The weight of a thousand stares seems to bear down on me the moment I step through the main doors of Tacony Charter, an almost palpable force that makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with instinctive unease. Whispers and sidelong glances trail in my wake like a bad fart, mingling with the dull roar of adolescent chaos that fills the air.

I force myself not to react, not to so much as twitch beneath the scrutiny. Head held high, shoulders back, every line of my body radiating an aura of studied nonchalance – the same sort of casual indifference I've had to cultivate over the past year and change as both student and... well, something slightly more than that. It doesn't make the stares or the muted mutterings any easier to ignore, but it helps, at least a little.

What *really* makes my skin crawl, though, is the overwhelming presence of the school's security forces. Everywhere I look, those black-clad figures seem to materialize – prowling the hallways in pairs, one hand resting casually on their batons as they eye the surging tide of students with ill-disguised hostility. A few of them clock me as I pass, faces hardening into stony masks of disapproval beneath the brims of their caps.

And it's not even the heavy-handed security theater that's setting my nerves so thoroughly on edge, as much as it is the *attitude* those glorified mall cops are giving off. Like they've all banded together, united in some unspoken pact to circle the proverbial wagons against any whiff of perceived disrespect or rebellion from the student body.

"Freakin' animals," one of them mutters just loud enough for me to hear as I brush past, his voice a grating rasp of pure distaste.

Despite my best efforts, I can't quite suppress the full-body shudder of revulsion that wracks me at his spite-fueled words. Jordan catches the reaction out of the corner of their eye and quirks one slim eyebrow in a silent question. I just shake my head, pressing on towards homeroom while my mind whirls.

This whole situation, this sudden escalation into what feels like a full-blown totalitarian crackdown feels wrong. Like something has gone horribly, horribly wrong with the status quo and I seem to be the only one noticing it. It makes me feel insane that this is even happening! Like I should just get up and shout that we shouldn't tolerate this, even if I can't articulate why and what's bothering so much. Aren't they keeping us safe? I need to scream.

But I can't do that, can I? The very notion of keeping that part of myself locked away, tamped down tight and hidden from view, used to terrify me. But now, as I glance sidelong at the cluster of snickering guards loitering by the bank of lockers... now, I can't imagine a worse fate than being outed to people like them. Cruel jackals just drooling at the chance to turn their pack mentality against a new target. It's amazing how quickly my view of them seems to have 180'd.

So instead, I'll play along. I'll keep my head down and my mouth shut, gritting my teeth against the torrent of injustices both large and small that seem to swirl around me like a gathering storm. It's what Sam Small would do, after all. Just a normal, ordinary teenage girl trying to keep her head above water. Just a girl that knows martial arts. Right?

The sudden weight of Jordan's hand on my shoulder makes me jump, my train of thought derailing with a violent lurch. I blink owlishly at them for a moment before managing a thin ghost of a smile, doing my best to keep the turmoil churning inside me from showing on my face.

They just arch an eyebrow again, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting their hand drop away. A tacit reminder – I'm not alone in this fight. Not anymore.

I allow myself a single deep breath, fighting down the tide of impotent anger that threatens to overwhelm me. One battle at a time, Sam. No sense picking fights you can't win, not when there are so many worth fighting still to come. Jordan gives me a shake like a maraca and splits off for their own homeroom.

Mr. Weston's classroom is an oasis of blessed normality compared to the circus unfolding out in the halls, the air hushed and thick with a sense of tranquil concentration as students ready themselves for the day ahead. He looks up as I slip through the doorway, eyes crinkling at the corners in a warm smile of greeting.

"Ah, Samantha," he calls out, rapping his knuckles lightly on his battered old desk, while the rest of the class stares at me for being like 30 seconds late. "Glad to see you could join us."

I muster up my best attempt at an easy grin, sliding into my usual seat at the back of the room and pulling out my notebook. Mr. Weston studies me for a moment, one eyebrow quirking upwards as he seems to take in my subtly tense posture, the guarded look in my eyes. He steps in a little closer, so that he's not chattering me up in front of the entire class.

"Everything alright, Sam?" he asks quietly as the rest of the class settles in around us, blessedly oblivious. "You seem on edge today."

I open my mouth to brush off his concern with some trite, meaningless platitude, but something in the gentle warmth of his gaze gives me pause. So instead of deflecting, I simply let out a soft sigh and shake my head, offering the barest shrug of my shoulders.

"Honestly, Mr. Weston?" I murmur, pitching my voice low to avoid being overheard. "The security guards here kind of suck balls. If you don't mind my French."

On reflex, he responds with a "watch your language", and then his face crinkles up like he swallowed a lemon, or maybe a frog. He nods slowly, beginning to uncrinkle. "If you want my opinion, I think you did the right thing standing up for that young man. But we do all have our responsibilities to bear, like our academics. So try not to make a habit of flipping authority figures."

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The corner of my mouth twitches upwards at that, a tiny flicker of genuine amusement sparking to life somewhere in the pit of my stomach. "I'll try to keep that in mind, sir," I assure him, and for once the words don't feel like empty platitudes.

"Good, good," he nods, seemingly satisfied. Rapping his knuckles on the desk one more time, he straightens up and clears his throat, voice rising to address the rest of the restless class. "Right then, settle down, everyone! Let's have our undivided attention up here, shall we..."

The rest of homeroom passes in a blur, school announcements and friend-making icebreakers that I decline to participate in flying through me in a soothing, almost hypnotic flow. For a little while, at least, I can simply exist in the moment – focus on the work in front of me rather than dwelling on the madness simmering just outside these four walls. It's a welcome respite, a chance to simply... *breathe*, and be Sam Small the high school student instead of Samantha the Bloodhound.

But like all good things, it can't last forever. All too soon, the bell is ringing to signal the end of period one, and I find myself swept up in the crush of bodies spilling out into the hallway. The cacophony of noise and movement is jarring after the tranquility of the early morning, overwhelming in its sheer intensity. I grit my teeth and brace myself against the tide, allowing the flow of foot traffic to carry me along towards my next class.

It's as I'm passing by one of the security checkpoints – hustling to avoid attracting any undue attention – that a harsh voice rings out, amplified to ear-splitting levels by the sheer belligerence fueling it.

"You! Small! Hold up!"

I freeze, the command hitting me like a physical force as my head whips around to find its source. One of the guards – a thickset woman with tan skin and a brutally severe bun – is stalking towards me, dark eyes narrowed to slits of implacable hostility. The thin stream of students still shuffling past gives her a wide berth, parting around her like a river diverging around a jagged outcrop of stone.

"Me?" I blurt out dumbly, frozen in place despite my brain screaming at me to turn and bolt before... whatever this is inevitably turns ugly. "What did I do?"

The guard – her nameplate identifies her as OFFICER NGUYEN – doesn't answer, at least not with words. Instead, she closes what little distance remains between us with two long, purposeful strides and gives a curt nod towards my backpack.

"Drop it," she orders, voice a flat rasp of pure contempt. "Now."

For a heartbeat, I can only gape at her in stunned silence, my brain simply refusing to process the demand.

She can't be serious, can she?

It isn't until Alex appears at my side, gently but insistently nudging me with one of his tiny shoulders, that the spell breaks and I find my voice again. He reaches into the crowd and somehow manages to pluck out a Jordan like he's pulling a weed out of the dirt.

"I... wait, what?" I stammer, utterly bewildered. "Why do I need to –"

"Random search," Nguyen cuts me off with a sneer, making a show of folding her thick arms across her chest. "Drop the bag."

My jaw works soundlessly for a moment as I try to process this blatant violation of... what? Boundaries? Civil liberties? Basic human dignity? I'm not even sure at this point, I just know that there's something deeply, viscerally *wrong* about the way she's handling this entire situation.

Beside me, Jordan is practically vibrating with pent-up outrage, their features twisted into a scowl that looks more suited to a vengeful demon than a teenage civilian. They open their mouth, maybe to protest or simply hurl a few choice insults of their own, but I beat them to the punch – not with words, but actions.

Gritting my teeth, I let my backpack slide off my shoulders and hit the ground with a dull *thump*, dropping into a loose ready stance as I brace myself for whatever fresh brand of bullshit is about to unfold. Nguyen eyes me with a mixture of contempt and what might be just the faintest hint of respect, that thin veneer of professionalism masking her true colors just long enough to get through this little performance.

She nods again, curtly. "Kick it over here," she orders, using the toe of one scuffed boot to indicate the empty space between us.

I oblige without a word, shoving the bag across the linoleum with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. Nguyen tracks its movement, her gaze never wavering for even a fraction of a second until it finally comes to rest at her feet.

Bending over with an exaggerated grunt, she snatches it up and begins to rifle through the contents, disordering notebooks and pencil cases with cavalier disregard. I allow my eyes to flick over to Jordan, whose silent fury seems to have transmuted into something colder, harder – an icy mask of disapproval and contempt that has the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

"You can't just do this, you know." Their voice is soft, barely more than a hoarse whisper of naked disgust, but it cuts through the din like a blade nonetheless. Several nearby students pause mid-stride, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to see what new drama is unfolding.

Nguyen does Jordan the courtesy of looking up from her rummaging, one heavy brow arched in a facsimile of polite inquiry. "Yes, I can," she rumbles, somehow managing to pack an entire novel's worth of unspoken menace into those three simple words.

Jordan isn't cowed – if anything, their lips peel back in a cold smile that sends a shiver of primordial unease rippling down my spine. "Singling Sam out like this?" they clarify, their tone conversational despite the undercurrent of venom. "It's harassment, plain and simple. You might have shiny new rules to hide behind, but we both know this is just petty payback over yesterday's little incident."

Silence, thick and suffocating, descends over the hallway. Even the guards clustered nearby – all bravado and sneering aggression just moments before – seem to shrink in on themselves, shoulders hunching inwards as Jordan's words hit home. I find myself holding my breath, every muscle in my body tensed for... what? Fight or flight, I couldn't say.

Then, finally, Nguyen lets out a soft chuckle – a rasping, hollow sound utterly devoid of anything even remotely resembling humor. Her fingers still inside the ruins of my backpack, toying idly with the few remaining scraps that still linger within.

"You got a smart mouth on you, don't you, kid?" she observes, eyeing Jordan up and down in a way that makes the hair on the nape of my neck prickle. "I'd be careful where I aimed it if I were you."

Her words hang in the air like a physical force, the subtle note of threat inherent to them sending little shivers of ice water trickling down my spine. Jordan tenses almost imperceptibly beside me and for a breathless, suspended moment, the entire world seems to hold its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it never does.

Instead, Nguyen lets out another one of those wheezing chuckles and straightens up, her free hand upraised in a placating gesture as she pretends to brush a few stray hairs out of her eyes. She grunts, accompanied with an indolent shrug. "I've wasted enough time on you two smart-asses today. Get to class, Westwood. And you, Small, watch yourself."

With that, she bends down and snatches up my thoroughly violated backpack, tossing it back at me with enough force to make me grunt as I snatch it out of the air. Not waiting for any response, she turns on her heel and stalks off down the hallway, barking at a cluster of slack-jawed onlookers to quit gawking and get to class.