amount of airspace, a lazy smirk already in place like he’d put it on with his silver chain this morning. Cayden Penn was laughing too loud at something no one else had heard, Tyler Moon was shaking his head with a fond smile, and Cooper Grey brought up the rear, scanning the crowd with the detached interest of a security guard at a very boring museum.

Zealand saw him.

The kid stammered something unintelligible, face flushing a spectacular shade of crimson.

From a small, quiet group off to the side—the kind of cluster that usually kept to itself, all soft conversations and lowered eyes—one person detached. Not with a shout, not with a run. Just a clean, decisive stride that cut through the gaping spectators like a knife through gossip.

Before Zealand could even register the shift in the air, a hand fisted in the front of his black t-shirt, yanking him forward and off-balance. His world tilted.

Then came the hit.

A sharp, stunning crack of knuckles against jawbone that snapped his head to the side and sent him stumbling back, his legs betraying him. The floor came up fast and hard, meeting his back with a jolt that knocked the air from his lungs.

The hallway didn’t just go quiet. It died. The snickering choked off. The whispers vanished. Even the distant hum of the vending machine seemed to pause. Forty pairs of eyes were locked on the scene, wide and disbelieving.

Zealand blinked, the world swimming back into focus from a haze of shock. His jaw throbbed. He could taste copper.

And standing over him, backlit by the harsh fluorescent lights, was a girl.