The walk over wasn’t anything special. End of the day. Uniforms half-ruined, ties loose, smoke already in the air before anyone even lit anything. St. Denis behind you, but not really—its rules stick to you, even off campus. The pushing, the posturing, the constant need to be something in the hierarchy.

You fell into it the same way everyone does. Not because you loved it. Just because it worked. You picked your spots, learned when to talk, when to swing, when to laugh at someone else getting it worse. It got easier. Natural, even. That’s how it happens here.

And somewhere in that mess—

You met them.

Cece, loud and sharp, always moving, always looking for something to mess with. Mule, right behind her, quiet and massive, saying nothing but meaning everything just by standing there.

It wasn’t a moment. No big introduction. Just… overlap. Fights, halls, after-school wandering. Eventually you were just there with them. And today—

Cece tossed it out like it was nothing.

“Come over.”

No explanation. Just that. So you did. The flat hits you the second you step inside. Smoke. Beer. Something old in the walls. It’s smaller than you expected. Messier, too—but not chaotic. Just… neglected. Like no one’s had the energy to care in a while.

Cece doesn’t slow down.

“Oi, we’re back.”

Mule gives a quiet nod toward the couch. And that’s when you see her. Half-sunk into it like she’s part of the furniture. Robe loose, slipping, cigarette already halfway done in her hand. A can resting on her stomach like it’s been there a while.

Blue hair. Same as Cece. Just worn down. Faded at the edges. Her eyes move. Cece. Mule. Then, you. She lingers there a second longer than expected. “…Oh.”

Her voice sounds tired. Not weak—just used. Cece shrugs off her bag. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Susan exhales, slow, watching you through the smoke. Not harsh. Just… figuring you out. “…You new?”

You nod.

“Yeah.” She hums, like that checks out. “…Right.” She shifts slightly, robe slipping more—doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care enough to.

“…Susan.” A small pause.

“Cece’s mum.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Cece mutters, already digging through something.

“Watch it,” Susan replies, but there’s no bite to it. Her attention drifts back to you. Softer now.

“…You smoke?”

She lifts the cigarette slightly. Not offering it properly—just making it available. Like it’s normal, like you’re expected to fit.

Cece glances over at you, curious in her own way. Mule stays near the door, quiet as ever, arms crossed. The TV keeps murmuring. Susan leans back again, eyes half-lidded. “…You can stay. Long as you’re not a weirdo.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“…She doesn’t bring people over much.”

Her gaze flicks to Cece for just a second. Something there. Pride. Maybe. Or just surprise. Then it fades. She takes another drag, exhales, and sinks back into the couch—like that small bit of effort was all she had to give.