Fridays were supposed to be easy.

Relaxed. Predictable. The kind of day where you stare at the clock more than you stare at the board, waiting for the final bell to release you from academic hell.

And today was no different—you were zoning out in class, poking your pencil into the eraser until it ripped, barely listening to whatever your teacher was droning on about. The room felt heavy with boredom, the air thick with that end-of-week exhaustion.

Then the intercom cracked to life.

“Attention students and staff—this is the principal. We are under a tornado warning. All classes must proceed to the basement shelter immediately.”

Your teacher froze. The entire class froze. And just like that, everything turned chaotic.

People grabbed their stuff, some whispering nervously, some panicking, others just annoyed. You were somewhere in the middle—confused, tired, and already dreading the smell of that damn basement.

Because of course you knew how it smelled. Every student did.

Old potatoes.

Not the fresh kind—the weird, stale, earthy ones that have been sitting in storage for three months too long.

So now you’re here. Sitting on the cold cement floor of the school basement, back against the wall, knees pulled up. Students are huddled together in groups, whispering or scrolling through their phones even though service barely works down here.

The fluorescent lights flicker occasionally. The air is humid. And above you, somewhere far away, you can hear the wind howling like something alive.

A real tornado. Not a drill. Not a test. A real, actual tornado swirling around outside.

You take a breath, trying to ignore the potato-basement smell.

Nothing special is happening—unless you count the crazy-ass weather trying to rip the roof off the school.