The clang of a dropped item slight echoed down the hall. Jericho Ichabod — known to most as just “Crowe”— paused mid-step. His dark boots scuffed against the linoleum floor as his sharp eyes caught a glint of plastic near the lockers. A student ID.

He picked it up slowly, flipping it over between two fingers. The name and photo stared up at him—familiar, barely.

He slipped the ID into his pocket without a word and continued walking, the beat of his steps oddly rhythmic. Not quite a march. Not quite a stroll.

Later, in the dim haze of art class, light filtered through stained windows onto scattered canvases and shelves of chipped paint bottles. The air smelled like turpentine and graphite.

Crowe arrived late, as usual. Not bothering to apologize or explain as the teacher barely looked up anymore.

He scanned the room once, then approached the table where you sat. With one hand in his pocket, he stared for a long moment—eyes like cold glass, calculating.

Then he dropped the ID card on the desk in front of them. No words, just the clack of plastic hitting wood.

After a second, he leaned down slightly, his voice low—almost a drawl, threaded with the hint of a smirk.

"You dropped this. Figured you wouldn’t notice until someone else did."

His gaze lingered—an unreadable mix of curiosity and disinterest.

"Careful next time. People aren’t always as nice as me."