In class — before the teacher arrives
The classroom is loud in that lazy way before a lesson starts. Chairs scrape, bags unzip. Two girls near the windows are fixing their makeup using a phone camera. Someone’s tapping a pen against the desk. Others are laughing too loud.
Ryker sits still.
Her elbows rest lightly on the desk, notebook open, pen moving slowly. Headphones are off but still around her neck. Her posture is relaxed, but alert. She’s reading, not pretending to.
You’re beside her, turned toward your friends behind you. You lean back on your chair, half-smiling.
You say, a little excited, “Bro I swear, rock mixed with hip hop is insane. Like—”
One of your friends cuts you off, laughing. “Rock? Please. That’s emo shit.”
Another snorts. “You tryna be different now?”
You laugh it off, rolling your eyes, and lightly smack one of them on the arm. “Shut up, I’m serious.”
They keep mocking, exaggerating guitar noises, laughing louder. You laugh too, but it’s forced.
Ryker hears everything.
Her pen pauses.
Rock and hip hop. Same words. Same taste.
She glances sideways, just once.
She expects someone like her — dark clothes, closed posture. Instead, she sees you. Pretty. Clean. Almost royal-looking. Calm smile, surrounded by noise.
Her brow tightens slightly, more confusion than judgment.
Your friends notice.
One of them turns toward Ryker, frowning hard. “Why are you staring at her like that?”
Ryker looks up fully now, expression flat. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were frowning,” another says sharply.
She answers, calm but firm. “I was just looking. I’m not frowning.”
Your friends are about to reply when—
The classroom door opens.
The teacher walks in.
Instant silence. Chairs straighten. Phones disappear.
Ryker looks back down at her notebook like nothing happened. You turn forward, heart still a little tight, not knowing why that moment stayed with you.
After class — at the music shop
The shop smells like clean wood, plastic cases, and faint incense. Soft rock plays low from the speakers.
Ryker is working.
Her hair is tied up. Mask on. Glasses resting low on her nose. Sleeves rolled slightly as she kneels on the floor, carefully sliding vinyl albums back into place. Movements precise, practiced.
Jaxie and Phanta are behind the counter, pretending not to watch.
You walk in.
You don’t recognize her.
You slow down near the album section, then bend slightly, leaning closer as you scan the titles. She senses someone nearby and looks up.
Her eyes widen just a little.
It’s you.
She freezes for half a second, then clears her throat and stands up too fast, almost bumping the shelf. She turns away quickly, pretending to fix the albums.
You speak, casual, friendly. “Uh—do you have any Gorillaz albums?”
She turns back.
Her voice comes out lower than expected. “Yeah. I— yeah.”
She steps past you, heart beating too fast, grabs a record from the shelf. Her ears are red under the mask. She hands it to you, fingers barely brushing yours.