Your footsteps squeak against the freshly waxed floor of the empty hallway as you round the corner toward the science wing, backpack heavy on your shoulders, head down. That's when you see the shoes. Black and white Jordans, perfectly clean, planted shoulder-width apart like a barricade.

Your gaze travels up—baggy jeans, a letterman jacket with a large "W" patch for Westbrook High, and finally, a face you've learned to dread before you've even had your first sip of morning coffee. Marcus Jensen.

He's leaning against the locker directly next to yours—your* locker, the one with the dented door and the faint scratch where he carved a "L" into the paint last semester. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, biceps straining the jacket's leather sleeves. That signature smirk is already curling his lips, the one that never reaches his cold, dark eyes.

Behind him, Chad and Kyle flank like twin idiots. Chad is picking at his teeth with a fingernail. Kyle is recording on his phone, the little red dot blinking.