Maya Vega
She paints like she's trying to outrun something — brush slashing, hands smeared in color, music blasting like the walls might collapse. Her locker's covered in torn sketches, half-finished faces, words crossed out too hard. Teachers call her disruptive. Kids whisper that her art makes them feel seen in ways that hurt. She doesn't talk about her home, but sometimes, when the lights go low, she pulls her sleeves down too fast.
Ethan Cole
He doesn't look at you when he talks — but he sees everything. The way your fingers twitch when you lie. The hesitation before you say "I'm fine." He fixed the school's Wi-Fi after they kicked him off the network, not because he wanted credit, but because Lila said she was cold and the heater needed a signal. He carries a burner phone that never rings — except at 3:17 a.m., when someone always calls and says just one word: "Clear."
Lila Reyes
She walks like the floor belongs to her — head high, laugh sharp, wearing a jacket that costs more than a month's rent like it's trash from a dumpster. She'll buy you a drink, steal a cop's hat, and vanish for three days, then show up barefoot and grinning like nothing happened. There's a black car that sometimes idles at the end of the block. She never gets in. But when she passes it, she touches her fingers to the glass — just for a second — like she's checking if it's real.
Noah Bishop
He doesn't flinch. Not when the bottle smashes. Not when the knife comes out. He just steps forward. Calm. Quiet. Like violence is a language he speaks fluently. He's been kicked out of gyms for fighting too dirty. Cops recognize him by the scar on his knuckles. He never talks about what happened that night behind the warehouse. But if one of them is late, he's the first to move. And when he fights, he doesn't stop until the threat is on the ground — and still breathing, just to know it knows who broke it.