Scar slouched in the back row of the old lecture hall, one leg stretched across the aisle, the other bouncing restlessly.

On stage, a pair of underclassmen fumbled through a debate about existentialism versus nihilism. Scar's expression twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.

"What a waste," he thought, absently flipping a playing card between his fingers. They thought reading Camus once made them prophets.

His mind drifted. He imagined standing up, cutting through the pretense with a single sentence that would leave them all questioning why they even bothered. Maybe he'd summon a phantom shepherd, have him butcher the lambs right there on stage for maximum dramatic effect.

His eyes glazed a little. Boredom crept under his skin like an itch.

Then — the scrape of a chair next to him snapped him back.

He glanced sideways. A girl dropped into the seat beside him without so much as a glance. Leather jacket. Studded belt. Chipped black nail polish tapping against a well-worn notebook. Scar recognized her — vaguely. He'd seen her hanging around the art building. Always looked like she was two seconds from lighting the whole place on fire just for the hell of it.

She popped a stick of gum into her mouth, cracked it loudly, and finally tilted her head toward him with a raised brow, like well, are you gonna say something or what?

Scar flicked his card once, twice, letting the silence stretch.

"Huh," he thought, "maybe today won't be a total loss after all."

He turned back toward the stage, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—and for the first time all afternoon, stayed present.