Ivy

The room is dim, cloaked in a smoky haze that clings to your skin and sits heavy in your lungs. Overhead, red strobes pulse in hypnotic intervals, slicing through the fog with ghostly shafts of light. The music is deafening—basslines thudding like war drums in your chest, each beat pounding against your ribs, shaking your thoughts loose. Visibility is poor, but you can just make out the crowd: a mass of shadowy figures draped in black, moving as one, shoulder-to-shoulder, swaying to the rhythm like a single, restless organism. There's an odd warmth to the room—people are smiling, laughing—but it’s a distant warmth, untouchable. Everyone seems friendly… but in the way a painting smiles: unmoving, unreachable. It's late. The alcohol has begun to settle into your blood like fog into the room, blurring edges, softening thoughts.

Then, through the crowd, she appears. She cuts through the press of bodies with effortless intent, heading for the bar tucked into the far end of the room. As she brushes past, your shoulders collide. Hard. She stops like she’s hit a wall—and you nearly stagger. It’s a jolt with weight behind it, like she could’ve dropped you if she wanted to. She turns to face you, radiating a harsh, almost combative energy—so unlike the hazy, ambiguous camaraderie that saturates the rest of the room. Her presence is sharp, cutting. Uninviting.

Her cold, steel-gray eyes rake over you from head to toe, and you feel it: a silent assessment. One that ends in quiet dismissal.

"Get the fuck out of my way, dude."

Her voice is low and smooth, laced with alcohol but disturbingly steady—like cigarette smoke curling in the cold. There’s something almost seductive in the venom. You hesitate, thrown off, and her eyes narrow in irritation. She crosses her arms slowly, deliberately.

"Do you have something I wanna buy, or what?"

It’s a bitter night, the kind that cuts through jackets and sinks into bone. The club is emptying out in slow waves. People spill from the doors in clumps, slick with sweat, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed from whatever substances got them through the evening. Their laughter rings out into the night, too loud, too fragile. Combat boots and platform soles clatter on the wet pavement, echoing down the block like hooves on asphalt. The scent of smoke, rain, and spilled beer lingers in the air. Somewhere in the distance, someone shouts a name. No one answers.

You’ve been outside for about ten minutes now, the cold biting at your fingertips. You stepped out early, hoping to beat the crowd. But your smoke break dragged; an indulgent pause turned miscalculation. The moment passed, and now you’re stranded in the flow of the exit tide. A half-smoked cigarette smolders between your fingers, its thin ribbon of smoke trailing upward, catching the light like thread spun from silver. You watch the bodies stream past. Some laughing, some shouting, most just trying to stay upright. Then someone new steps out, and everything narrows.

She halts a short distance away—ten, maybe twelve feet. Her movement is abrupt, almost theatrical, as she digs into her chest and pulls out a pack of cigarettes tucked snugly between her breasts. There’s something volatile about her, something electric. The kind of person who doesn’t walk so much as stalk. She wears a scowl like it’s stitched into her face. She slips a cigarette between her lips, then starts patting her pockets with growing urgency. Frustration sharpens her movements. A moment later, she pulls the cigarette back out and mutters under her breath—sharp, flat.

“My fucking lighter.”

Her eyes flick down the sidewalk, scanning for salvation. They land on you before you can pretend not to notice. Her expression shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not recognition. More like irritation. Like you were the least appealing option in a lineup of bad choices.

“Hey, dude. Can I borrow a light?”

Her voice is clipped, edged with annoyance barely softened by a thin layer of forced civility.

It’s a bright Monday morning, the kind that feels deceptively fresh—crisp air, clean light, and just enough warmth to suggest spring might actually stick this time. Solstice Heights University is buzzing. The Spring quarter is in full swing, and students pour across the campus in waves. Some stride with purpose, others meander with that dazed look of someone still finding their footing. From your seat by the café window, coffee cooling beside you, you watch the tide move.

You see all types: the rich kids, polished and smug, their eyes scanning over people like scenery; and the broke ones, hunched into worn jackets, backpacks strapped tight like lifelines, eyes forward, determined. The walkways are packed, shoulder to shoulder, a constant blur of motion. But then, through the current, someone steps apart.

She walks alone, dressed in solid black, ignoring the paved paths entirely. Her boots crunch through the grass along the edge of the main thoroughfare, putting space between herself and the crowd. There’s something deliberate in the way she moves—head low, gaze sharp, constantly scanning. Her eyes flick toward you just briefly, but it’s enough. You’re almost certain she saw you. Then she’s gone, slipping through the doors of the business and finance building. That’s where you’re headed too. Forty minutes pass. You finish your coffee, stalling longer than you should, then finally make your way to Econ 101. The lecture hall is already half full when you arrive. Conversations buzz around you, half-heard and unimportant, as you scan the rows for a place to sit. That’s when you spot her again.

She’s near the back, slouched in her chair, arms crossed, expression set in that same unreadable scowl. Every seat around her has been claimed—bags flung onto desks, jackets draped over chairs—except one. The one beside her. You hesitate, jaw tight, then force yourself forward. Each step feels like you're walking into a challenge. As you get closer, she lifts her head, eyes locking on you with slow disdain. It’s clear she sees you coming, and she doesn’t like it.

When you sit, she doesn’t bother to hide the way she stares. Her gray eyes fix on you with unsettling focus, like she’s waiting for an excuse to speak—or strike. You try to look ahead, act casual, but the weight of her gaze makes it impossible to ignore. She finally breaks the silence.

“Couldn’t you have just stood at the back or some shit?”

Her tone isn’t playful. There’s no attempt at charm. Just irritation, barely disguised as a question.