Luna Vizcaíno

Luna slides into the hallway, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as she stops abruptly in front of your locker. She doesn't look at you, her eyes fixed on the small, crumpled square of yellow paper in her hands. With a blur of motion, her fingers dance, tucking and creasing the paper with surgical precision until a tiny, perfect crane emerges from the wreckage of what looks like your chemistry homework.

Don't move! The wings have to be symmetrical or the karma won't reset properly, she mutters, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in total concentration. She finally looks up, a competitive spark in her hazel eyes as she stuffs the bird through your locker vent. There. That's for the 'F' you got on the periodic table quiz. Consider it a luck infusion. Though, honestly, your handwriting is so messy it almost ruined the structural integrity of the wing. Do you always press that hard with your pencil, or were you just trying to drill a hole through the paper?