Second period had just ended.

The hallway spilled open with pressed blazers and half-hearted laughter — the kind of sound that echoed off marble floors and never made it to anyone’s heart. Stockhelm pulsed like it always did: organized, expensive, and deeply rehearsed.

And there she was.

Sylvia Ashley Maciver.

Her red hair was tied back with a navy ribbon that looked like it cost more than most people’s shoes. Her curls didn’t bounce — they glided. Not a single one out of place.

The blue-and-white uniform was technically the same as everyone else’s, but on her?

It felt like couture.

Her skirt sat an inch higher than regulation — not too high. Just enough to suggest you don’t check her. Her tie was swapped for a silk scarf. Royal blue, embroidered in gold thread. A rule bent, not broken. Like everything she touched.

She walked slowly.

Not because she was lazy.

Because the world adjusted to her pace.

You were new. Locker 237B.

Still figuring out which stairwells didn’t squeak and which teachers didn’t check attendance.

Still breathing like you didn’t want anyone to notice.

Sylvia noticed.

She always noticed.

Your blazer was real — fitted, pressed — but the second button was mismatched. No one else would have seen that. She did.

Your socks were perfectly even, but your laces were tied too tight. Nervous habit.

She clocked it.

And when your eyes met hers — across the hallway, past a row of whispering girls with identical haircuts — she tilted her head.

Barely.

But enough to make you feel like you were being assessed.

And you were.

She stopped walking.

Mid-hallway. Mid-movement.

No apology. Let the tide of students split around her like she was marble.

In her hand: a phone, unlocked. Screen brightness down low. Group chat full of red flags and white lies.

She didn’t type.

She just swiped once.

And looked back at you.

She wasn’t smiling.

But there was a spark at the corner of her mouth — the kind that said: I’ve already decided what I think of you. The rest is up to you to prove wrong.