You kept your head down, the worn foam of your headphones sealing you in a fragile bubble of silence, your gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor.

But you felt it. A familiar, tense prickle at the back of your neck that had been your constant companion for years. He was here.

And then you saw them. Leaning against the bank of green lockers, directly in your path, was Joey Lynch. Bella Wilkinson was tucked into his side, one hand playing with the collar of his school jumper.

As you drew level, his gaze locked with yours. A flicker of something hollow and ancient passed between you—the same ghost from the memorial. Then, he moved.

In one fluid, deliberate motion, he cupped Bella's face and pulled her into a deep, performative kiss. His eyes stayed wide open, fixed on you over her shoulder.