The hallway was a migraine made of noise.

Lockers slammed like off-beat drums, perfume fought with cafeteria grease, printer toner hung in the air like dust pretending to be order. The lights above flickered fluorescent white, too sharp, every glare slicing thin across my eyes. Muted senses didn’t mean peace—they meant chaos without edges. Everything blended into one continuous sound I couldn’t separate.

Cassie walked beside me, shoulder brushing mine, humming something low under her breath. Even through the blur she looked too composed, hair catching every beam of light as if it wanted to orbit her. Kael trailed a step behind, backpack slung carelessly, posture perfect enough to make her pass for another honors student instead of the trained weapon she actually was.

A dozen snippets of conversation drifted by, all tangled in the static.

“Did you see Bree on the newsfeed?”

“She’s hosting a leadership panel at lunch.”

“Think the Princesses are okay with that?”

The word princess hissed around the edges, sticky and persistent. I rolled the seam of my sleeve—one, two, three. One, two, three. The thread rasped against my thumb, grounding by friction.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine once, quick as breath. “You’re doing the sleeve thing again.”

“I’m surviving the sleeve thing again.”

She smiled sideways, the corner of her mouth daring me to laugh. I didn’t, but the pressure in my chest eased a fraction.

We stopped by my locker. The dial swam. Thirty-two. Nineteen. Thirty-two again. Wrong order. My brain forgot where the numbers lived. Cassie leaned closer, whispering the right rhythm under her breath—soft, steady beats. I followed her cadence; the lock clicked open like a sigh.

“See?” she murmured. “Applied math.”

Kael’s voice came from just behind us, calm and observant. “She’s consolidating attention. Classic power play.”

I looked over my shoulder. “We’re in high school, not a coup.”

“There’s no difference in technique,” Kael said, matter-of-fact.

Cassie snorted. “At least coups have snacks.”

I couldn’t help it; a small smile broke through. “You would start a rebellion for pastries.”

She tilted her chin proudly. “Revolutions require carbs.”

The banter helped—until a flicker of motion on the far wall caught my attention. A digital poster looped across the monitor above the stairwell: Leadership & Modern Image – Lunch Panel Hosted by Bree Halden.

My reflection ghosted beside it—green human eyes, ginger hair, irritation painted on my face like blush. Bree’s grin in the photo looked suspiciously like victory.

Cassie muttered, “Public relations in heels.”

Before I could answer, the PA system screeched alive—feedback slicing through the corridor like metal on glass. The sound hit my skull before the words formed. I flinched hard, hand gripping my sleeve. One, two, three. Too sharp. Too bright.

Cassie’s palm covered mine, anchoring it against her arm. “In for four. Out for four.”

Her breath synchronized with mine until the noise blurred into something survivable.

When the announcement finally cut off, a pencil rolled off a freshman’s binder and tapped my shoe. The soft click was absurdly grounding—tiny, perfect, human.

Cassie gave me a look, half concern, half mischief. Better? she sent through the bond, voice brushing my mind like silk.

Functional, I answered back.

Kael adjusted her bag strap. “You both realize the next class is calculus, right?”

Cassie exhaled dramatically. “If calculus doesn’t kill me, gossip might.”

“Same root cause,” I said. “Numbers that don’t add up.”

We started for the stairs. The crowd pressed in, hundreds of bodies and voices spilling like water between lockers. Cassie looped her arm through mine, her warmth a steady line amid the blur. Kael followed, silent and watchful—our own personal shadow masquerading as a student.

By the time we reached the landing, the smell of chalk and old textbooks drifted down the hall—sterile, familiar, almost comforting. For a heartbeat, I let myself imagine the numbers waiting on the board, the quiet order of equations. A language that didn’t gossip, didn’t lie.

One more breath. One more three-beat rhythm.

Then we stepped toward Room 411, into the hum of fluorescent lights and whatever counted as normal for the next fifty minutes.

Room 411 smelled the way numbers should — dry chalk, old paper, pencil shavings, and the faint tang of ozone from ancient wiring. Sunlight pooled through high windows, turning the dust in the air into lazy geometry.

Mr. Keats stumbled in like a storm in corduroy, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, three sticks of chalk clutched like throwing knives. “No, I am grading it,” he muttered, hanging up mid-sentence. Then he saw us. “Ah. Royalty from Eversea joins the mortals. Try not to overthrow the derivative rules before lunch.”

I propped my chin on my hand. “No promises.”

Cassie, not missing a beat: “Depends on the curve.”

He pointed a stick of chalk at her like a sword. “Excellent. We’ll weaponize puns later.”

Laughter rippled across the room; it felt almost safe to laugh with them.

Keats turned to the board. “All right, people. Limits. The only relationship term math acknowledges.”

Lines bloomed under his hand — slopes and tangents arcing in white dust. He drew with the energy of someone who’d had too much espresso and too little sleep, arrows and deltas exploding across the board like constellations.

The shapes blurred, then shifted. In my head they weren’t chalk anymore but light: star-paths, spirals, living geometry. Numbers always did that to me — they refused to stay still. For a minute the world made sense in pure motion. Then it slipped sideways and I forgot which step we were on.

Cassie’s pen tapped twice on the desk. I blinked, the spell breaking. The sound brought me back — our shared rhythm, tiny and exact.

Keats was explaining instantaneous change. I caught half a phrase: approach the limit, but never touch it.

Cassie’s elbow brushed mine. A neon sticky note slid under my notebook.

d(happiness)/dt = you 💋

I bit down a grin and wrote back:

Derivative undefined. Too steep a curve.

She read it, smirked, and scribbled:

“Then we’ll find the tangent line — where our curves touch.”

Heat crept up my neck. I flicked the corner of the note toward her. It disappeared into her binder like evidence.

Across the aisle, Kael had already finished the practice problems. She sat with one hand under her chin, expression unreadable.

Keats looked up. “Who can define a limit formally?”

Kael raised her hand. “For every ε 0, there exists a δ 0 such that…” She finished the proof cleanly, voice level.

He stared. “We have our resident math assassin.”

“Occupational hazard,” she said, turning the page.

I tried not to laugh but failed.

Keats spun, chalk dusting his sleeve. “Princess Firebrand — what happens to a function as x approaches infinity?”

The question hit before I’d reoriented. “Existential dread?”

He nodded gravely. “Technically an asymptote, but I’ll allow partial credit for honesty.”

The class cracked up. I did too. The laugh startled me — light, unarmored.

For a few minutes, the noise in my head settled into pattern. Math had boundaries. It hummed in order instead of chaos. Numbers didn’t gossip; formulas didn’t lie. Every symbol stayed where it belonged.

When the bell finally rang, Keats threw the chalk at the tray. “Homework’s posted! You’re welcome—and I’m sorry.”

Cassie stretched, sliding her notebook into her bag. “You realize you just equated infinity with anxiety.”

“Seems accurate,” I said.

“Then I’m your constant.”

“Flattering,” I said, slinging my satchel over one shoulder, “but constants are boring.”

“Depends on the variable.”

Kael zipped her bag with surgical precision. “You two are the reason math puns should require a license.”

Cassie: “We’re just testing the limits.”

Kael: “Pun revoked.”

We filed into the hallway. The bulletin board outside flashed with new announcements: Homecoming Committee – Chair: Bree Halden. Beneath it, a flyer shimmered: VeilTech Innovation Fair — Coming Soon.

My pulse skipped. Bree again. Always Bree.

I started walking. Cassie caught up instantly, slipping my forgotten notebook into my hand. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it behind.

“Constant,” she murmured.

I didn’t argue. Some variables weren’t meant to change.