November | Masato’s POV

  Advanced Math Class, Before the Bell

  I ducked into the supply corner by the window, pretending to look for a calculator I didn’t need.

  I knew exactly where mine was: bottom of my bag, left pocket, still warm from this morning’s exam.

  I just didn’t want to be seen.

  My tolerance for human noise was in the negatives today. Barely slept, forgot to eat, too much input.

  The classroom buzzed like a mosquito hive.

  Every laugh, every conversation… it all blurred together like a badly tuned radio trying to claw its way through my brain.

  And then I heard it.

  Two guys from the advanced math track. Loud enough for the whole room to hear.

  Because of course they were.

  “If I have to get stuck in another group with Nishinoya, I’m gonna break something. Guy’s allergic to people.”

  “He’s weird, man. Freaks out if someone changes the font on the notes.”

  “Yeah, he’s like a printer with anxiety.”

  “Pretty sure he color-codes his soul. Guy loses it if you even breathe near his notebook.”

  I didn’t move.

  Just crouched behind the rolling whiteboard and stared at the floor like it might open and swallow me whole.

  Focused on the hum of the lights instead of the knot in my stomach.

  ‘Whatever. They’re idiots.’

  Still.

  It got under my skin.

  The way shame does when it finds the places you’ve already bruised yourself.

  “Better a printer with anxiety than the team’s ornamental dead weight.”

  That was Nickie.

  Her voice cut through the room like a box cutter. Calm. Dry. Unapologetic. She didn’t even look up from her sketchbook.

  “Yeah, yeah, keep defending him. You two should just get married and alphabetize your vows or something.” One of them said.

  “Better that than dying loud, useless, and convinced it counts as personality.”

  Silence.

  One of the guys tried to stammer a reply:

  “Yeah? well… at least I don’t… draw in class or whatever.”

  “Funny how people who can’t create anything always complain the loudest.”

  That made them both shut up and glare. Nickie turned a page, unbothered.

  I blinked. My heart knocked once, hard.

  I didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

  But my chest felt lighter.

  ***

  A few minutes before class started, I slid back into my seat and nudged her arm with my notebook.

  “Hey,” I murmured. “Did you hear the new Moonpuncher album?”

  Her eyes lit up. Instantly. Like someone flipped a breaker.

  “Yes!” she whispered back. “The solo on track six? Unholy! Felt like my brain melted.”

  I grinned. “I almost failed physics because of that solo.”

  “That’s fair. Worth it.”

  We spiraled from there.

  Roasting the drum programming. Arguing about track order. Quoting riffs like scripture.

  The rest of the classroom might as well have been static.

  Then the teacher walked in. Conversation dropped. Pages turned. Pretending resumed.

  I didn’t say anything else.

  But a small thought formed right then:

  ‘I wish I could know the real Nickie Karklins.’

  Not just the sketching, metal-blasting, geometry-destroying version I saw at school.

  Because as far as I was concerned…

  She was the coolest person in the world.

  ***

  How I Became Friends With a Literal Drum Demon and a Nerd With Good Taste | Ammad Hashmi’s POV

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  Day after the gig at the Crater, Academic Homeroom

  Okay, okay, listen.

  I’d come to school really freakin’ early just so I could talk to her.

  Not in a weird way. Not like that.

  (Okay maybe a little like that.)

  I spot her the second I walk in: Ironed uniform, notebook out, doing her usual “I’m invisible” spell, even though there was barely anyone else in class.

  But I’m onto her.

  I know the truth.

  She’s not just “Nickie Karklins, polite transfer student who never talks unless she’s correcting your math.”

  Nah, bro.

  She’s Nickie Karklins, high priestess of blast beats, slayer of kits, destroyer of sound barriers.

  So I stroll up to her desk like I’m not freaking out, and I go:

  “Yo, Karklins! Guess what? I started taking drum lessons!”

  She looks up…

  And SMILES.

  Like, full genuine, eyes-light-up smile.

  My heart pulled a hi-hat flourish and crashed.

  “You did? That’s really cool!” she says, and I’m like, be cool, Hashmi. Be cool.

  I dig into my bag and whip out THE book.

  You know the one.

  [Metal Drumming for Human Weapons.]

  Looks like it was printed in hell and bound with guitar strings. Basically a rite of passage.

  “Did you also study from this?” I ask, trying not to squeal.

  Her eyes light up like I just handed her a signed cymbal.

  “Sure did! It’s the best. The drummers from ‘TRAILBAD’ and ‘Nasty Somethings’ used it too!”

  “NO SHIT?!”

  (Spoiler: it was, in fact, no shit. This book is LEGEND.)

  And before we even get past the part where she casually admits she’s studied the sacred texts, a voice jumps in from the next desk.

  “Hey, I just heard TRAILBAD yesterday for the first time!”

  It’s Nishinoya, slipping into his seat.

  Chill dude, got brains.

  Sits with perfect posture. Always looks like he’s thinking about tax fraud or something.

  But apparently? He’s One Of Us.

  I squint at him. “Which album?”

  He goes, “Slit the Sky,”

  I nod slow. “Respect.”

  and just like that?

  Brotherhood achieved.

  Friendship unlocked.

  We’re off.

  Just boom, bam, blastbeat… talkin’ gear, bands, shows where the floor caved in.

  Then Nishinoya turns to Nickie and goes,

  “So, you’re a drummer?”

  With this look like he just found out she’s secretly Batman.

  Nickie hesitates. Shrugs this little shrug.

  “Yeah…”

  And I’m like, hell NO, she’s not gonna downplay it like that.

  So I jump in like, with the biggest scoop of the year, whispering:

  “Bruh, not just a drummer! She’s a demon.

  Like full possession-style. I’ve seen the band play live, it’s insane. She turns the stage into a war zone. I’m talking spiritual damage, dude.”

  Nishinoya’s eyes go saucer-wide.

  “What are you guys called?”

  Nickie, all chill like it’s not the coolest band name ever:

  “REAPERAND.”

  And that’s when Nishinoya and I shared The Look.

  You know the one.

  The “bro we are not worthy but we are SO in” look.

  “You guys have anything recorded?” Nishinoya asks.

  Nickie nods. “Yeah, we got some live stuff. I’ll show you guys if you want.”

  IF WE WANT???

  We straight-up yell “YEAH!!!” like we just got picked for a holy quest.

  Then, outta nowhere, Nishinoya goes, “You know… I’ve never actually been to a gig.”

  Record scratch.

  Nickie and I both stop and stare at him.

  “Like, never-ever?” I ask.

  He shrugs, kinda embarrassed but also kinda proud. “My mom says I bruise easily.”

  I nearly fall off my chair.

  Nickie just gives him this little smile, warm and dangerous. “First mosh pit’s on us. Just stick near the edge so you can run.”

  Nishinoya nods solemnly. “Accepted.”

  And that, my dude, was the moment it happened.

  We weren’t just in our boring-ass uniformed homeroom anymore.

  We were The Fellowship of the Riff.

  A gang.

  A mosh alliance.

  Bound by music. United by mayhem.

  And led (whether she liked it or not) by the drummer queen herself.

  I still don’t know if she has any idea how cool she actually is.

  But one thing’s for sure:

  We’re never gonna let her forget it.