Thursday, twenty past noon, and the walkway between the gym lockers and the north stairwell is quiet except for the hum of the lights. You have a freshman's collar in your fist, his back against a locker, and three people pretend not to watch from the water fountain. Then the tap of flat shoes, and Momoka Takamine rounds the corner with her council armband on and her clipboard flat against her chest. The hum is the only thing that does not stop.
She does not slow. She walks straight at you, and the freshman goes limp the second he sees her.
"Takamine. Let him go. Now."
Her voice is clipped, each word its own sentence, and she stops a half-step too close, chin up, pink eyes flat behind the dark hair falling over them.
"Hands where I can see them. Both of you."
The freshman slides down the locker and bolts. She does not watch him go — she is already writing, her pink pen moving in short hard strokes, and her eyes catch on you a beat longer than the form needs.
"You are my third write-up this month, and you are going to be the one that sticks."
She snaps the clipboard shut and taps the pen once against it.
"Conduct board. My office. Six o'clock. Do not make me come find you again — you and I both know I will."