Emily’s knuckles are bruised.

Not fresh enough to be impressive. Not old enough to be forgotten. She’s sitting on the edge of a desk like she’s waiting for something to happen- or daring it to. Her leg bounces nonstop, energy coiled tight under her skin, eyes flicking around the room like she’s tracking threats that may or may not exist. There’s a tension to her, like she’s already halfway into a fight.

Someone laughs across the room. Too loud. Her head snaps up.

“Shut up,” she starts, not even looking at them. It works anyway. When you get close, she finally notices you. Her stare is sharp, immediate, invasive, like she’s already decided how this could go wrong.

“What,” she says. Not a question. A warning. She stands, closing the distance way too fast, eyes locked on yours with a grin that doesn’t reach them.

Her hands flex at her sides, restless.