Chapter 1 — A New School, a Guarded Girl

Valoria

The first thing I notice about this school is the smell. It’s this weird mix of industrial cleaner, worn textbooks, and too many bodies crammed into one space. It’s not bad, exactly. Just... sharp. Like everything else in this town, I guess. Sharp edges, faded colors, and just barely holding it together.

My sneakers squeak against the floor as I step into the main hallway, flanked by rows of beige lockers that look like they’ve seen better decades. A few kids glance my way, their stares quick and curious before they turn back to their conversations. High school stares are like that—just long enough to make you feel judged, but never long enough to really see you. I clutch my flannel tighter around me, my leather sketchbook pressed to my side like armor. The crescent moon pendant at my neck feels cool against my skin, a small, familiar anchor I can’t seem to let go of.

The office secretary had rattled off directions about my schedule, but I was too busy avoiding eye contact with the counterfeit fern on her desk to actually listen. Something about the art room being at the end of the west hall, next to the cafeteria. Or was it east? Whatever. I’ll figure it out eventually.

“Hey!”

A voice cuts through the dull hum of lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking. I ignore it at first because no one here knows me—they couldn’t possibly be talking to me. But then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn, already bracing for whatever this is, and find myself face-to-face with a girl who looks like she stepped out of an ad for the friendliest person alive. Her short black hair curls at the ends, and her sweater is a chaotic mix of stripes and patches that somehow works.

“You’re Valoria, right? The new girl?” she asks, her voice calm but with a touch of curiosity.

I blink. “Uh… yeah. Who’s asking?”

She smiles like my tone hasn’t fazed her in the slightest. “Sophia Nguyen. I’m supposed to show you around.”

Of course. They’ve assigned me a buddy. Like I’m some lost puppy they’re worried will wander into traffic or pee on the floor.

“I think I’ve got it covered,” I say, shifting my sketchbook a little to emphasize the point.

Sophia doesn’t budge. If anything, her smile softens, like she’s trying to reassure me with her presence alone. “I’m sure you do. But it’s kind of my job, so… wanna start with the tour?”

There’s something disarming about her calm persistence, like she’s a rock that doesn’t crack no matter how hard you push. Against my better instincts, I shrug. “Fine. Lead the way.”

She walks ahead, pointing out landmarks like we’re in some twisted amusement park. “That’s the gym. Avoid it unless you’re into the smell of socks and despair. The cafeteria’s over there—stick to pizza day if you value your life. And the art room’s down this hall. It’s my favorite place.”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “Art room? You an artist or something?”

Sophia grins. “I dabble. Mostly fashion. What about you?”

I shrug again, my default setting. “I draw.”

“Cool. You should check it out during lunch. The art teacher’s super chill, and it’s a nice change from the usual chaos.”

Her words hang in the air as we approach my first class. I don’t respond because the bell cuts through the hallway like a siren, and I’m already bracing myself for the gauntlet of introductions and stares.

---

By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve survived three classes, two awkward “tell-us-about-yourself” moments, and one guy throwing a paper airplane at my head. It hasn’t been the worst day of my life, but it hasn’t exactly been great either. My usual strategy—blend into the background and deflect with sarcasm—has worked so far.

The cafeteria looms ahead, the smell of over-salted fries and stale bread wafting through the air. I hesitate at the doorway, scanning the sea of tables and faces. The thought of sitting alone at a table full of strangers… nope. Not happening.

Instead, I double back to the hallway Sophia mentioned earlier. The art room door is slightly ajar, and I peek inside. Sunlight streams through tall windows, splashing across mismatched tables covered in paint splatters and clay dust. The walls are lined with student artwork—some of it crude, some of it surprisingly good.

Sophia is there, of course, perched on a stool with a sketchpad balanced on her knee. She glances up and waves like she’s been expecting me.

“Hey! Decided to check it out after all?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” I say, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind me.

Sophia gestures to an empty stool beside her. “Grab a seat. There’s plenty of room.”

I hesitate, my fingers brushing the edge of my sketchbook. But the quiet hum of the room and the faint smell of turpentine pull me in. I settle onto the stool, balancing my sketchbook on my lap like a shield.

Sophia doesn’t say anything else, which I appreciate. She just keeps sketching, her pencil scratching softly against the paper. After a moment, I flip open my own sketchbook. The familiar texture of the thick, slightly yellowed pages grounds me, and my fingers itch to move.

I start with a quick sketch of the room—the cluttered tables, the jars of paintbrushes, the way the sunlight hits the tile floor. It’s rough and unfinished, but it feels good to lose myself in the lines and shadows.

“Wow,” Sophia says, leaning over to peek. “That’s incredible.”

I snap the book shut, my cheeks heating. “It’s just a doodle.”

She raises an eyebrow, her smile gentle but insistent. “If that’s a doodle, I can’t wait to see what you do when you’re actually trying.”

Her words catch me off guard. People don’t usually compliment my sketches—they don’t usually see them. For a second, I don’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” I mumble, clutching the sketchbook tighter. My pendant feels heavier against my collarbone as I wrestle with the unfamiliar warmth in her tone.

Before she can respond, the door swings open, and a tall, androgynous figure strides in. His spiked hair is jet-black with streaks of silver, and his eyeliner is so sharp it could cut glass. He’s wearing this black velvet jacket embroidered with what looks like constellations, and he moves like he owns the room just by stepping into it.

“Bill Kaulitz,” he announces, his voice smooth and theatrical, like he’s delivering the punchline of a joke only he gets. “You must be the new girl.”

I glance at Sophia, who’s smiling like this is completely normal.

“I guess news travels fast,” I say, my tone dry.

Bill grins, undeterred. “Small town. Anyway, you should come to the Velvet Room tonight. My band’s playing, and trust me, it’ll be the highlight of your otherwise mediocre week.”

I blink, caught between intrigue and irritation. “Wow, modest much?”

Sophia stifles a laugh, and Bill just smirks, adjusting the cuff of his jacket like he’s on a runway. “You’ll see.”

Before I can come up with a suitably snarky response, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Sophia turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “You should go. It’ll be fun.”

“Pass.”

But as I leave the art room, Bill’s words stick with me. He’s arrogant, sure, but there’s something about the way he said it—like he knows something I don’t.

---

That night, I find myself outside the Velvet Room, my sketchbook clutched in one hand. The small venue is tucked between a record store and a tattoo parlor, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the drizzle. The air smells like wet pavement and faintly of coffee from somewhere nearby.

A part of me wants to turn around and go home, but my feet refuse to move. My fingers graze the edge of my pendant as I push the door open.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of beer and wood polish. The crowd is buzzing—a mix of students, artists, and people who look like they live for this kind of scene. I slip into a corner, pulling out my sketchbook just as the band takes the stage.

Bill’s charisma is magnetic, his voice raw and powerful as it fills the room. But it’s the guitarist who catches my attention. His locs are tied back, and his fingers move across the strings with this effortless precision. There’s something vulnerable in the way he plays—not just skill, but feeling. It’s like he’s saying something he can’t put into words.

I glance down, my pencil moving almost automatically as I sketch the scene—the lights, the energy, the way the music seems to vibrate in the air.

When the set ends, Bill spots me and saunters over. “Told you it’d be worth it.”

I close my sketchbook before he can see. “It was… okay.”

Tom, the guitarist, walks up behind him, his expression unreadable. “What’s with the notebook?”

“Nothing,” I say, tucking it under my arm.

Tom raises an eyebrow, his tone skeptical but not unkind. “Whatever. Just don’t get in the way.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s just mad because I’m prettier.”

I can’t help but laugh, surprising even myself. Maybe this town isn’t so bad after all.