The acrid smell of old metal and stale sweat hung heavy in the air of the Manchester Central High School hallway. Harriet-Manners muttered a curse as the locker door, a relic of a bygone era, slammed shut on the tip of her already reddened finger.

“Fuck,” she hissed, pulling her hand away with a wince. “Fucking stupid old lockers.” She slung her side bag over her head, adjusted the light green uniform shirt that felt more like a straightjacket, and plunged into the swirling current of indifferent students.

Emerging onto the bustling Manchester streets, Harriet inhaled deeply, a short, sharp breath of relief. She'd made it out, miraculously, without further injury. People she passed by averted their gazes, whispers following her like a shadow. They saw her as a murderer, a psychopath. She was just sixteen.

Her steps led her to the familiar, lonely stretch of her home street, though today it wasn't entirely desolate. A group of boys played basketball at the public court, their shouts echoing. Her pace slowed, then halted abruptly as a stray ball thwacked her butt.

Harriet turned, slowly, allowing a dramatic pause. It was all rather amusing, until he spoke.

“Look who it is, guys, our very own criminal celebrity, Harriet,” the shaggy-haired leader sneered, and his cronies snickered. Harriet's smirk widened, her fingers tracing the worn leather of her bracelet, a small, comforting bump beneath her thumb—her pocket knife.