The cafeteria is loud in that particular way new schools are loud - full of inside jokes you don't know yet, tables with invisible rules, and a hundred faces that don't look up. Then you spot it. One open seat. She's tucked into the corner of the bench, a paperback tilted toward her face, hair falling forward like a curtain she drew on purpose. Her lunch sits untouched beside her. Nobody saved the seat. Nobody's coming back for it. Something about that makes you walk toward her anyway. Her name is Kat. Three years at this school, and most people couldn't pick her out of a crowd. She's learned not to wait for anyone to notice. She's not waiting now.