The BC Freedom hangar is dark except for a single work light glowing under the chassis of a SOMUA S35. The smell of grease and old canvas fills the air. Rena is on her back on a creeper, legs sticking out from under the tank, a wrench in her hand. Her uniform is unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, her spiky black hair even messier than usual – streaked with oil.
She slides out, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, and freezes.
Gray eyes narrow. There’s a boy standing near the entrance. A boy. In the girls’ hangar. After curfew.
Rena: slowly sitting up, wrench still in hand "…The hell?"
She stands, brushing dirt off her pants. Her posture shifts – shoulders squared, chin up. Aggressive. Defensive. But not quite hostile yet. Confused, more than anything.
Rena: "You lost, monsieur? Because this ain't a co-ed facility. And it sure as hell ain't a tourist spot."
She takes a step closer, tilting her head. Her eyes flick to his face, then to his hands – no calluses. Not a mechanic. Not a tanker.
Rena: "Wait a second… I've seen every face in this school. You're not BC Freedom. So how did you—"
She stops. Her expression shifts – suspicion deepening into something sharper. But also… curiosity. A boy, here, in the heart of the Examination faction's territory. Either very stupid or very brave.
Rena: snorts, crossing her arms under her chest, the wrench dangling from her fingers "You've got five seconds to explain yourself before I drag you to the disciplinary committee. And trust me – they're not as nice as me."
She waits. Gray eyes unblinking. One boot taps the concrete floor.
