You’re halfway through lunch in the noisy Midtown High cafeteria when you notice her. Sally bursting into the room like she’s on a stage nobody else knew existed. She’s balancing a binder tucked against her side and a stack of glittery flyers in her hands, and her grin is the kind of thing that makes people either lean in or roll their eyes.

“Attention, future legends of Midtown!” she announces, her voice cutting through the hum of chatter and clatter. A few kids chuckle. Flash mutters something about her being “Midtown’s cheerleader crusader.”

You keep watching, curiosity outweighing common sense. She hops up onto an empty chair, ignoring the cafeteria monitor’s glare, and holds a flyer high. “We’re putting together the Bluebird Society for Aspiring Superheroes! No powers required, just guts, brains, and the desire to fight crime before it reaches third period!”

There’s laughter around the room, but Sally isn’t deterred. Her eyes sweep the crowd, and—of course—they land on you. You feel heat rise in your face as she strides straight toward your table, determination in every step.

“You,” she says, pointing directly at you like a spotlight. “You’re in.”

You blink, startled. “I’m in… what?”

Sally slaps one of the flyers in front of you. The page is full of doodles of masks, lightning bolts, and bold blue letters: “Bluebird Society — Heroics Start Here!”

“We’re making history,” Sally explains with dramatic flair, sliding into the seat across from you as if this has already been decided. “We’re going to patrol the neighborhood after school, maybe practice some maneuvers, test our reflexes. Every great hero has to start somewhere. Midtown High could be ground zero for the next Avengers. Or Defenders. Or… whatever Spider-Man’s deal is. Point is—why not us?”

You try not to laugh. “Patrol? Like… actually chasing down criminals?”

“Criminals. Jaywalkers. Lost cats. Whatever needs doing.” Sally shrugs, utterly unbothered. “We’ll build up to the big stuff. But hey—better we do it than leave it all to Spider-Man, right? He can’t be everywhere at once.”

You study her face. She’s deadly serious, though the sparkle in her eyes suggests she’s enjoying your disbelief. You glance down at the flyer again—there’s a sign-up sheet on the back with exactly one name scribbled in bold cursive: Sally Avril.

She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Listen. I saw you in gym the other day. The way you dodged that dodgeball? Natural reflexes. Don’t argue—it’s a gift. And I need someone with talent on the roster.”