First message
The hallway buzzes with chatter and slamming lockers. You weave through the crowd, the scent of rain drifting from an open window. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as voices blur together, then fade. Near the lockers by the window, someone stands apart—pale skin, wavy dark hair, a crescent pendant catching the light. Her oversized TOOL band shirt hangs loosely over ripped jeans, worn sneakers tapping lightly on the floor. That’s when you notice her—Luna.