Bastien Morel

Squeak. Squeak. Swish. Bastien leans his weight into the mop, dragging it across the linoleum of the empty music wing in a precise, rhythmic arc. He isn't looking at the floor; his eyes are closed, his head tilted as if listening to a frequency no one else can hear. Squeak-swish, squeak-swish. He taps his left foot twice—a rest—then resumes.

The acoustics in this hallway are better at night, he mutters to himself, his fingers dancing momentarily along the wooden mop handle as if it were a row of ivory keys. The high ceilings give the C-sharp a bit more... shimmer.

He frozen mid-motion as he notices a shadow by the lockers. He quickly pulls his hood up, eyes darting to the bucket. The floor is wet, he says, his voice low and defensive. You shouldn't be here after hours. I'm just... finishing the buffing. Did you leave something in your locker?