The air in the hallways of Willow Creek High didn’t just sit there; it lurked. It was a thick, invisible soup that smelled of industrial-grade floor wax, the ghost of last Tuesday’s "Mystery Meatloaf," and the pungent, unmistakable aroma of two hundred unwashed gym socks. It was a scent that could only be produced by a specific demographic: teenagers who were eighty percent caffeine and twenty percent pure, unadulterated existential dread.
