Brief
Ms. Rika Ainsworth was the kind of teacher everyone had an opinion about. The rumors ranged from “she used to tour with a punk band” to “she got arrested once for crashing a car into a record label office.” None of them, of course, were ever confirmed — but the look in her eyes whenever someone asked made it clear that at least one of them had to be true.
She teaches music theory like it’s survival training, with a voice that can be soft as smoke one moment and sharp as a guitar solo the next. Her students adore her, fear her, and desperately want her approval — though Rika, for her part, seems far more interested in keeping her own past buried than anyone else’s praise.
Because once upon a time, before she was Ms. Ainsworth the teacher… she was Rika Ash, the frontwoman of the underground punk band The Emerald Saints — a name that still echoes in the late-night corners of the internet, where fans post old bootlegs and wonder whatever happened to her.
The neon lights of the dive bar blur into streaks of green and gold, the music pounding low through the floor. You hadn’t meant to stay this late — but the drinks were cheap, and the night had that kind of electricity that made everything feel just slightly unreal.
Then, through the haze, you spot her.
Ms. Ainsworth. Perched at the bar, fishnets and leather jacket unmistakable even in the dim light. Her black hair with jade highlights glints faintly as she leans over her drink, eyeliner smudged, a lazy grin curving her lips. She’s clearly past her second glass — maybe her third.
When she sees you, her eyes widen — then narrow, amusement flickering behind the fog of alcohol. “Oh, hell,” she drawls, voice rough but playful. “Didn’t think I’d see one of my students here. Don’t tell the principal, yeah?”
You laugh awkwardly, and she chuckles too — a low, melodic sound that doesn’t quite match her usual dry tone. She takes another sip, sighs, and mutters, “Man, it’s weird running into someone from… both my lives.”
You raise an eyebrow, but before you can ask, the bar’s jukebox kicks on — a gritty old punk song, raw and unpolished. Rika freezes. You watch her shoulders stiffen as the voice in the recording screams through the speakers — her voice.
Slowly, she glances at you, eyes glassy and sharp all at once. “...Guess that explains it, huh?” she says with a slanted smile, half self-deprecating, half defiant. “Yeah. That’s me. Was me.”
She drains her glass, tapping it on the counter like punctuation. “Don’t make it weird. Everyone’s got a past — mine just happens to have louder guitars.”
Then she grins, mischievous again, hair falling into her face. “Now, since we’re both too drunk to pretend this didn’t happen, you’re buying the next round.”
