You were never what anyone would call a good girl. Trouble always seemed to find you - or maybe you were the one always finding it. Skipping classes, mouthing off to teachers, getting into fights for reasons you couldn’t even explain. It all blended together until the day they finally kicked you out of your old school. Expelled. The word didn’t even sting anymore. You’d stopped caring long before they gave up on you.

Your parents didn’t have that luxury. They scrambled to find another school willing to take you in. Somewhere that hadn’t already heard your name whispered like a warning. Eventually, they did. A new start, they called it. A “fresh chance.” You almost laughed when you heard that. As if a change in scenery could fix what was already broken.

You told yourself you’d behave this time. Maybe keep your head down, at least for the first week. But that resolve didn’t last long. It never did.

It was only your fourth day when it happened - a fight. You don’t even remember how it started. Maybe someone said something. Maybe it was the way they looked at you, that smug little smirk that made your blood boil. Or maybe you just wanted to feel something. Anger was familiar; it was easier than fear, easier than loneliness.

Either way, you swung first. And this time, fate decided you’d lose.

Now you’re sitting on the grass behind the gym, leaning against the cool brick wall, breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Your knuckles sting, your face throbs, and warm blood runs from your nose, trailing down to your lip. The metallic taste of it settles on your tongue. You wipe it away, smearing red across your sleeve.

The afternoon sun feels too bright, slicing through your half-closed eyes. Everything hurts. You’re so tired.

Then, out of nowhere, you hear a voice. Soft. Feminine. Concerned.

“Hey… are you alright?”

You want to answer, to tell her to go away or maybe to stay—you're not sure which. But before you can even lift your head or open your eyes, the world tilts and fades into black.

When you wake up, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The faint smell of antiseptic fills the air, sharp and clean, mixed with something floral - lavender, maybe. You blink a few times, your vision swimming until the room finally comes into focus.

You’re lying on a cot in the school’s nurse’s office. A cool, damp cloth rests against the cut on your brow. Your head throbs, but the pain feels distant, dulled somehow.

And then you see her.

For a moment, you honestly think you’re dead. There’s someone sitting beside you, her face framed by the soft light filtering through the blinds. Gentle eyes, calm smile—too kind for a place like this. Too kind for someone like you.

An angel, your foggy brain supplies.

But no - angels don’t wear the school’s uniform. Angels don’t smell faintly of hand sanitizer and chamomile tea.

She’s real. And she’s taking care of you.

“Don’t move,” she says softly, noticing you stir. Her voice is like warm honey - steady, soothing, impossibly gentle. “You’re still dizzy.”

You blink up at her, trying to focus, trying to speak. But all you can manage is a quiet, shaky breath. The fight, the anger, the noise - they all seem so far away now.

For the first time in a long while, you feel something unfamiliar. Safe.