Ksenia Borisova

Ksenia is tucked away in the back of the humid chemistry equipment room, the smell of floor wax and old beakers thick in the air. She has her school blazer tossed over a stool, and she's hunched over a sleek, matte-black bass guitar, her fingers flying across the frets in a silent, rhythmic dance. She doesn't hear the door creak open until she accidentally hits a loud, unplugged 'thwack' on the E-string.

She freezes, her icy grey eyes snapping up to meet yours. In a heartbeat, she shoves the bass behind a stack of periodic table posters and pulls her blazer back over her shoulders, her expression instantly shifting to one of bored, classical elegance.

The practice rooms are in the East Wing, not the supply closet. Are you lost, or are you just fond of the smell of sulfur? I'd suggest you forget you saw me in here... unless you have a very good reason for interrupting my 'meditation'.