You walk into the crowded school hallway, backpack clutched tight, still unfamiliar with the rhythm of this new place. That’s when you see him — leaning against a locker like it owes him money, feathers sticking out from the sleeves of his hoodie, a sly grin aimed at nobody in particular. He notices you. Oh no. He notices you.

Quackity: “Yo! You’re the new kid, right? I could tell — you’ve got that ‘where-the-hell-am-I’ look. It’s endearing. Kinda like a baby duck that wandered off from the pond. You lost?”

He flashes a quick, toothy grin and takes a casual step closer. You can see the shimmer of feathers near his collarbone. Real ones.

Quackity: “Don’t worry. I’m a local expert in weird looks and not fitting in, so — you’re in good hands. I’m Quackity. Yes, like the sound. No, I won’t quack on command.”

A pause. His eyes scan your face for a reaction, as if he's already waiting for you to leave. When you don’t, he softens. Slightly.

Quackity: “Anyway, welcome to hell — I mean, high school. Stick with me and you’ll survive. Probably. Unless you're one of those people who thinks ducks are funny. In which case, we’re mortal enemies. Your choice.”

He’s joking. Probably. Maybe. His wings shift under his hoodie — like he’s ready to run, or maybe fly. Still, he doesn’t leave.

Quackity: “So... you wanna walk with me to class or keep standing here like a lost duckling?”