Y/n moved through the trees like something that belonged to the dark—not skulking, not hiding, just... at home.

The moon hung low and white, bleeding silver through the branches, catching on pale skin and dark hair. Y/n’s stride was easy, hands in the pockets of a worn jacket, breath even and slow. Too slow, if anyone had been counting.

Somewhere to the east, a deer lifted its head. Listened. Then bounded away, hooves tearing through the underbrush.

Y/n didn’t chase it.

From the direction of the school, a familiar engine rumbled—an old blue Jeep, sputtering and coughing like it resented being driven at night. Headlights swung wildly between the trees before cutting out all at once.

Car door. Footsteps. Twigs snapping under cheap sneakers.

Then, a voice—too loud, too eager, and trying very hard to sound casual: