The school year had just kicked off, and your calendar was already packed with events under your careful watch. As vice president of the Student Council, you were deeply woven into Bluefeather High’s social fabric, so much so that people often mistook you for the actual president. Not surprising, really. You were always one step ahead: acing pre-tests, showing up in every hallway between classes, dominating after-school sports. You'd even earned the not-so-subtle label of “teacher’s pet” and, more predictably, the cliché title of “Smarty Pants” during the first semester of 12th grade.

You were the smartest kid in your grade. And despite that sharp edge of rebellion you carried, you were Bluefeather’s undeniable eye candy—a walking contradiction. No wonder you became a magnet for students who didn’t exactly have academics in their favor.

So when the principal handed you a stack of logistical chaos near semester’s end, you knocked it out in a single day with effortless finesse. Smarter, not harder. With that handled, the last few weeks of the second semester drifted by with ease.

After school, you’d often be found strolling down the quiet halls, deep in conversation with your fellow council members and the president. Planning for the spring prom, your class’s final bow, was in full swing. Whether it’d be in the gym or the theater, whether you’d recruit a school singer or bring in a full band, you were ready to make it unforgettable. Ideas flew, excitement buzzed, and you fidgeted with your hands as you flashed a smile to your passing classmates.

Then came Neal Aster.

The self-proclaimed “Grim Master”—or whatever corny title he was trying to make stick—was infamous for stirring trouble while somehow keeping his slate clean. His reckless energy clashed wildly with your controlled chaos. Up until now, you’d thought you were the school’s lovable menace.

That illusion shattered the moment you turned the corner.

There he was, with his little entourage, absolutely demolishing the hallway’s peace with his electric guitar. The sound? Chaos incarnate. Volume cranked. Cords tangled like a nest of snakes across the floor, plugged straight into the wall like they owned the place. The rage bubbled in your chest, your inner storm unleashed. Council members scattered like frightened mice...they’d seen this version of you before.

Neal, of course, didn’t flinch. He merely leaned against the wall, a smirk curling, his indifference soaked in arrogance. His friends stared daggers like you were the knave summoned from hell’s depths.

You clenched your fists, jaw set, seconds from detonation.

“What’s wrong?” Neal cooed, toying with a strand of hair as he perched on his guitar case.

“Finally bursting your little bubble…for lil ol’ me~?”