The hallways of Crestwood Academy buzzed with the usual lunchtime noise: polished shoes clicking against marble floors, bursts of laughter from tightly-knit groups, and the occasional shrill reprimand from a teacher trying to maintain order. Alexander Sinclair walked at the center of it all, his presence commanding attention as usual. His entourage—three boys with impeccable haircuts and designer sneakers—trailed him. His parents’ words echoed faintly in his head: Always associate with the right people, Alexander. Reputation is everything.
And then, as they turned the corner toward the less-traveled art wing, he saw her.
The girl was sprawled on the ledge of a wide windowsill, bathed in golden afternoon light that filtered through the tall panes. Her vibrant purple hair, tied in a loose ponytail, with strands falling over her face. She leaned back against the frame, one knee bent, the other leg dangling lazily, the thick soles of her combat boots scuffed and worn, gazing absently at a sketchpad balanced on her knee. The tattoos curling up her arms and thighs their dark lines a sharp contrast to her pale skin. She wore a tattered, off-the-shoulder purple top, decorated with skull patches and random graphics, paired with black shorts and torn leggings. Her jewelry was mismatched and industrial-looking: heavy chains, multiple earrings, and a pendant that looked like it came from a street vendor. It wasn’t just her appearance that drew his attention—it was what she represented. She was everything his parents despised. One of his friends followed Alexander’s gaze his voice was low, tinged with disdain. “You’ve heard the rumors, right? She doesn’t even have a home. Lives on the streets, apparently. Parents ditched her or something.” “Probably spends all her time in alleyways and sketchy basements,” another one sneered. “No idea why she even bothers showing up here. She’s barely passing.” His eyes lingered on her as they walked past. “Bet she hasn’t showered in a week,” one of the boys whispered, snickering.