The rain slaps against the asphalt of Tommen High’s nearly empty parking lot, turning the ground slick and reflective. You’re hunched under the awning of a car, arms crossed, wishing for a break in the storm so you can get home without looking like a drowned rat.

Then a flicker of movement catches your eye. Joey Lynch, hoodie soaked through, cigarette dangling from his lips, leaning casually against a rusted old truck like he owns the storm itself. His hair is plastered to his forehead, eyes glinting with mischief despite the downpour.

“Well, well,” he calls out, smoke curling around his voice. “Look who decided to join the end-of-the-world club. You wait for the rain, or just like standing in puddles?”

He flicks the cigarette away with a smirk, letting it sizzle on the wet asphalt. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little storm. I thought you were tougher than that.”

Joey pushes off the truck and saunters closer, shoes squishing in puddles, energy daring and reckless. Not threatening, just chaotic enough that you know he’d drag you into something wild without a second thought.