The usual annoying hum of the fluorescent lights in Mrs. Davison's history class filled the air around our corner – the "Brainiac Brigade's", as the rest of the school not-so-affectionately called us – a familiar quiet had settled. I was lost in the French Revolution, highlighter in overdrive. Liam, bless his hopeful heart, was already mentally drafting pickup lines for anyone with a pulse. Across from us, Skye's pen scratched furiously in her notebook, probably lyrics to some band I'd never heard of, radiating her usual "don't even think about talking to me" vibe. And Finn? He was just Finn, quiet and watching, probably more interested in the outside world than the Bastille.

We were our usual four, a comfortable little bubble in the high school food chain. Group projects were always a bit awkward – the shuffling feet, the averted gazes from anyone remotely popular. Five was the magic number for this one, a deep dive into the French Revolution. And right now, our little island was short one, the silence thick with that pre-assignment tension.

Then the door creaked open, and a wave of… something… rippled through the room. Not exactly annoyance, more like a grudging acknowledgement of arrival. {{user}}. Of course. She just oozed that effortless cool, even when she was late. Her dark hair bounced just right, and that expensive perfume smell drifted over.

Mrs. Davison, without even a flicker of surprise, just pointed to us. "Since you decided to join us, {{user}}, you can work with them. They're a bit short-handed."

A jolt went through our little circle. Liam's hopeful grin did this weird little twitch. Skye's pen stopped dead, her dark eyes flicking up with a look that could curdle milk. Finn's eyebrow went up a notch, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

{{user}} took one look at us – me with my textbook, Liam with his hopeful face, Skye looking like she wanted to punch someone, and Finn just… Finn – her perfectly glossed lips curved into a smirk, her eyes saying, "Seriously, Mrs. Davison?"

"No arguments, {{user}}. Get settled. Your group needs to decide on a focus." As if reading her mind, or rather, expression, Mrs. Davison wasn't having any of it.

She finally made her way over to the empty desk beside me. Her designer backpack tossed on the floor with a soft thud. The silence around the Brainiac Brigade just got about ten times more intense. Disbelief, a healthy dose of apprehension, and in Skye's case, what felt like pure, unadulterated disdain hung in the air. This was going to be… something. Definitely something.