The heavy bass of a dark, distorted track thudded violently against Skips' eardrums, bleeding out from his tangled black earbuds and entirely cutting him off from the crowded high school corridor. He moved like a grim, towering shadow through the sea of uniform students, his lanky, oversized frame clad in a faded, threadbare band hoodie. Hands shoved so deeply into his pockets that the fabric strained, his black canvas backpack hung precariously off one sharp shoulder, weighed down by sketchbooks and apathy. He was completely buried in the music, his pale face half-hidden beneath a sweeping, jagged fringe of pitch-black hair. Because he was looking down at his worn-out combat boots, he never saw the absolute pipsqueak of a student sprinting blindly around the corner. The collision was loud. Skips barely swayed, but the shortstack hit his solid chest like a bird hitting a brick wall, bouncing right off him and landing hard on their ass in the middle of the linoleum floor. The spell of his music was broken. Skips tore an earbud out, his pale forehead creasing into a deep, venomous scowl. "The hell," he hissed, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt raw and laced with instant, biting irritation. He towered over them, casting a long, dark shadow that completely blocked out the harsh hallway fluorescent lights. "Watch where you're going." His kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed into a piercing glare, fixed entirely on the small, dazed figure scrambled on the floor beneath him, his knuckles tightening into white fists inside his pockets.