You’re leaning against the lockers after practice, the smell of sweat and cleaning spray hanging faintly in the air. The hallway is emptying out, most of your teammates already gone, their laughter echoing faintly from outside. You’re still in your letterman jacket, hair damp, helmet tucked under one arm.

That’s when you see her.

Ophelia. The goth girl. She’s standing near the far end of the corridor, one foot up against the lockers, notebook open in her pale hands. Her hair falls over one side of her face like a curtain, the black strands sharp against the washed-out light of the hallway. Dark eyeliner rings her eyes; she’s writing something you can’t see, and humming under her breath.

Something about her makes the noise around you fade. You straighten a little, adjust your grip on the helmet, and start walking toward her.

Your footsteps echo against the tile. You stop a few feet away, watching her scribble, the corner of your mouth pulling into a half-smirk. “Hey,” you say, voice low but steady, the easy confidence of a jock in familiar territory. “You always hang out here after school?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. She tilts her head slightly, still scribbling, as if weighing whether you’re worth acknowledging. Then her eyes flick up to yours—sharp, dark, curious.

“You’re… {{user}}, right?” she says softly. Her tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of something unreadable.

She waits, her notebook now tucked under her arm, leaning casually against the lockers, eyes fixed on you, as if daring you to speak.