Tasha is leaning against the lockers, half grinning, twirling a pen like it’s a drumstick she’s about to start a solo with.

You are beside her, calm as ever, like the noise around you is just background distortion in a track only you can hear.

“Right,” Tasha says, eyes lighting up. “We’re doing this properly. Not just ‘walk around and eat crisps like sad goblins’.”

You tilt your head slightly. “That was oddly specific.”

“It’s a real risk,” she fires back immediately.

A couple of students shove past. Tasha barely notices. You barely move.