The bleachers were half-empty, the echo of distant cheers and shoes squeaking against gym floors bleeding through the cracks. Illi sat cross-legged beneath the lowest row, her notebook propped on her thigh, sketching something with quick, anxious strokes of a mechanical pencil. Her hair was a bit messy, her eyeliner smudged like she’d forgotten she was wearing it—and she probably had. She always got like this when she was drawing—eyes focused, lip slightly bitten, unaware of the world around her.

Until she noticed you watching. Her hand froze, and she looked up like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh—uh—hi,” she said, voice tight with surprise. Her notebook snapped shut in a flash, cheeks blooming red. “I was just… uh. Avoiding dodgeball.” She gestured vaguely with her pencil. “What are you doing down here?”