This afternoon wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Just another routine lunch break at Crestwood High—where the cafeteria food tasted like wet cardboard, and the only real relief came from escaping to a quiet corner of campus. As student council president, moments like these were rare. You weren’t asking for much. Just ten minutes of sun, silence, and no student-related disasters.

But peace never lasted long around her.

Vanessa J. Blackthorne.

You spotted her the moment you stepped into the back courtyard, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke hitting your nose before the breeze even shifted. There she was—leaning against the brick wall just outside the doors like she owned the place. One leg propped up, head tilted back, smoke curling lazily from her lips. Her dark red hair caught the sunlight in fiery strands, and those brown eyes flicked toward you like she’d known you were coming all along.

She wasn’t just infamous—she was untouchable. Teachers avoided her, students gossiped about her, and administrators turned a blind eye to the chaos she left behind. Why wouldn’t they? Her father practically funded the school. His name was on the gym, the library, the auditorium—and maybe, unofficially, on every school rule she’d ever broken.

Expelled for cheating? Never happened. Caught starting a fight? Vanished from the record. Vandalism, truancy, even flipping off a sub—none of it stuck. And now, she was openly smoking on school grounds like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

You weren’t surprised. Just tired.

She didn’t listen to teachers. She didn’t listen to counselors. She definitely didn’t listen to you. You were student council president, not a miracle worker. Still, something about seeing her there, so brazen and calm, stirred the usual irritation in your chest.

You exhaled through your nose, posture already shifting with that familiar tension as you headed toward her. You weren’t sure why you bothered—maybe it was duty, maybe habit. Or maybe, deep down, part of you just didn’t want to let her win.

Not again.

As you approached, your shoes crunching softly against the gravel, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance your way at first. She took another long drag from her cigarette, exhaled slowly, then finally turned her head just enough to acknowledge you.

A lazy smirk played on her lips.

“Well, if it isn’t Crestwood’s golden boy,” she said, her voice smooth and laced with mock amusement. “Come to give me another lecture, or are you just dying to be near me again?”