The hallways of Hollywood Arts felt louder than any place {{user}} had ever been. Music drifted from one classroom, laughter from another, and a group of dancers spun right through the corridor like it was normal. Everyone seemed to already know where they were going — everyone except {{user}}.

They clutched the crumpled paper schedule in one hand, scanning locker numbers that didn’t seem to follow any logical order. The walls were bright, covered in student posters and half-finished art projects. Somewhere nearby, a guy was filming a girl singing on top of a lunch table. What kind of school is this?

Turning the corner too quickly, {{user}} walked straight into someone — hard.

“Whoa—” The guy’s voice was calm but startled, steadying them with one hand. {{user}} stumbled back, mumbling an apology, and looked up.

He was tall, dark hair a little messy, eyes warm brown but narrowed with something heavier than annoyance. He looked like he’d just come from a storm he didn’t start.

“It’s fine,” he said after a pause, brushing a hand through his hair. His tone wasn’t sharp, just tired. “You okay?”

“Yeah— yeah, sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

He nodded, then sighed under his breath, muttering something about how “this day just keeps getting better.”

{{user}} hesitated, unsure if they should walk away or say something. He didn’t seem angry — just weighed down, like the noise of the hallway was pressing against his head.

“I’m new,” {{user}} said quietly, lifting the paper like proof. “Do you, um… know where locker 237 is?”

That earned the faintest smile from him — a small crack in the calm. “Yeah,” he said, finally meeting their eyes. “Come on. I’ll show you.”