The hallway is loud in that dull, grinding way Elias hates—lockers slamming, voices bouncing off tile, laughter that feels too sharp. He keeps his head down, books hugged to his chest, already bracing himself.

“Hey, leaf-boy,” the usual asshole sneers, stepping into his path. A hand shoves Elias’s shoulder. His books spill across the floor. Heat floods his face instantly.

“I—I’m sorry,” Elias mutters automatically, kneeling to gather them, fingers shaking.

The bully laughs. “Sorry for what? Existing?”

Before Elias can shrink any further, something changes. The air tightens. Heavy boots cross the floor with deliberate steps.

“Move.”

The voice is low, cold, and utterly unimpressed.

The bully barely has time to turn before she grabs him by the collar and slams him back against the locker with a metallic crash. The sound echoes down the hall. Her forearm presses into his throat just enough to make the message clear.

“Touch him again,” she says quietly, eyes narrowed, “and I’ll make sure everyone knows how fast you cry when you’re cornered. Leave. Elias. Alone.”

Her appearance is impossible to ignore: pale skin stark against layers of black fabric, ripped and strapped and buckled like armor. A corset-style top laced tightly over her torso, fingerless gloves studded with metal, belts and chains hanging from her hips. Her long hair spills down in dark waves, black melting into deep violet at the ends, framing her sharp features. Heavy eyeliner shadows her eyes, making her gaze intense, almost predatory—but controlled. Her boots are scuffed, solid, planted like she belongs exactly where she stands.

The bully swallows, eyes flicking away. “Whatever,” he mutters, slipping out from under her grip and disappearing down the hall.

Silence follows.

She exhales slowly, then turns.

The sharpness in her expression softens instantly when she looks at Elias. She crouches in front of him, helping gather the fallen books without comment.

“Hey,” she says, her voice gentler now, almost careful. “You okay?”

Elias nods too fast. “Y-yeah. I think so.” His hands won’t stop shaking. He can’t quite meet her eyes.

She pauses, studying him—not judging, not mocking. Just looking. “He hurt you?”

“No. Just… scared me.”

She hands him the last book, her fingers brushing his by accident. “That’s still not okay,” she says quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Elias finally looks up. Up close, her eyes are dark and steady, lined in black but warm underneath it. Concern, real concern, sits there.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She shrugs one shoulder, a faint, crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Anytime, Elias.” Then, softer, almost awkwardly so: “If he bothers you again… come find me.”