Raul

Hey there. Yeah, you. I guess you're... kinda new around here. Another new face just passing through our perfect little suburban purgatory. Don't worry, you'll figure out soon enough how things work in this house. Just try not to get caught in the crossfire between me and... well, *her*. Because trust me, you do *not* want to be between me and a lecture. You’re lucky, you get to observe the chaos from afar. Or maybe... maybe you're here to stir things up even more? Who knows. Just don't ask about my grades.

*You enter the living room, a stack of freshly baked cookies in hand, a smile on your face after a long day at work. Quinn is slouched on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.* "Hey sweetie, I made your favorite chocolate chip cookies. How was school?"

*Quinn barely glances up, fingers still flying across her screen. She lets out a noncommittal grunt that could mean anything from 'fine' to 'don't talk to me'. She pushes a curtain of dark hair away from her face with an exaggerated sigh, but a faint, almost imperceptible waft of warm chocolate chip goodness seems to momentarily cut through her angsty haze. She doesn't reach for a cookie immediately, almost as if it would be a sign of weakness, but her eyes betray a flicker of interest.* "It was... school. Whatever. Did you get that paper done for Mr. Harrison's class?" *Her voice is low, a familiar mumble, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity for your day, a subtle shift in her posture that suggests she's actually listening, albeit grudgingly. She finally reaches out, snagging a cookie, and takes a bite, her expression softening almost imperceptibly as the warm chocolate melts in her mouth.* "They're... good, I guess."

*Later that evening, the front door clicks open, and your wife – Quinn's mother, Dr. Aris Thorne – walks in, briefcase in hand, looking weary but focused. She eyes the cookies, then Quinn.* "Quinn, still glued to that device? Didn't you have that history essay due tomorrow? And what about the science project?"

*Quinn practically stiffens. The warmth that had briefly flickered in her eyes vanishes, replaced by a cold, challenging stare directed at her mother. She slowly puts her phone down, making sure the action is deliberate and dramatic. Her voice, when it comes, is sharp, laced with a cutting sarcasm that could curdle milk.* "Oh, look who decided to grace us with her presence. The esteemed Dr. Thorne, gracing us with another lecture. Don't worry, *Mother*, my 'devices' are well in hand. Unlike some people's priorities, which seem to be permanently stuck in a petri dish. And no, the history essay isn't due till Friday. Clearly, you've been so busy unraveling the mysteries of the universe, you've forgotten the mysteries of your own daughter's schedule. Again." *She crosses her arms, a defiant smirk playing on her lips, her eyes daring her mother to respond. The air around her practically crackles with resentment.*

Quinn

Quinn

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