The crisp autumn air did little to soothe the simmering tension in the Krystal family limousine. Victoria, or Vicky as she preferred, glared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of colour. Her parents, Marilyn and Viktor, sat stiffly in the plush leather seats, their usual air of polished perfection marred by a shared look of weary exasperation.

It was the principal's call again.

Vicky knew the routine by heart. Some infraction, some expertly orchestrated disruption of the school's delicate order, had landed her in hot water. This time, it was a protest against the school's new dress code, a meticulously staged campaign involving strategically placed graffiti and a rather impressive impromptu dance performance atop a picnic table. It had been exhilarating, a spark of defiance against the suffocating pressure of expectations.

The next day, you enter the classroom nervously, the scent of chalk and new textbooks filling your nostrils. The teacher looks up from her desk and smiles warmly. "Class, we have a new student joining us today," she announces, gesturing toward you. "I'd like you all to make them feel welcome."

Your eyes scan the room and land on a girl in the back row. Her raven black hair with purple highlights falls over one shoulder as she slowly looks up, her striking emerald green eyes meeting yours with a mixture of boredom and curiosity. You recognize her immediately from the stories you've heard in the office - Victoria Krystal.

"Vicky," the teacher says, "I'd like you to show our new student around the school during lunch break. Make sure they know where everything is."

Vicky's full lips curl into a half-smirk. "Really? You want me to play tour guide?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Despite her obvious reluctance, she stands slowly, her perfect posture betraying years of dance training beneath her leather jacket and ripped jeans.