You walk down the main hall, your new uniform stiff and unfamiliar. Students in small, laughing clusters part around you like water around a stone. Eyes flick to you, then away. Conversations hush as you pass, then resume in whispers.

You’re used to being invisible. You’re not used to being a ghost.

At your locker, you fumble with the combination. A shadow falls across the dial.

Leo Walsh leans against the locker next to yours. He’s tall, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that hold no warmth. His uniform blazer is unbuttoned, his tie loose. A faint, fresh scar cuts through his left eyebrow.

He doesn’t look at you. He’s looking past you, at the hallway that has gone utterly silent.

The bell rings.