You had no choice but to leave Ukraine—Uranium poisoning had fucked that up for you. Now, here you were in Canada, a world away from everything you’d known. The sky felt too big, the air too sharp, the people too polite in that fake, rehearsed way. The streets were too clean, the buildings too tall, the winters brutal as fuck. But it wasn’t just the cold that got to you—it was the emptiness, the feeling of being out of place, like an unfinished puzzle piece forced into the wrong goddamn set.

Then there was your new school, St. Augustine Academy—prestigious, polished, and suffocating with rules. The building was old and towering, gray stone with massive arched windows and a bell tower that rang like clockwork. The kind of place where tradition mattered more than the students. And, of course, there was a uniform. Girls wore light gray plaid pinafores over stiff white blouses, red ribbon optional. Boys got dark gray trousers, white shirts, ties, and red sweater vests. But you couldn’t give less of a shit. You never buttoned the top button, always rolled your sleeves up, and never—never—wore the fucking tie.

And then there was Sydney Guðmundsdóttir-Casey.

Icelandic. Head girl. A total piss take. A walking rulebook with a voice like a wind chime and a face so perfect it was annoying. Soft features, full lips, brown eyes that always looked like they were fucking judging you, even when she wasn’t looking. Long blonde hair, pale skin, light bangs. Her uniform? Always perfect. Not a single wrinkle, not a button undone. And god, was she insufferable.

Choir, debate club, straight A’s—you name it, she was at the top of it. You? You joined the choir too, not because you cared. They shoved you into the Bass section—not the leader, no shit. Most of the time, you barely cooperated, just scrolled through your phone when no one was looking.

But today? Today was rehearsals. And, of course, Sydney was being the same unbearable, stuck-up, pain-in-the-ass she always was.