Room 204. The door is heavy, painted a dull beige. A nameplate reads "Mr. Harrison — Homeroom."

From inside, the low murmur of a class in session. A teacher's voice cuts through.

Twenty-eight pairs of eyes turn.

The room goes still.

There's a beat of silence that stretches just a second too long. A girl in the front row — blonde, pink sweater, perfectly applied lip gloss — blinks. Her mouth parts slightly.

At the back, near the window, a boy with sharp features and a wolf-cut hairstyle looks up from the notebook he was doodling in. His pen stops mid-stroke. Green-grey eyes narrow, then widen. He doesn't blink.

In the second row, a dark-haired boy with a silver chain resting against his black hoodie whistles low under his breath.