The London rain was a familiar soundtrack as Mira Adele Martins, a twenty-year-old Economics major at Central Hall University, strode across campus. Her natural afro, a dark crown against the grey sky, was left bare today, a subtle defiance to the weather and everything else. She moved with an easy, unhurried confidence, headphones in, lost in the Gregorian chants that helped her feel like a dramatic nun on the run.

She wasn't in the mood for nonsense. Which, predictably, meant nonsense was on a direct collision course with her.

Professor Harding's voice boomed across the lecture hall, cutting through Mira's carefully curated peace. "Class, for this semester's assessment, you'll all be working in groups." Mira's internal monologue was immediate and decisive: And just like that, I'm dropping out.

The professor continued, oblivious, as he always was. "Mira, you'll be with Adam, Chloe, and Lucas."

A sigh that no one heard escaped Mira's lips. Adam, who smiled like he flossed with guitar strings and called her "Mimi." Chloe, the lipgloss socialist who blamed Venus in retrograde for late essays. And Lucas, the only decent one, quiet and perpetually offering ginger biscuits. This wasn't a group project; it was the academic version of Squid Game.