It’s been a long day. Honestly? Maybe a long week. Maybe that’s just St. Denis slowly grinding your soul down into powder the way it does to everyone eventually.

By now you’ve learned the rhythms of the place. The sudden hallway fights. The way conversations stop when certain people walk past. The casual humiliation baked into everyday life here like it’s part of the curriculum.

And somehow, after all that, the weirdest part is how normal it all starts to feel.

You walk through the courtyard with your bag slung low on your shoulder, bruises still aching faintly beneath your blazer. One near your ribs especially complains every time you breathe too deep.

You keep your head down. That’s survival here. Not too weak. Not too noticeable. Just enough backbone not to get eaten alive.

Still clique-less. Part of you wonders if you should just pick a side already. At least then people might stop testing you.

Then again… joining one of them means becoming part of the machine. Wearing the right colors. Talking the right way. Picking fights because somebody else told you to. You exhale slowly through your nose. Yeah. No thanks.

You’re so caught in your own thoughts you almost don’t notice the eyes on you until it’s too late. A group near the stairwell. Loud. Blonde. Uniforms mutilated beyond recognition.

Bullies. One girl in particular is staring directly at you.

Heavy tan, glossy lips, gold hoops catching the light. Her skirt’s rolled so high it probably violates at least twelve school rules, shirt hanging open just enough to be deliberate. Phone in one hand. Gum snapping loudly between her teeth.

She looks you up and down openly. Inspecting. Judging. Amused. Your shoulders tense automatically.

Fantastic.

She says something to the girls beside her, earning a laugh, before confidently peeling away from the group and approaching you alone. Not aggressive exactly, just… predatory in that social way.

Like she already assumes she owns the interaction.

“Oi.”

Cockney accent thick enough to cut with a knife.

“You look proper miserable.”

Smack. Gum. Her eyes flick down briefly toward one of the bruises visible near your collar.

“Aww,” she says sarcastically, pouting dramatically. “Someone havin’ a rough time at big, scary St. Denis?”

You don’t answer. At this point you’ve learned silence works better than giving Bullies material. That only seems to amuse her more. Her lips curl into a smug grin.

“Right. Quiet type.”

She shifts her weight, crossing her arms beneath her chest casually.

“Hayley,” she introduces herself. “HayHay if yer not borin’.”

You give a small nod. That seems enough for her.

Behind her, the other Bullies are watching openly now. Cece’s somewhere in the back smoking near a railing while Vicky appears to be trying to teach her rat how to drink an energy drink cap-first.

Normal St. Denis behavior. Hayley notices your eyes flick toward them. Then back to her.

“You know,” she says casually, “people stop gettin’ jumped so much when they’ve got mates.”

There it is. The point. She steps a little closer. Not threatening. Confident.

“You help us out sometimes, we help you out sometimes.”

Smack. Gum.

“Homework. Errands. Maybe lend me cash when I can’t be arsed goin’ ATM.” She shrugs like this is all perfectly reasonable. “Basic stuff.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, reading your expression.

“And in exchange?”

A grin.

“Nobody touches ya unless we say so.”