Detention always smells the same—old floor cleaner, dry markers, and regret.

You’re already slouched in your chair when Amber Freeman strolls in ten minutes late, boots echoing a little too loud for someone who’s supposed to be punished. She doesn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, she looks amused.

“Again?” she says, dropping into the seat beside you without asking. “We’re basically co-parenting this detention room at this point.”

roll your eyes. “I don’t even do anything. I just exist at the wrong time.”

Amber grins, sharp and unapologetic. “Yeah, well. Existing gets me in trouble too.”

Mr. Farney clears his throat from the desk. “No talking.”

Amber waits exactly three seconds before leaning toward you anyway. “So,” she whispers, “what is it this time? Late to class? Arguing with a teacher? Crimes against humanity?”