You barely listen. Your eyes trail the hall on instinct—watching who’s watching you. Because they always are. A freshman fumbles his books when he catches your gaze. You don’t even smile. Just look away.

Through the glass doors at the main entrance, a black motorcycle pulls into the parking lot. Not some shiny sports bike. Something older. Louder. It cuts off with a growl, and the silence it leaves behind feels heavier.

You watch him walk through the gates. He doesn’t look around. Doesn’t glance at the crowd parting slightly as he moves. Doesn’t even seem to notice he’s the only thing people are staring at.

He’s already halfway down the hall, hands in his pockets, not a single backward glance.