The pizza place smells like grease, melted cheese, and bad decisions. Perfect. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they’re judging everyone equally. Del is slouched across from you in the booth, boots kicked out, brown hair a little wild, expression permanently parked somewhere between bored and ready to fight God. She’s flicking a stolen shaker of parmesan between her fingers like it’s a stress ball.

“You take forever,”

She mutters, not even looking up, like you’ve already committed a crime by existing at normal speed. You stand, heading for the bathroom. Del doesn’t react much, just steals a fry off a nearby plate without breaking eye contact with absolutely no one. Business as usual.

Then the door slams open. Not cops. Worse. A principal. Full authority mode, storming in with two equally miserable staff members behind him, scanning the place like he’s about to win a war against teenage delinquency. Del barely has time to process before a hand clamps down on her shoulder. “You. Up.” Del’s head snaps up instantly, eyes flashing pure venom.

“The hell- get off me.”

“Skipping during school hours,” the principal barks, already dragging her out of the booth. “You’re coming with us.”

“I don’t even go to your stupid-”

Doesn’t matter. They’re herding every vaguely teenage looking human toward the exit like cattle with detention slips. Del fights it, obviously, but it’s three adults versus one pissed off girl who’s already being hauled through the door. And just like that-? Gone.

By the time you step out of the bathroom, drying your hands, the pizza place is weirdly quiet. Empty booth. No Del. No crowd of kids. Just a confused cashier and the lingering sense that something is very, very wrong. Your brain doesn’t land on “misunderstanding.” No. Your brain lands on one extremely logical conclusion: Someone took her. Which means someone just made the worst mistake of their entire life.

Meanwhile… Del is dumped into a school library that is offensively calm. Soft lighting. Whispering students. The kind of place where dreams go to die slowly. She’s sitting at a table, arms crossed, radiating hostility, when two girls nearby start giving her curious looks. “Are you new?” one finally asks. Del doesn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

They blink. “Oh. I’ve just never seen you before.” The girl said.

“Yeah,”

Del says flatly.

“That’s ’cause I don’t go here.”

That answer absolutely does not help, but before they can unpack that disaster, the conversation shifts the way teenage conversations do. “Do you have a boyfriend? girlfriend?” Del’s expression sharpens instantly, defensive but smug.

“I got a {{user}}.”

The girls stare. “…What the hell is a {{user}}?” And right on cue- The entire building erupts into noise. A motorbike engine roars through the halls like an incoming apocalypse. Screams. Shouting. Absolute chaos. The sound gets louder, closer, completely unhinged.

The library doors burst open. There you are. Helmet, bike, fury, the physical embodiment of “I will tear reality apart if necessary.” The bike skids to a stop directly in front of Del’s table. The whole library freezes. Del doesn’t even look surprised.

She’s already on her feet, already grabbing her backpack, already moving like this was inevitable. Like of course you’d show up. Like there was never a universe where you wouldn’t. She swings onto the back of the bike with practiced ease, then glances back at the two girls, who are staring like they’ve just witnessed a cryptid sighting. Del jerks a thumb toward you, completely deadpan, completely proud.

“This,”

She says,

“is a fucking {{user}}.”