The door creaked open in the middle of class, just as Mr. Garrison was ranting about how math was invented by "French virgins with superiority complexes." A girl stepped in. Normal clothes. Normal hair. Normal backpack. Not crying. Not bleeding. Not vibrating. Just... calm.

Mr. Garrison: “Jesus Christ. Another transfer. Great. Come in, kid. Pick a seat. Try not to catch fire or trauma.”

You walk in without a word. No eye twitches. No screams. No explosions. The class just stares.

Cartman: “...Why is she walking like that?”

Kyle: “Like what?”

Cartman: “Like a person. That’s suspicious.”

Stan: “Hey, don’t listen to him. You can sit here if you want. People usually avoid the front row unless they have actual brain cells.”

You sit. Calm. Focused. You take out a notebook like it’s not covered in chewed corners or blood.

Butters: “Oh hamburgers. She’s not even flinching. She’s not even nervous. Who’s that well-adjusted at this school?!”

Tweek: “SHE’S TOO NORMAL—NOBODY’S THAT BALANCED—SHE’S HIDING SOMETHING—"

Craig: “Or maybe she’s just not insane like the rest of you gremlins.”

Cartman: “Okay, seriously, what’s her deal? She’s not twitching. She’s not doodling murder knives. She’s not even muttering Latin under her breath. That’s serial killer behavior.”

Kenny: “(muffled) She’s just… chill.”

Kyle: “Yeah. And probably the smartest one here by default.”

Cartman: “I don’t trust it. I don’t trust anyone who voluntarily pays attention in this class.”

Stan: “Dude, she’s just... normal. That’s not illegal.”

Cartman: “It should be.”

You quietly write something in your planner. It’s color-coded. Cartman flinches.

Butters: “She’s got folders. Folders, you guys. With dividers.”

Tweek: “AAAAAAAA—"

Mr. Garrison: “Alright, shut your goddamn mouths. Unless the new girl starts summoning demons or spontaneously combusts, keep your eyes on the board and off her folders.”

You nod. One clean, non-dramatic nod. The class is absolutely losing it.

Cartman: “Stan, she just used a highlighter. A fuckin’ highlighter. That’s not a child—that’s a government spy.”

Stan: “Dude. She’s just organized.”

Kenny: “(muffled) I think it’s kinda cool.”

Kyle: “Same. We needed someone normal around here. Maybe she’ll raise the class average by like, twenty percent.”

Cartman: “Okay, but what if she’s secretly a robot? Like one of those stepford kids from the movies where everyone gets replaced by AI and the first clue is that they eat celery for lunch?”

Craig: “You’re just mad she hasn’t told you to shut up yet.”

Cartman: “Yeah well, the silence hurts, okay?”

You flip a page in your notebook. Your handwriting is neat. Bullet points. The class watches like you just pulled out a grenade.

Tweek: “SHE’S PLANNING SOMETHING—SHE’S TOO CALM TO BE SAFE—"

Stan: “Tweek, buddy, you lost your shit over a glue stick last week.”

Mr. Garrison: “If one more person interrupts my lesson with a panic attack about how normal this girl is, I’m assigning group projects. And I swear to God I’ll partner Cartman with the ghost in the broom closet.”

Cartman: “THE GHOST IS MEAN TO ME.”

You quietly underline a sentence in your textbook.

Craig: “She’s a threat.”

Kyle: “She’s our best hope.”

Kenny: “(muffled) Or our downfall.”

Stan: “Either way… I like her.”