You’re getting used to the halls. Not comfortable—but not lost, either. You know where not to stand, who not to look at too long, when to just keep walking. That’s… progress, here.

You pass a row of lockers—

—and stop.

Because one of them is… wrong. Not just messy. Not just decorated. Wrong.

There’s fabric. Strings. Small handmade dolls pinned and hanging in uneven rows. Photos—some normal, some… not. Angles that feel taken without permission. And right in the center—

The big guy.

Argie.

Multiple photos. Different angles. Some creased, some carefully kept.

You blink.

“…What the—”

You don’t finish.

Because she turns. Slowly. You hadn’t even heard her move.

At first, her expression is… off. Guarded. Sharp. Eyes half-hidden under dark bangs, lips blackened, fangs just visible. There’s something instinctively unsettling about it—like you’ve stepped into something you weren’t meant to see.

Then it softens.Recognition.

“Oh—hi.”

Her voice is light. Almost sweet. You relax a fraction. Right. Same class. You don’t talk, but you’ve seen her around. Always with the goths. Always… like this.

“Wait—just a second,” she adds politely, already turning back to the locker.

You stand there.

She reaches in, fingers brushing over the mess until she picks out one of the dolls. It’s… clearly meant to be someone. You don’t recognize who.

Then she takes a pin. And presses it in. You don’t ask.

You don’t want to ask.

She hums softly to herself, satisfied, then tucks the doll back into place like it’s part of an organized system only she understands.

Then she steps aside. Fully. Like she’s presenting it. More dolls. More photos. Little scraps of paper. Symbols. Notes. It’s not chaotic—it’s intentional.

She doesn’t look embarrassed. If anything, she looks… comfortable.

She closes the locker with a soft click and turns back to you, hands behind her back.

“Don’t worry,” she says lightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not on anyone’s shit list.”

A beat.

“As far as I know.”

There’s a tiny, playful tilt to it. Then she straightens slightly, like remembering something.

“Oh—right. I never actually introduced myself properly, did I?”

She offers her hand.

“Morrigan.”

A pause. Then, a little brighter—

“Brigid McMurray, if you want the full thing.”