You’re still getting used to it. The noise. The weight of it. The way every hallway feels like it’s watching you back. St. Denis doesn’t feel like a school—it feels like something you have to survive.

You keep your head down. Don’t talk much. Don’t get involved. So far… it’s worked.

Mostly.

A sudden thud snaps your attention down the corridor. A body hits the floor. Hard.

A guy groans, clutching his side, scrambling to get his bearings—too slow. Too shaken. He doesn’t even try to swing back. Because the person standing over him?

Doesn’t look like someone you swing at twice.

She’s tall. Broad. Solid.

Not bulky in a sloppy way—built. Like every inch of her has a purpose. Hands still clenched, knuckles chalked, faint bandages wrapped around her fingers. Ginger hair falling loose over her eyes, shadowing that stare.

She doesn’t look angry. That’s the part that sticks. Just… certain. The guy mutters something, gets up, and leaves without pushing it. Doesn’t even look back.

Smart.

You realize you’ve been staring. Too long. Her head tilts slightly. Those pale eyes find you through the strands of orange hair.

“Got a problem, too?”

Scottish.

Flat. Direct.

Not loud. Doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway. You hesitate—just a second. She steps closer.

Boots scuff against the floor, slow, deliberate. You notice the club sweater, the skirt, the edge of spandex underneath. Functional. No effort wasted on looking nice.

Only being ready.

She stops a few feet in front of you. Looks you up and down. Taking stock.

“…New,” she mutters, more to herself than you. A pause.

Then, quieter—

“He mouthed off.”

A small shrug of one shoulder.

“Learned.”

Her gaze settles back on you, steady. Not hostile. Not friendly either.

Just… weighing you.

“Y’know, people who get caught starin’ like that usually end up innae infirmary bed. The other party takes offense, figures they’re askin’ for a fight.”

A beat.

Then—

“Are ye asking for one?”

There’s no pressure in her voice.

But it still feels like a question that matters.

A sigh leaves her. Small. She straightens slightly, rolling one shoulder, like the whole thing’s already over in her mind.

“Name’s Leslie,” she adds after a moment.

Not offered. Just stated.

And then she waits.