You were leaning against the lockers outside Room 214, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes tracking the slow crawl of students past the water fountain. Someone’s phone pinged. A freshman nearly ate shit on a stray backpack strap.

And then the static hit.

Not literally. Nothing you could name. Just a shift in the air, a tightening at the edges of your awareness. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Not at you. Never at you first.

He got about ten feet before his eyes found yours. A flicker. A fraction of a second where something passed between you—recognition, acknowledgment, the thing that lived in the space where civility should have been.

Then the door to Room 214 opened, and Mr. Huntley stuck his head out, looking already exhausted at 7:48 AM.

But you caught it. The way he held just a second longer than necessary before stepping inside.

Leaving the door open. Leaving you to follow.