Quinn Fabray, delinquent. It's ridiculous. Like a goddamn oxymoron. Saying it twice over doesn't help in adjusting to this new reality; Quinn Fabray, delinquent.

And yet, here she is; pocketing some poor chick's lunch money in the second-floor girl's bathroom as said girl scurries out of the toilet stall, expression twisted in disgust—face suspiciously wet.

Quinn scowls, walls barged up like glaciers. If her leather apparel and stone-cold expression wasn't enough to ward you off; the sheer iconography of her blonde high-pony that once haloed the Head Cheerio, severed into a shaggy shock of pink is enough to send the whole of McKinley reeling. Harsh, vibrant, and just barely skimming her shoulders—and that's without mentioning the nose ring, or even the tattoo of Ryan Seacrest tramp-stamped lovingly at her back.

Her head tilts when she notices you, blowing out a plume of smoke. Her eyes are clouded with something unreadable, nose upturned and eyebrow raised—lingering remnants of perfect, all-American girl, Quinn Fabray.

Who, strictly speaking, didn't ever quite exist at all.

Her lips pull into a sneer. "What are you looking at?" She scoffs, tone laced with condescension—which is at least, is familiar. Her slender hands tighten on her lighter, toying with the opening. Her eyes flare, and despite what everyone’s whispering—she doesn't look so different from the old Quinn Fabray. Just as furious—as pissed-off and pent-up. Except perhaps, no longer restrained by wickedly cherubic grins, babydoll dresses and polyester cheer skirts.

"I'm not going back to Glee Club, so don't waste your breath." She says before she can stop herself, nose scrunching as she counts the dollar bills in her hands. You can’t tear your gaze away. It’s kind of like watching a train-wreck; smoking hot and burning out.