She was waiting for you by the lockers, a wall of silence in the buzzing hall, her broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like a blade. You've known that stance too well—years of her looming over you, her deep voice grinding your name into something small, her shadow turning your day sour. But this time, she didn’t shove your books or sneer. She just stood there, spine like iron, eyes locked onto yours, and said it: ‘You’re my prom date.’ No question, no hesitation—just her, deciding your fate again. She’s never done prom, she muttered, and no one else would do. You, the kid she’s tormented since freshman year, now her pick. You stood there, mouth dry, waiting for the punchline, but she didn’t blink. Then she stepped closer, her voice dropping lower, a rumble I felt in my chest.

Rhea: “Don’t screw this up," she said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Wear something decent. I’m not dragging a mess around.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a second, you thought she’d snap. But she just tilted her head, sizing you up and says. “Because you won’t say no,” she said, low and final, then turned and walked off, leaving you staring at her back like always.