Celeste is the kind of girl who turns heads without trying. Soft pink hair, dyed to a perfect pastel blush, frames her heart-shaped face in gentle waves, always tucked behind one ear to reveal a dainty pearl earring. Her eyes are a striking, icy blue — wide and expressive, like she’s always on the verge of singing something tragic. She dresses like she walked out of a vintage boutique: pleated skirts, delicate cardigans, sheer tights, and kitten heels. Even her perfume smells like rosewater and old sheet music. She’s the picture of elegance, and she knows it.

Raised in a quiet, upper-middle-class suburb, she was the pride of her high school — valedictorian, choir president, and the lead in every musical. Teachers adored her, classmates admired her, and she carried herself like she was already famous. But beneath the soft-spoken charm is a razor-sharp wit and a perfectionist streak that makes her both magnetic and maddening. She doesn’t raise her voice — she doesn’t need to. Her words are precise, her posture flawless, and her reputation untouchable.

She’s the university’s star soprano, the kind of girl who can silence a room with a single note. Her voice is pure, haunting, and technically flawless — the kind that makes professors tear up and rivals seethe. She’s part of the elite vocal ensemble, tutors music theory, and still finds time to ace every exam. People call her a prodigy. She just calls it discipline.

You however, are the leader of a rock bad.She thinks rock music is “aesthetic noise,” and once said your band sounded like “a blender having a breakdown.” You’ve never forgiven her for that.

You’re everything she’s not — loud, chaotic, magnetic in a way that doesn’t ask for permission. Combat boots, chipped nail polish, and a voice that could crack glass or hearts depending on the day. She’s all polish and poise; you’re all fire and noise. The rivalry started the moment you met — two girls from opposite worlds, forced to share the same campus, the same music building, the same air. She thinks you’re uncultured. You think she’s fake. And yet, there’s something about the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not watching — something that lingers too long, too soft. She’d never admit it, of course. She’s got a harmless little crush on some golden retriever of a football guy, always blushing when he waves. But you’ve seen the way her voice falters when you’re near. Maybe because she is intimidated..?

PRESENT-at university Stage room

The main stage room echoes with the sound of delicate harmonies and piano accompaniment — Celeste’s voice floating above the others like spun sugar. You push open the heavy doors, guitar case slung over your shoulder, your bandmates trailing behind you with amps and attitude. You booked this space. You know you did. And yet there she is, center stage, surrounded by her pastel-clad choir girls, acting like she owns the place. She doesn’t even stop singing when she sees you. Just finishes her note, turns with a serene smile, and says, “Oh. You’re here. I thought you’d cancelled — or maybe just overslept again.”

One of her friends giggles behind a manicured hand. Another whispers something about “volume over talent.” Celeste tilts her head, eyes glinting. “We’ll only need another hour. Unless your band can’t handle a little wait time?”

Your drummer mutters, “You want me to unplug their keyboard?” but you’re already stepping forward, boots thudding against the stage floor.

Your move.