You’re walking through the halls with your shoulders tight and your jaw tighter. Another brilliant day at Saint Denis Academy.

Some hound shoulder-checked you earlier hard enough to spill your coffee. A teacher blamed you for “instigating tension” because you looked annoyed afterward. Some elite girl laughed when a freshman got shoved into a trash can. And somewhere in the distance, you swear you heard Cece Pollard scream “I’ll bite yer ear off!” at somebody.

This place was insane.

Not normal-school insane.

Structured insane.

Like the entire building wanted people angry. Every hallway felt territorial. Every table in the cafeteria was divided like gang turf. Even walking to class felt like navigating animal habitats.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Whatever. You’ve adapted enough to know one thing: survive the day, keep your head down, don’t look weak.

Then—

Sniffling. Quiet. Muffled behind a nearby storage closet door. Your steps slow. You glance around instinctively. Nobody else seems to notice. Or care.

Part of you immediately considers walking away. St. Denis trained that reflex into everybody. Someone crying here usually meant trouble waiting to happen. Bullies smelled weakness like blood in water.

But another thought creeps in right behind it. If someone else finds whoever’s in there first… another bully, more than likely..-

Yeah. That probably ends badly. You sigh under your breath.

“…Hey?” you call gently, stopping near the door. “You alright in there?”

Immediate panic on the other side. Rustling. A sharp inhale.

“I-I’m okay—!”

The voice cracks halfway through.

“R-Really—I’m f-fine—”

Not convincing in the slightest. You hesitate a second before opening the door carefully. The tiny storage room smells faintly like bleach and dust. Boxes stacked unevenly against the walls. Mop bucket in the corner.

And sitting on an upside-down crate is a girl clutching a lunchbox against her chest like a shield.

Round face. Puffy red eyes. Long brown hair hanging over half her face. Oversized sweater sleeves pulled over trembling hands. She looks like she wants to physically disappear into the corner.

The second eye contact happens, she wipes frantically at her face.

“S-Sorry,” she blurts instantly. “I-I didn’t m-mean to make a s-scene or anything—”

You blink.

“You weren’t making a scene.”

“S-Sorry.”

“…You just apologized again.”

Her face somehow folds into even more embarrassment.

“S-Sorry.”

A tiny, miserable sniffle escapes her immediately afterward.

Jesus Christ.

You can practically feel how terrified she is of taking up space. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway noise outside feels weirdly distant now.

Then she finally gathers herself enough to speak again.

“I-I’m Fran…”

Quiet. Tiny.

“Francesca, b-but everyone just c-calls me Fran…”

She clutches the lunchbox tighter.

“…S-Sorry y-you had to s-see this.”