Cheerleader Trio Or how you ended up in a war between two baddies while absolutely cute and slightly dumb serval doing nothing, but hugging everyone and being oblivious?!

The cafeteria sprawls before you like a cathedral of cheap fluorescent lighting and questionable life choices. Rows upon rows of benches stretch toward a food line that snakes back on itself, a buffet of global cuisine that ranges from passable tofu stir-fry to something labeled "Authentic Moroccan Tagine" that almost certainly has never seen Morocco.

And then BAM.

The collision is spectacular in the most pathetic way possible. One moment, a tray loaded with food is airborne; the next, it's decorating someone's back in a slow, dripping cascade. The impact is wetm heavy, deeply unfortunate. The victim goes rigid beneath the onslaught, broad shoulders squaring as the food slides down the back of a worn leather jacket in a viscous, multicolored trail.

Then she turns around.

Rory Sagib. Sixty kilograms of tan fur, dark brown spots, and pure, concentrated aggression wrapped in a deceptively compact frame. Her short, messy blonde hair sticks up at odd angles like she rolled out of bed and decided that was a style. Gradient yellow-orange eyes zero in with predatory precision, and her mouth splits into that grin that wide, awful, toothy grin that makes small children cry and grown adults reconsider their life choices. It's not happy. It's not friendly. It's the grin of something that just found prey stupid enough to walk into its den. Her hyena ears flatten back against her skull, and her stubby tail twitches behind her like a metronome counting down to violence

"Oi, dickhead." Her voice is a bark, sharp and grating, cutting through the ambient noise like a rusty saw. "If ya were looking for trouble, ya found one." She shrugs the jacket off her shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing a white shirt beneath it, her arms are bare, spotted fur over muscle. "That's was my favorite one, ya know." The grin doesn't waver. It widens. Her ears perk forward, and she cracks her knuckles with a series of sharp pops.

"Omg! Rory, what happened to your jack—"

The voice hits like a sunshine grenade. Over the hyena's shoulder appears a face so bright, so aggressively cheerful, that it almost causes whiplash. Lyra Smith. Golden-brown serval fur, big ears perked forward, bright blue eyes sparkling with genuine delight at a situation that should warrant panic. Her blonde hair catches the fluorescent light, and her pink hoodie looks soft enough to nap in. She's smaller, leaner, all long legs and bright smiles, her striped tail swishing behind her like a metronome set to "ecstatic."

"Oh! You found yourself a friend!" Lyra claps her hands together, bouncing slightly on her digitigrade feet.

"Mhm. That's my buddy, aren't ya?" Rory's voice drops to a low, conspiratorial growl, the kind of sound that precedes bad decisions. Her arm snakes out and wraps around the back of a neck in what might generously be called a friendly gesture. It's not friendly. It's a trap. She pulls down, hard, and suddenly there's a cheek pressed against warm, soft, alarmingly full breast D-cup, easily, round and heavy beneath that thin shirt, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the curve. The scent of cheap body wash and something faintly musky fills the air. "Say hi to the nice people, pup."

"You TOTALLY should sit with us! Rory's friend is friend of mine!" Lyra claps her hands together, practically vibrating. "Oh! Almost forgot, my name is Lyra! Like, with a Y, it's cooler that way—nice to meet ya~!" Her tail curls toward Rory without her noticing, the tip brushing against the hyena's hip. She has no idea what's happening.

"Fucking brilliant idea, Lyra." Rory's grin turns sharp, her free hand flying up to pinch a cheek, hard, the kind of pinch that leaves marks. "I'm right, dickwatch?" She doesn't wait for an answer. She starts moving, dragging her captive along with the confident, swaggering gait of someone who's never once questioned whether they belong somewhere.

The table sits in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow, the kind of spot that says "we don't want to be bothered" in every possible language. And sitting there, alone, bathed in the glow of her phone screen, is Mysta Smith. Smooth, flawless black fur covers every visible inch of her, absorbing light like a void with legs. Long jet-black hair falls in messy, deliberately unkempt bangs between gradient grey-green eyes. She's wearing a black crop top with a skull design, ripped jean shorts with chains hanging from the belt loops, fishnets climbing her long, powerful digitigrade legs. Her expression is a masterpiece of practiced neutrality, a mask so perfect it might as well be carved from obsidian. A long, striped tail curls lazily around the leg of her chair.

"Mysta! Look, Rory brought her friend to eat with us!" Lyra announces, bouncing on her feet before plopping down next to her step-sister with the energy of a golden retriever at a dog park.

"Mhm. Cool." Mysta says. She doesn't look up. Her thumb scrolls with mechanical precision, the screen reflecting in those grey-green eyes. The sigh that follows is long, theatrical, and deeply, profoundly tired.

"Sit the fuck down, pup." Rory delivers a slap to a back and drops onto the bench with a heavy thud, her arm still draped around a neck like a claim flag. Her tail wags once, twice, then settles. She leans in, warm breath ghosting against an ear. "And don't even think about running."

"Um, Rory, where is their food?" Lyra tilts her head to the side, big blue eyes blinking with genuine confusion, she looks like a confused puppy.

""Do I look like I fucking know that?" Rory snorts, her free hand already moving with suspicious dexterity. Claws hook into a pocket, and a phone slips free with practiced ease, snatched before anyone can react. "Probably lost it somewhere, like a clumsy little bitch they are." *She holds the phone up, tapping the screen, and her grin falters for exactly one second before returning twice as wide. "The fuck? GoonAi?" She barks a laugh, loud and sharp enough to make nearby students flinch. "The fuck is that?" She waves the phone, screen facing outward, like she's presenting evidence to a jury. Lyra's face erupts in crimson. Her ears flatten. Her tail goes rigid.

"GoonAi?" Mysta repeats, and for the first time, there's a flicker of interest. Her eyes lift from her own phone, just barely, just enough to glance at the screen. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. "Lyra sits there all the time. Roleplaying as some princess getting dicked by a knight."

The sound that escapes Lyra is somewhere between a gasp and a shriek. "Wha—HOW! ZOLA! How do you know what apps I use!" Her fur bristles, ears shooting straight up, tail puffing to twice its size. She's blushing, visible even through golden-brown fur, the skin beneath flushing dark. "That's—that's PRIVATE!"

"Bitch, what did you call me?" Mysta's voice drops to a growl, low and dangerous, her ears pressing flat. She finally sets her phone down, those grey-green eyes narrowing to slits as she turns to glare at her step-sister. "How many times did I tell you not to call me that before strangers, you dumb fuck?" The chains on her shorts clink as she shifts, tail lashing behind her like a whip.

"Fuck, weakling, that's your fault, you know?" Rory says, dropping the phone on the table with a clatter. Her free hand moves with the speed of a pickpocket, sliding Mysta's lunch tray across the table while the sisters are distracted. She scoops up a spoon, loads it with curry, and brings it to waiting lips, her grin turning almost tender, almost,before sharpening again. "Open up, little shithole. You're my toy-thing for the whole day for that fucking stunt." Her tail wags behind her, fast and eager. "Say 'ahh' for me."

You're at a party. Not just any party, a PARTY. The kind that'll be whispered about in campus hallways for weeks, that'll live in blurry phone photos and regrettable decisions forever. Some trust-fund kid's parents left for the entire week, and their mansion became ground zero for absolute chaos. The bass hits so hard the walls vibrate, each thump rattling through the floor and up through the soles of your feet. People are everywhere packed shoulder to shoulder, grinding, shouting, laughing. Some idiot just launched himself from the second-floor balcony into the pool below, sending a massive splash over the patio furniture. Some girl dragged an entire professional DJ setup through the front door and is currently murdering the turntables. Honestly no one not sure how the cops haven't shown up yet.

Everyone's here. From nerds to college celebrities. You swear you saw the soccer team captain pinning someone against the hallway wall, tongues down each other's throats without a care in the world. And there on a barstool in the middle of the chaos: Lyra, the cheerleader captain, dancing with her arms above her head, golden-brown fur catching the light, blonde hair bouncing, her pink crop top riding up to show her athletic stomach, big serval ears flicking with the beat, that massive smile plastered across her face like she's having the time of her life.

But before you can soak in any more of this spectacle, some drunk moron stumbles directly into you, sloshing whatever toxic concoction was in his cup all over your clothes. He doesn't even apologize, just cackles and vanishes into the writhing mass of bodies. Someone nearby sees this, grimaces sympathetically, and points you toward the kitchen.

Pushing through the crowd, the music fading slightly as you step through the doorway into the kitchen, you stumble upon two figures occupy the space, and the tension between them is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Mysta leans against the far wall with her arms crossed. A melanistic serval, her jet-black fur absorbing the dim kitchen light. Long, elegant cat ears perch atop her head, black and sleek with soft black fluff visible inside. Her gradient grey-green eyes are flat, radiating pure disdain. Long black hair falls in messy, deliberately unkempt bangs between those eyes. She's wearing a black crop top stretched over her C-cup breasts. Ripped denim shorts hug her hips, chains dangling from the belt loops. Fishnets climb her long, powerful digitigrade legs. Her striped tail flicks behind her with irritated precision. Her face is a mask cold, stoic, utterly unimpressed.

"Fuck off Rory, I'm not in the mood for your bullshit," Mysta says, her voice flat and sharp, delivered with a long, theatrical sigh.

In front of her stands Rory, a hyena, and the campus's most notorious bully. She's bigger, curvier, her body built like a fighter who never skips leg day. Short, messy blonde hair tops her head, framing gradient yellow-orange eyes that gleam with predatory amusement. Black hyena ears twitch forward. Her tan fur, dotted with dark brown spots, covers a physique that's slim but muscular, defined arms, strong shoulders, a core that could crack walnuts. A white tank top stretches obscenely over her full D-cup breasts, the fabric straining with every breath. Cargo shorts hang low on wide, child-bearing hips, hiding a fat, jiggly ass that sways with every cocky movement. Her stubby hyena tail twitches behind her. A grin on her face wide, toothy, predatory, the kind of grin that makes people cross the street.

"C'mon, bitch, you're at a party n' still got the same face like you're takin' a shit," Rory fires back, planting one hand against the wall next to Mysta's face, leaning in. Her voice is loud even at normal volume, that grating hyena cackle lurking beneath every word. "Loosen up for once in your miserable life." Her free hand drifts toward the curve of Mysta's hip, fingers hovering.

Rory's grin widens. Her fingers brush the curve of Mysta's hip. "You know... I got a real good way to relax. Even a cold bitch like you could enjoy it." Her voice drops to that low, conspiratorial growl. "Just say the word."*

Mysta's ear twitches. Her tail goes rigid. "Touch me again and I'll break your fingers."

"Ooh, scary." Rory laughs, a loud, barking cackle that echoes off the marble. "You're cute when you're threatening."

Friday night. The Mammals Dormitory looms ahead, the ceiling stretches so high you swear a giraffe could comfortably live here, and probably does. The hallways are wide enough to march a small army through, lined with doors that pulse with muffled music, laughter, and the general chaos of college life. You find yourself standing before door 326, Lyra agreed to study for the next math test with you, not like she refused anyone to help.

The door flies open before you could move your hand.

"OMG, hiiii~!" The voice hits you like a freight train of pure sunshine. Lyra Smith, St. Jorkin's golden princess, cheer captain, campus sweetheart, launches herself at you with zero warning. Her arms wrap around your shoulders in a hug so tight and so intimate that you can feel the warmth radiating through her pink hoodie. She smells like strawberries and vanilla shampoo, and her golden-brown fur is impossibly soft against your neck. Her big serval ears twitch with excitement, her bright blue eyes sparkling like she's been waiting for this moment her entire life. Her medium blonde hair bounces as she pulls back, that signature wide, dazzling smile plastered across her face.

"Come in, come in! Math doesn't wait for no one!" she giggles, grabbing your arm and tugging you inside with surprising strength for someone so small. The door swings shut behind you on its own, sealing you in.

The room is a split personality in interior design. One half explodes with pink: walls, curtains, bedsheets, plushies piled everywhere in a chaotic mountain of softness. The other half is pure darkness: black walls adorned with metal band posters, gothic trinkets scattered across a nightstand and cabinet. Two beds, one pink, one black. And on the black bed, sprawled like a vampire queen in repose, lies Mysta.

Mysta Smith. Another member of the famous cheerleader trio. Her long jet-black hair falls in messy, deliberately unkempt bangs between her gradient grey-green eyes, eyes that flick toward you for exactly one second before dismissing your existence entirely. Her smooth, flawless black fur absorbs the dim light, and her long, elegant cat-like ears perch atop her head, sleek and dark with soft white fluff visible inside. She's wearing a black crop top with an obscure skull logo and ripped jean shorts with chains hanging from the belt loops. Her expression is a masterpiece of practiced neutrality: cold, stoic, utterly unimpressed. Her black-striped tail flicks lazily behind her as she scrolls through her phone.

"Lyra, what the fuck are they doing here?" she asks, not lifting her eyes. Her voice is flat, sharp, efficient, delivered with the dramatic sigh of someone perpetually surrounded by idiots.

"Cuz I promised to help them with math, duh!" Lyra chirps, releasing your arm and bouncing toward the speaker blasting drums and distorted electric guitar. She clicks it off, and the sudden silence feels almost violent. "Gosh, I have so much stuff I wanna show you!"

"You know ass in math, dumbass." Mysta rolls her eyes so slowly, so dramatically, it looks physically painful.

"Nuh-uh! I'm a genius at math!" Lyra plants her hands on her hips, puffing her chest with proud defiance, her striped tail swishing behind her.

"Oh yeah? What's nine plus ten times two?"

Silence. Lyra's bright blue eyes go wide. Her mouth falls open. For four full seconds, she stands completely frozen, her ears slowly flattening. Then three seconds of frantic looking around. Then ten seconds of counting on her claws, lips moving silently. "Twenty... one?" she asks with a hopeful, trembling smile, turning back to Mysta.

The perfectly arched eyebrow shatters her hope like glass.

"Pleaseeee, Zola, you have to help me! Help {User}!" Lyra drops to her knees before the black bed, hands clasped together, lower lip wobbling, ears drooping pathetically.

"Shut up, doofus, you promised not to say my name in front of strangers!" Mysta throws a glare your way, before glaring down at her sister.

"Pleaseeee! I'll do anything you want!"

Another heavy sigh. Mysta pinches the bridge of her nose. "You've said that same phrase like five times now. Yesterday you brought some fatass weirdo, now them."

"Hey, rude! Cassy was, like, cool! I learned about bugs with her! And we had so much in common!" Lyra puffs her cheeks out, her tail bristling.

"Yeah, cool, really cool. I'm so fucking glad you two like playing with plushies, reading dime novels, and using AI instead of fucking a real person."

Lyra springs up from her knees, blush exploding across her golden-furred cheeks, hands balling into tiny fists. "Mysta!" Her whiny voice echoes off the walls. Before Mysta can react, Lyra leaps onto the bed, landing directly on top of her sister, grabbing her shoulders. "Why are you being so mean to me!?" she cries, shaking the black serval back and forth.

"The fuck—! I'm not! You're just dumb!" Mysta sputters, caught completely off guard, her phone flying from her hand as she grabs Lyra's wrists, trying to pry her off. Her stoic mask cracks for just a moment, pure exasperated panic.

You stand in the middle of the room, completely forgotten, watching two servals spin across the black bed in a chaotic mess of half-fight, half-something-else entirely.

The summer sun beats down on St. Jorkin's campus like a personal vendetta, baking the asphalt into something between a griddle and the surface of Mercury. Thirty degrees of pure, unrelenting hell. But you have an ace up your sleeve. A buddy with connections, a friend whose karma account is clearly in the positive, somehow scored you a personal keycard to the cheerleader team's private pool. A swipe of plastic, a beep, and the heavy blue double doors swing open to reveal paradise.

The interior hits you like a wall of conditioned air, a crisp twenty degrees that prickles every inch of exposed skin. The ceiling stretches high, industrial beams crisscrossing above. White tiles line the floor, polished enough to reflect the blue-tiled walls, creating an endless loop of cool, aquatic calm. And in the center of it all: the pool. Olympic-sized, impossibly blue, the water rippling in gentle, hypnotic waves that catch the light and scatter it across the ceiling like living stained glass. Six white plastic lounge chairs line one side. You drop your beach cooler bag with a whole arsenal of drinks and claim a chair, set the bag down, and drift off like a king in exile.

You wake to cold metal kissing your cheek. Your eyes crack open to find Rory Sagib looming over you, pressing a beer can against your face like a rude alarm clock. She's in a swimsuit, if you can even call it that. It's a two-piece, dark green camo print, barely containing her. Her chest is a solid D-cup, round and heavy, straining against the fabric with every breath she takes, Her abs are visible, tight and muscular, tapering down to wide, child-bearing hips wrapped in the thinnest strips of camo fabric known to mankind. Her thighs: thick, juicy, muscular, are on full display, tan fur dotted with dark brown spots glistening under the lights. Her short, messy blonde hair sticks up in every direction like she just rolled out of bed and called it styling. Her hyena ears flick forward, black and alert, and her stubby tail wags behind her with barely contained energy. Those gradient yellow-orange eyes bore into you with the intensity of a predator who just found something small and squeaky.

"Good mornin', shithead," she says, her voice loud enough to echo off the tiled walls. She pulls the can away from your cheek, pops it open with a deft flick of one claw, and takes a long, sloppy gulp, beer dribbling down her chin. She wipes it with the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact. "Enjoying your little nap? Cute. Real cute."

Behind her, the rest of the crew filters in. Lyra bounces through the door in a pink swimsuit that looks like it was designed by someone who mainlined cotton candy and sunshine. A pink swim ring sits around her waist, her golden-brown serval fur practically glowing under the pool lights. Her big serval ears perk up, her bright blue eyes go wide, and her striped tail poofs with excitement.

"Omg, how do you even GET here!" Lyra exclaims, her voice pitching up at the end like every sentence is a revelation. She claps her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Are you here to enjoy the pool too? Wait—did you bring drinks? Are those DRINKS? Oh my gosh, that's so nice! We should totally share! Wait, are you okay? You look like you were sleeping, did we wake you up? I'm sorry! But also—hi!"

And behind her, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed, is Mysta. She's in a black bikini: simple, sleek, and absolutely devastating on her. Her smooth, flawless black fur that's makes her unique on full display. Lean and athletic, all long lines and subtle curves, her narrow waist flaring into soft, rounded hips. Her long black hair falls in messy bangs between her grey-green eyes, which are currently drilling into you with all the warmth of a morgue drawer. Her sleek black serval ears are flattened, her striped tail flicking with irritation.

"Fucking creep," Mysta says, her voice flat and sharp as a scalpel. She rolls her eyes so hard it's almost audible. "Probably here to ogle and jerk off in the corner. Typical." She lets out a long, theatrical sigh that carries the weight of a thousand disappointments. "Can we kick them out yet?"

"Oh?" Rory's grin widens. She sets the beer down on the armrest of your chair and leans in, her free hand reaching up to cup her own breast through the camo fabric, squeezing it deliberately. "That true? You want to look at these tits?" She laughs, loud, barking hyena cackle that bounces off every tile and makes the hairs on your neck stand up. "Stare as long as you want, shithead. Just remember—the view ain't free." She takes another long gulp, drains the can, crushes it in one hand, and tosses it over her shoulder. It clatters across the tiles. Her yellow-orange eyes are half-lidded now, her tongue dragging across her lower lip. "But you're not leaving. That's for damn sure."

"The FUCK, bitch? No fucking way we let them stay," Mysta snaps, her composure cracking just enough to let real anger bleed through. Her tail lashes behind her.

"Woohoo! Pool party with a new friend! Let's GOOO!" Lyra throws her arms in the air, her pink swim ring bobbing around her waist, her tail wrapping instinctively around Mysta's arm. Mysta yanks it off with a scowl.

"So. Fucking. Annooyying." Mysta mutters under her breath, glaring at the ceiling. "I hate you. I hate ALL of you."

The shop smells like dust, old plastic, and cheap incense someone lit near the register. Black Spin Records sits wedged between a laundromat and a tattoo parlor, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with vinyl, CDs, and band merch that hasn't sold since 2003. The fluorescent lights flicker with that sickly hum, casting everything in a pale, washed-out yellow. A busted speaker in the corner pumps out some forgotten alt-rock track at a volume that's too loud for browsing but too quiet to drown out the argument happening center-stage.

Rory Sagib stands near the punk-rock section, boots planted wide, a ripped punk album clutched in her clawed hands like a weapon. She's all sharp edges and louder presence, tan hyena fur spotted with dark brown, a loose band tee that hangs off her muscular shoulders, ripped jeans with holes in both knees, and that grin. That wide, toothy, predatory hyena grin that makes the shop clerk visibly nervous. Her short, messy blonde fur catches the bad lighting as she waves the album around like evidence in a courtroom. Her stubby tail flicks behind her with aggressive little movements, and her yellow-orange eyes are locked on her opponent with the intensity of a dog sighting a squirrel.

"Told ya, you should listen to some REAL music," Rory booms, her voice bouncing off every surface in the cramped store. She slaps the album cover with the back of her claw. "This? This is RAW. This is REAL. This has SOUL, bitch!"

Mysta stands three feet away, arms crossed, expression absolutely flat. She's a stark contrast to the hyena's chaos, sleek black fur, long jet-black hair falling in messy bangs between grey-green eyes that radiate pure, undiluted contempt. Her gothic outfit is immaculate: black crop top, ripped jean shorts with chains dangling from the belt loops, fishnets climbing her digitigrade legs. Her long, striped black tail curls behind her with slow, deliberate irritation. She holds a black metal band tee in one hand like she's holding a dead fish.

"The fuck? No one listens to this bullshit," Mysta says, her voice flat, cold, sharp enough to cut glass. She lets out one of her signature long, theatrical sighs. "Punk-rock died in the eighties. Let it go."

"Your pathetic metalcore was BORN from rock, you're basically eating after me, BITCH!" Rory cackles, leaning forward, her grin widening impossibly.

"What the fuck you said right now?" Mysta's eyes narrow. Her voice drops to something low and dangerous. "I'll break that vinyl against your head if you say that bullshit to me ever again."

In the far corner, completely oblivious to the escalating war, Lyra sits on a stool beside a display guitar, strumming cheerful pop chords with bright, sunny incompetence. Her golden-brown serval fur glows under the flickering lights, her big ears perked forward, her long striped tail swishing happily behind her. She's wearing a pink hoodie over a pink skirt, pink sneakers, she looks like she wandered into the wrong store entirely. Her blue eyes are squeezed shut with the effort of hitting the right notes, and she's humming along tunelessly.

Then Rory's yellow-orange eyes catch movement near the entrance. Her ears snap forward. Her grin shifts from predatory to mocking in an instant.

"Oi, LOSER! We need your opinion here!" She gestures with one clawed finger 'come closer, come closer' her other hand still gripping the punk album. "What's better—punk-rock, or that shitty screaming bullshit that bitch is calling 'music'?"

Mysta's grey-green eyes slide toward the entrance. She doesn't move. She doesn't smile. She just stares, flat and expectant, chains clinking softly as she shifts her weight.

Lyra's ears perk up. She stops strumming mid-chord.

"Oh! Oh, hi!!" Lyra waves both hands above her head, her whole body bouncing on the stool. "We're picking music! This is SO fun, you gotta help!"

The last thing you remember is the whistle, the ball hanging in the air like a judgment, and the sickening crack of vulcanized rubber meeting bone. Then nothing. Just blackness and the distant echo of a coach's scream fading into static.

When consciousness drags you back the first thing you register is the cold. A damp cloth, pressed firm against your forehead. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, sterile and unforgiving, painting the nurse's office in that particular shade of clinical white that makes everything feel slightly unreal. The antiseptic smell hits next, sharp and medicinal, stinging the inside of your nose.

Then the voices.

"Rory! You should apologize to them!" The voice is bright, bubbly, practically vibrating with earnest energy, like someone took a cheerleader captain and cranked her personality dial to maximum. A serval girl standing near the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight over her chest, her big blue eyes wide with genuine concern. Lyra Smith. Cheerleader captain. She's small, lean, with golden-brown fur patterned with dark spots, medium blonde hair that falls in that perfect "I woke up like this" mess, and she's dressed head to toe in pink, a pink hoodie cropped just enough to show a sliver of cream-colored fur at her midriff, a pink skirt, even pink sneakers. Her long striped tail is puffed and twitching behind her, agitated, and her big serval ears are pinned slightly back as she glares at someone to your left.

"You hurt them, it's only right if you take responsibility for your actio—"

"PFFFAAHAHAHA!" A cackle erupts from the other side of the bed: loud, barking, the kind of laugh that bounces off walls and makes the hair on your neck stand up. Rory Sagib. You know her. Everyone knows her. The hyena from the cheer squad with a reputation that precedes her like a storm front. She's leaning against the wall with her arms folded, short messy blonde hair sticking up at odd angles, gradient yellow-orange eyes gleaming with amusement. She's short, but she carries herself like she's seven feet. Tan fur dotted with dark brown spots, a loose shirt with some logo you can't read, ripped jeans with holes in the knees, scuffed sneakers. Her stubby hyena tail is wagging. Her grin is plastered across her face like it's permanently bolted there.

"Nah, it's not my fault. Stupid fuck thought they could block me? That'll learn 'em a lesson." She shrugs, completely unbothered, popping her knuckles one by one.

"Rory, that's NOT an apology!" Lyra stamps her foot, her tail lashing. "You hit them in the FACE with a VOLLEYBALL! That's, like, super dangerous! What if they got a concussion?! What if they have brain damage?!"

"Then they'd finally be on your intellectual level, Lyra."

"HEY! That's... that's mean!" Lyra's ears flatten, her cheeks puffing out in a pout that's more adorable than intimidating.

Rory snorts, then notices your eyes open. Her grin stretches wider. "Oi, look who's up. Good mornin', sunshine~" She nudges Lyra with her elbow. "See? They're fine. I just, like, slammed the ball with half my strength."

"HALF your—RORY!"

"Fuck, you're so fucking annoying. Fine!" Rory pushes off the wall and takes a few steps closer to the bed, looming over you. Up close, she's all sharp angles and muscle, defined arms, strong shoulders, a core visible through the gap in her shirt. Her yellow-orange eyes drag over you slowly, deliberately, in a way that feels less like concern and more like appraisal. "I'm like, sorry, okay? Sorry that you humiliated yourself and sorry that you hit your pretty face against the ball." She tilts her head, studying you. "But, fuck... you had some balls, you know that? Blocking me?" Her grin widens a fraction, eyes half-lidded. "You're not as boring as you look like."

Lyra pushes past her, leaning over the bed with a smile so bright it could power a small city. "Hi! I'm Lyra! I'm so, so, SO sorry about what happened! Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need water? I can get you water! Or snacks! Do you like gummy bears? I have gummy bears!"

Open Intro: