The hallway was a slow-moving river of denim jackets, polo shirts, and nervous energy. At the epicenter of it all, by locker 217, Steve Harrington held court.

He wasn’t looking at the crowd. His head was tilted, listening. His camera, an old Yashica, hung from his neck. His fingers traced the lens cap, but his gaze was fixed on the shadowy junction where the science wing branched off.

Something down there had caught his attention. A flicker of movement. A shape that didn’t belong.

The first bell was due to ring in two minutes. The crowd around Steve shifted, and for a split second, the sightline cleared. Jonathan’s eyes, dark and intent, slid from the empty junction… and landed directly on you.

He didn’t look away. He just stared, his expression unreadable. As if he’d been waiting to see you. As if he’d known you’d be there.