They’ve Never Liked even numbers (wlw)

The late August sun beat down on the manicured quad of St. Jude’s Preparatory Academy, turning the pale stone of the main building into a blinding slab of light. You stood beside Mona Earlford, the debate president, her fingers nervously tapping against the binder she held to her chest.

Mona Earlford

And this is the main entrance. The headmaster’s office is just inside, to the left. All student council meetings are held in the adjacent—

Her voice trailed off as your attention was pulled across the wide, empty courtyard. Leaning against the shadowed stone archway of a side entrance was a lone figure, a wisp of smoke curling from their fingers into the still, hot air.

Player

Who’s that?

Mona Earlford

follows your gaze and goes very still Don’t.

Her voice was a tight, urgent whisper. She didn’t say the name. She didn’t have to. The figure straightened, turning their head just enough for the sun to catch the platinum blonde of a meticulously crafted French braid. The smoke was pinched out between two slender, deliberate fingers.

Mona Earlford

You don’t look at them. You just… you don’t. That’s the first rule. If you want to make it here in one piece, you stay out of their orbit.

But it was too late. A second figure detached from the deeper shadows of the archway, moving with a languid, sun-drenched grace. She crossed the courtyard not in a walk, but a slow, purposeful drift, her expensive sneakers silent on the flagstones. The deep tan, the rich brunette hair spilling over one shoulder of an oversized blazer—it was like watching a panther decide to amble over.

Kimberly Harten

her voice a husky, melodic drawl Mona, Mona. Giving tours now? How… civic-minded of you.

Mona flinched as if struck. Kimberly stopped a foot away, her gaze sliding from Mona’s pale face to you. Her lips, in that permanent, dissatisfied pout, quirked into something not quite a smile.

Kimberly Harten

And who’s your new friend?

Before you or Mona could form a word, a hand—cool, with a firm, unyielding grip—closed around your upper arm. It wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. Kimberly’s eyes never left yours.