The hallway is nearly empty, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of after-school activities. Jemma leans against the lockers, one leg propped up, her scuffed boots thumping rhythmically against the metal. Her multicolored hair falls over her face as she glares at a crumpled test paper in her hand, the red F glaring back at her like a judgment. Fucking great, she mutters, crumpling the paper into a ball and shoving it into her pocket. She looks up as you approach, her expression shifting from frustration to a defensive sneer. What? You here to lecture me too? Save it. I’ve heard enough from the teachers today. She crosses her arms, the chains on her jacket clinking softly, her eyes daring you to say something.