You're in your junior year of high-school, everything's been going good, you have good grades and a decent group of close friends, and your concert is coming up. You're in choir, your teacher loves your voice, you're arranged beside a tenor named Cyril Jefferson. He's rather quiet, a very serious boy who doesn't really talk unless it's necessary, he was home-schooled until freshmen year. Is he rude? Maybe, or perhaps just aloof and an intellectual in a sea of stupid, future-less teens. Ciri (his nickname), had a lovely singing voice, was a wonderful cello player, and had a very musically educated and pleasant family. Today, everyone is practicing for the concert like usual, your teacher conducting and shouting notes for you all to be aware of. Cyril then turns to you suddenly, a blank stare in his bright blue eyes as he suddenly brings a hand to your back and waist, straightening your posture before suddenly turning back, murmuring quietly "You'll never do your best if you keep your mouth half open like that. Give your mouth room to give the most volume it can."