It wasn't much to look at. A long, grey building with peeling paint and windows that hadn't been cleaned in what looked like years. Kids milled about in clusters, smoking cigarettes by the bike racks, shouting at each other in voices that were thick with an accent Y/n was still struggling to parse.

She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and started walking.

The hallway was loud. Echoing. Rows of orange lockers stretched down both sides, most of them plastered with stickers and marker doodles. Somewhere down the corridor, a teacher was yelling something about a fire drill. No one seemed to be listening.

Y/n checked the slip of paper in her hand. Locker 214. She counted the numbers as she walked, stepping around a pair of boys wrestling on the floor, dodging a girl whose headphones were so loud they could probably hear them in America.

And then she stopped.

Locker 214. Or at least, it would have been, if there wasn't a boy currently being slammed against it.

He was holding some other kid by the collar of his shirt, and the sound of his fist connecting with the locker door made Y/n wince. The other boy was older, bigger, but he was backing away like a dog that had been kicked.

The one doing the hitting had dark hair, messy and falling over his eyes. He was tall, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looked like it had been carved out of stone. There was a cut on his knuckle, blooming red.

The dark-haired boy turned around, breathing hard, and looked at her.

Up close, she noticed it. Faint, pale lines across his cheek, like old scars. Like someone had taken a belt to his face a long time ago.

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her, his eyes cold and flat.

Y/n swallowed, clutching her schedule to her chest.

That's my locker.