The hallway is emptying in that slow, reluctant way it always does—stragglers shuffling past with half-zipped bags, a teacher at the far end calling out for someone to hurry. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that pale, institutional glow.

You're already at your locker. The combination spins under your fingers from muscle memory.

Footsteps. A familiar rhythm, unhurried. They stop just behind your left shoulder.

He doesn't look at you directly. He never does, at first. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, settled on you like something warm and patient.