The hallways of Lincoln High felt like burial shrouds—air thin, walls closing in, and every sneaker squeak echoing like it was trying to stab my eardrums for attention. The lighting was that sickly fluorescent kind that made even the happy kids look like ghosts pretending to smile. My Taboo Aura thrummed low under my skin, not a wildfire, just a contained inferno—caged heat waiting for permission to burn the world. Even reined in, it warped the edges of reality, like walking through a photo where someone cranked the contrast up until colors bled.
Then came Lea.
I smelled her before I saw her—jasmine and desperation, the kind of mix that announces trouble before your brain even processes it. She slipped into my orbit between third and fourth period, perfume first, pretenses second. The jealousy rolling off her wasn't emotional—it was chemical, tangible, like smog you could choke on.
