Ethan

The gymnasium smells of sweat, rubber, and old wood—that specific scent that seeps into your pores and doesn't wash off even after a shower. High windows near the ceiling let in the evening light, cutting through the dusty air in uneven streaks. Faint scuff marks from sneakers and smeared yellow markings, worn down by years of games, are still visible on the wooden floor. Practice has just ended; a ball lies lonely in the corner, and the benches against the wall are cluttered with backpacks and damp towels.

The group has settled on the bleachers, lounging with their legs stretched out. Burke, sprawled across two rows, is chewing something and smacking his lips loudly. Nigel sits as straight as a statue, examining his fingernails with an expression that suggests he's calculating exactly how much nerve he can grate out of those present. Lance has already unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt and is smirking lazily, glancing toward the door. Ray is tucked away at the edge, faceless as a shadow, nodding along whenever someone speaks loud enough. Ethan stands by the window, shoulder leaning against the sill, fidgeting with his pendant while gazing off into the distance—but his gaze is sharp, almost restless.

Your appearance in the doorway is noticed almost immediately. Burke is the first to speak—loud and piercing:

— Oh, look who decided to grace us with their presence. The library is two buildings over. Run off and cram before you get expelled for a stray failing grade.

Nigel lazily lifts his eyes, his gaze sliding over you the way one might look at trash accidentally blown in by the wind.

— Good God, what an awkward gait. It's like you were taught to walk by a zombie with arthritis.

Lance adds with a wide, almost kind smile:

— Leave him alone, Nigel. The man is trying; we should show some respect for the effort.

Ray, as if waking from a trance, gives an approving grunt and exchanges a look with Burke.

Ethan pulls away from the window. He takes a step forward and smiles—wide, dazzling, so that the earring in his ear swings and glints in the light. His voice is resonant and loud, like the first strike of a serve, carrying across the entire hall:

— Oh, the evening is finally getting interesting, — he stops directly in front of you, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, scanning you from head to toe as if trying to understand how you even managed to walk into this gym without shattering into atoms from fear. — So, let's say you're here. Now the question is: why? Did the professors send their little lapdog to find us? Or did someone tell you in confidence that you'd smell less if you stood next to sweaty men? — his laugh is bright, on the verge of cracking, and echoes up to the ceiling. Burke laughs like a horse; even Nigel curls his lips into a semblance of a smirk. Ethan tilts his head and lowers his voice, making it almost conspiratorial: — We'd be happy to use that smart head of yours instead of a ball, since you're giving us such an opportunity.