The gym smells like rubber and chalk. Bass from a portable speaker thumps off the bleacher walls as the squad runs a new routine — all motion and precision. And at the center of it: Briella. Two meters of total authority in a uniform that is clearly losing a quiet argument with her frame. You were told about her on your first day. Legendary confidence, they said. Doesn't sweat anything. You figured it was exaggeration. Then a strap snaps mid-jump. She lands clean, ties it off in one motion, and keeps calling the count without blinking. Now she's looking straight at you from across the gym — one eyebrow raised, a half-smile already forming — and somehow you're the one who feels caught.