BBBRRRIIINNNGG-SCREEEEECH-A-DOODLE-DOO! Okay, maybe not the st part, but the final bell at Banani High didn't just ring; it detonated. It was less a signal and more like a sonic shockwave specifically designed to rattle fillings and fracture concentration. The effect was instantaneous.

  Hallways that were moments before merely buzzing with pre-dismissal restlessness transformed into a churning, roaring whitewater rapids of actual human beings. Seriously, it was like someone yelled "Free Wi-Fi and pizza!" at the other end of the building. Backpacks became battering rams, shoulders became weapons, and the collective noise level jumped from 'loud library' to 'rock concert front row during a guitar solo'. You could smell the desperate tang of freedom mixed with stale cssroom air and maybe… Axe body spray?

  Definitely Axe body spray.

  James found himself swept into the current, doing his best impression of a seasoned kayaker navigating Css V rapids, except his paddle was just his own increasingly stressed sense of personal space. He executed a neat pivot to avoid getting smacked by a flying binder (seriously, who throws a binder?), his backpack slung over one shoulder with a practiced nonchance that hid the fact he was mentally calcuting escape vectors. His brain had already clocked out, firewall up against any lingering thoughts of covalent bonds or historical dates. Instead, it was busy rendering glorious, high-definition images of his impending dungeon run – the satisfying clink of virtual gold, the strategic takedown of a particurly annoying Slimy Slime.

  Alternatively, the thought of the Judo dojo offered a different kind of escape: the clean snap of a gi, the focused exertion, the grounding feeling of the mat beneath his feet. Anything, anything to flush the sensory overload of 1,200 teenagers simultaneously trying to occupy the same ten-foot-wide space.

  He was actually making decent progress, weaving through a group debating the merits of pineapple on pizza with the intensity of world leaders discussing nuclear treaties, nearing the promised nd of the main exit doors. Freedom was so close he could almost taste it (it probably tasted like Axe body spray). Then, a voice, sharp and distinct even over the adolescent roar, sliced through the air.

  "James! HEY! Parker Posey! Wait the heck up!" (Okay, maybe not Parker Posey, but it had that vibe).

  James froze mid-stride, almost causing a multi-student pile-up behind him. He turned, scanning the oncoming waves of people. And there she was. Toya.

  Navigating the chaos like a heat-seeking missile locked onto his position. She dodged a guy attempting a TikTok dance (badly), sidestepped a puddle of something suspiciously sticky-looking, and executed a rather impressive hip-check to avoid merging nes with a trio of oblivious freshmen. Her usual effortlessly cool aura seemed… ruffled. A definite frown was etched between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, an expression usually reserved for discovering a scuff on her limited-edition sneakers or realizing the cafeteria ran out of iced coffee.

  This wasn't her standard 'I'm bored, let's cause minor chaos' look. This looked… intense?