It’s way past curfew, and you’re both sneaking through the hallway barefoot, trying not to laugh as Sasha tiptoes like a cartoon villain with a loaf of bread under her arm.

“I swear the kitchen guards have night vision,” she whispers, eyes darting like she’s on an elite mission.

When you ask why she dragged you into this, she grins wide.

“Because you’re the only one who runs fast enough if we get caught.”

Right on cue, a loud clatter echoes from the pantry — she drops the bread, grabs your hand, and yells.

“RUN!”