By the time they reached the front steps of Westridge, the morning light had tilted gold—warm enough to sting his eyes if he looked up too long.
The breeze carried the smell of paper, clay, and paint—the usual mix from upper-year students already deep in their projects.
The seniors. The specialists. The ones already buried in their final-year projects—while he still got lost trying to find the right building.
Damien shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, pretending the weight hadn't already dug a bruise on one side of his spine.
The others slowed to a stop near the courtyard benches, where the path forked in two directions.
Joanna glanced toward the tall stone arch of the west wing, rolling one shoulder like she was already warming up for the day ahead. She didn't say anything—they all knew where she was headed. Room 201, West Wing. Performing Arts.
From what they'd gathered over the past few weeks, Joanna was the type to pick her battles—and then win them with style. She moved through spaces like she'd already claimed them, like doors opened because she expected them to.
Lilith gave her a quiet glance, the kind that said more than words.
Isabelle nudged her with a small, crooked smile.
"Have fun," Isabelle said. "I heard the acoustics there make even yawns sound dramatic."
Joanna snorted. "Great. Can't wait to overact my way through scales."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she gave them one of her signature lazy salutes—two fingers to her brow, elbow bent with flair—and turned on her heel.
She headed off toward the music halls, jacket catching the light as it swung slightly behind her. The stone path veered left, and so did she—confident, unhurried, like she'd been walking that route her whole life.
She didn't look back.
Damien watched her go, not entirely sure whether he admired Joanna or feared her a little. Maybe both.
She had the kind of presence that could either start a revolution or ruin your entire week with just one look.
That left the three of them—Isabelle, Lilith, and him—lingering in the stretch of morning air that smelled faintly of iron and ivy.
They already knew where they were headed—Visual Arts, South Wing, Room 203—but no one said it right away.
The silence between them wasn't awkward, just... paused.
Damien adjusted his grip on his bag. "South Wing, right?"
Lilith gave a faint nod, her eyes unreadable—but she didn't say anything.
Isabelle glanced at the time on her phone. "Yeah."
Damien blinked. "Wait—which class again?"
They both turned to look at him.
Lilith didn't answer. Just blinked once, slowly.
For a moment Isabelle didn't either. She just stared, the corners of her mouth twitching like she couldn't tell if he was joking or actually serious.
Then she said, deadpan, "Room 203. Visual Arts."
Damien flushed, fumbling with the zipper on his bag like it had personally betrayed him.
The silence stretched.
"Oh, right." He cleared his throat and reached for his bag, trying to zip it without looking too obvious about it. "Totally knew that. Obviously."
Neither of them said anything.
Isabelle turned first, shaking her head, leading the way without a word.
Lilith followed a beat later, her steps quiet on the path ahead.
He jogged a few steps to catch up. "Y'know, I was just testing you. Making sure you two knew where we were going. That's what friends do."
Isabelle didn't answer, but he caught the subtle shake of her shoulders—laughing silently.
Lilith didn't look back, but when he fell into step beside her, she offered a single word. "Tragic."
Damien gasped. "This is bullying!
Still, he smiled. Because they hadn't walked off without him.
South Wing loomed ahead—glass doors propped open by paint-splattered bricks, ivy climbing the sides like it had nowhere better to be. A gallery poster flapped half-loose in the breeze, its colors already sun-faded.
***
Joanna had headed toward the stone archway of the West Wing.
The halls there were quieter and cooler. The ceilings stretched high overhead, the windows catching the morning light just right.
Her boots echoed lightly against the polished floor.
Rows of music plaques glinted behind the glass, and faded audition flyers curled at the corners like leaves in early fall.
The faint hum of a piano drifted from somewhere down the hall, barely in tune.
She adjusted her jacket without slowing down, fingers brushing her collarbone. No creases. No loose threads. Her reflection in the glass doors was composed—her jacket sharp, hair slick, and her favorite lip tint applied with precision. Burgundy. Semi-matte, expression unreadable.
Room 201 was just ahead.
She rolls one shoulder and adjusts her bag. Her silver-black duotone hair fell in soft layers that framed her face with ridiculous precision, every strand seeming to fall perfectly into place without trying. Her jacket sat flawlessly. Her lip tint was untouched.
It was going to be a good day.
Until—WHAM!
"Ah—!"
Joanna staggered back a step, heels scraping slightly against the tile as her shoulder collided with something—or someone—broad, solid, and moving too fast. Hard enough to jolt her sideways and knock her bag askew.
"Shit, sorry—! I didn't see—are you okay??"
She blinked.
In front of her stood a boy—tall. Stupidly tall. At least a full head above her frame, maybe more. He had a strong, angular face. Tan skin. And those dangerously sincere olive eyes—they probably got him out of a lot of trouble. His hair was dark, jet black—thick strands falling effortlessly over his brow like he hadn't even tried, but somehow pulled it off—and he had a guilty expression, like he'd just crashed into royalty.
Joanna raised one brow, slowly.
He looked down at her with wide eyes, then visibly stiffened. "Oh my god—I—I didn't mean to—like, I was looking for Room 208? I swear I wasn't—uh—trying to—"
He gestured helplessly at the hallway like it had betrayed him.
Her brows drew together in cold disbelief. Joanna exhaled sharply through her nose. She reached up with two fingers to touch her lips—and scowled.
"My lip tint," she muttered.
The boy visibly panicked.
"I—I can get you another??" he blurted. "Oh—do you want a mirror? Tissues? I've got tissues—" He fumbled in his jacket pocket and dropped his phone in the process. It clattered against the tile, echoing through the quiet hallway. "Crap—uh—wait, here—"
Joanna watched, arms folded, as he knelt to pick it up, then held out a rumpled tissue like it was a sacred offering.
She didn't move or answer. Just stared. Calm. Lethal.
He swallowed. "Please don't yell at me."
Joanna blinked again.
The boy looked like he could break bones for fun—or at least looked like the type. The black tee under the fitted biker jacket, the layered silver chains, the posture that said "fight me." And yet he was practically wilting in front of her like a scolded puppy.
She took the tissue. Briefly. Dabbed at the edge of her mouth.
"Room 208," she said flatly. "You're more than a few doors off. Try reading the numbers next time."
His eyes widened. "I did?! Ugh—I thought I was on the wrong floor—first day and everything—"
"Clearly." She turned slightly. "Walk straight. Seventh door at the end." She dabbed once more at her mouth, then handed it right back without a word.
"Right—sorry. And, um… thanks—I swear I'm not usually this dumb," he blurted.
Her eyes flicked to him for a second—blank, unreadable—then away again, checking her reflection in the window glass.
Her hair had been knocked slightly loose on one side. Her lip tint was, in fact, smudged.
The boy hovered awkwardly nearby, shifting his weight like he wasn't sure if he should run or stay frozen.
Joanna looked at him over her shoulder.
"What's your name?"
He blinked. "Me?"
"No, the other idiot who ran into me at full speed."
"Sam," he said. "Samuel, actually. Sorry. Again."
She hummed, like she'd just added him to a list.
"Try not to wreck anyone else's face today, Samuel."
He straightened up, nodding frantically. "Right. Totally. Got it. No more collisions."
Joanna smirked, just barely. "Good boy."
Sam's brain short-circuited.
On the outside, he managed to give the world's most frantic nod and a barely audible "Yes—sorry—yeah—yes," all mashed into one wheeze.
But on the inside?
Full static. Like someone disconnected his brain's Wi-Fi and replaced his heartbeat with a drumline.
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked—leaving Samuel blinking behind her, tissue still in hand, as if the hurricane had just passed.
She hadn't even looked back.
His brain—still buffering.
By the time he caught up, she was already stepping into the music room—and his soul? Long gone.
And for a second, everything in his head—every floor number, every room, every anxious checklist—just... vanished.
He blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
Sam stood there like a statue—phone clutched in hand, bag slipping off his shoulder, still processing the fact that someone like that had just called him a "good boy."
He was going to think about that until the day he died.