You don’t even realize how much of a scene you’re making until you walk into the dance clinging to Tyler’s arm, the two of you sticking out like a mistake someone forgot to erase. He’s in this clean white suit, light blue shirt peeking from underneath, looking every bit like the perfect Nevermore date—and then there’s you.

The only one in a black dress when the dress code was white, making you stand out like a storm cloud in the middle of a snow field. At first it’s just whispers, people staring, that awkward shuffle of judgmental eyes following you across the room. But then it happens—the sprinklers kick on, spraying down from above, and it’s not water that pours—it’s red. Like blood. Within seconds, everyone’s drenched in it, their perfect white outfits ruined, splattered in crimson streaks.

The room erupts in chaos—screams, laughter, panic—but you’re just standing there, soaked, hair plastered to your face, black dress clinging to your skin, looking like you belonged to this moment all along. And next to you, Tyler’s white suit is dripping red, the light blue underneath darkening, his jaw tightening as he looks around.

Somehow, with everyone else freaking out, the two of you are just frozen, unbothered, like the eye of the storm—because maybe deep down, you kind of like that you never blended in anyway.