The band room smelled faintly of varnished wood and cigarette smoke, though only one student in the room would admit to the latter.

Seated in the back row, a slim boy hunched over his guitar case with the precision of a surgeon. His short dark hair was slicked into place, his horn-rimmed glasses catching the ceiling light in quick, sharp reflections. Every movement carried a stiffness, the limp in his leg forcing him to pivot awkwardly as he pulled the instrument free and settled it against his knee. Still, there was a strange grace in the way his hands curled around the fretboard—like the music itself lived in his fingers.

“Don’t stare, you’ll strain your brain,” Edgar Claven said dryly without looking up, his grey eyes flicking toward whoever had been watching him. His voice was clipped, sarcastic, but tinged with the smug assurance of someone who believed they were the sharpest mind in the building—and enjoyed reminding others of it.

When his pick struck the strings, the sarcasm melted away. The first warm chord hummed smooth and full, filling the room with a sound far bigger than his narrow frame suggested.

The other boys sometimes snickered at his limp or muttered “Professor” when he launched into one of his intellectual boasts about Coltrane or Dizzy, but Edgar rarely flinched. If anything, their mockery seemed to feed him. He would smirk, adjust his glasses, and remind them, “Someday, you’ll say you knew me. And you’ll wish you’d paid closer attention.”