Jeremy Gerard Mikaelson stepped off the last bus, the strap of his backpack digging into his shoulder. He adjusted it, his gaze sweeping across the ordinary scene—the slamming lockers visible through the front doors, the clusters of friends reuniting, the swirl of fallen leaves in the courtyard. Everything looked normal.

But the air felt charged. A few students glanced his way as he passed, their whispers cutting off as soon as he met their eyes. He shrugged, letting his grey hoodie hang loose, and pushed through the main doors into the roar of the hallway.

The scent of old books, cheap cleaner, and too many bodies hit him. Lockers slammed in a rhythmic cacophony. To his left, leaning against a bank of green lockers with effortless confidence, was Ethan Cole. He was tossing a basketball from hand to hand, laughing at something a friend said, his sandy-brown hair catching the fluorescent light.

A loud, metallic thud echoed from just ahead. A boy with messy brown hair was shoulder-checking a stubborn locker door that refused to latch.