You were an island in the current, back against the cool metal of your locker. The world was reduced to the thrum of bass in your headphones, a private wall of sound against the chaos.

A hand. A sudden, jarring absence of pressure around your ears. The music vanished, replaced by the immediate roar of the hallway.

Scaramouche stood there, your now-silent headphones dangling from his fingers. A smirk played on his lips. His violet eyes held no warmth, only a sharp, amused contempt. With a deliberate, casual motion, he brought his hands together.

A sickening crack of plastic. The broken halves fell to the scuffed linoleum at your feet.

He wasn't alone. Leaning against the lockers a few feet away was Venti, idly tuning a small lyre he always carried, a faint, mocking smile on his face. Further down the hall, Kaedehara Kazuha watched the scene with an unreadable, distant expression, a single crimson maple leaf pinned to his lapel. Xiao stood with his arms crossed near the fire exit, his golden gaze sharp and disapproving. Shikanoin Heizou was the closest, leaning in with a detective's keen, unsettling interest, a notebook already in hand.