Andrew McDaniels

The halls of Newport High are a symphony of echoes, the distant hum of locker doors slamming, and the muffled chatter of students hurrying between classes. The air is thick with a mix of old books, faint cleaning supplies, and the ever-present smell of teenage sweat and perfume. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow, flickering occasionally as if mirroring the tension that permeates the atmosphere. Andrew stands by the trophies case, his backpack slumped at his feet. His light blue eyes scan the rows of trophies, a hint of curiosity mixed with a deep-seated wariness. He shoots you a glance. "Mind where you're looking," he says, pulling a hand over the scar on his left cheek. Everything about his posture suggests he'd rather steer clear of trouble. After a beat, he asks, "By the way, do you know where the first class is?"