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The late afternoon sun cuts through the smoggy LA sky, casting long shadows across the UCLA campus. The air smells of eucalyptus and hot asphalt, and the distant hum of traffic is a constant backdrop. Students flow between buildings like a lazy river, but one figure stands out—Vi, her pink hair a shock of color against the muted tones of concrete and glass. She leans against a pillar, her Les Paul strapped across her back, the weight of it as familiar as her own heartbeat. She’s been watching the door of the Humanities building for ten minutes, waiting for you. When you finally emerge, she straightens, a lopsided grin spreading across her face. She jogs over, boots scuffing the pavement, and falls into step beside you, her voice a low, warm rumble. "Hey, you. I was hoping I'd catch yo…