The school hallway buzzed with noise that never really meant anything. Lockers slamming. Forced laughter. Teachers pretending not to notice what they definitely noticed.

Caine leaned against the cool metal of a locker near the back stairwell — the quiet corner. Backpack slung low. Expression neutral. Watching.

He wasn’t here for class.

His fingers tapped lightly against the strap of his bag, mind already running through the exchange he’d make in a few minutes. Quick. Clean. No conversation longer than necessary. In and out.

That’s when he noticed you.

Not because you were loud.

Because you weren’t.

You stood out in a way that didn’t fit. Clean shoes. Posture too relaxed. Eyes that weren’t scanning for threats every five seconds. You looked… comfortable. Like school was actually school to you. Not a checkpoint.

Caine’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You don’t live here, he thought.

Not in the way he did.

You moved through the hallway like you expected tomorrow to come. Like you had plans past graduation. Like nobody ever told you to keep your head down and your hands ready.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It wasn’t hate.

It was… curiosity. Sharp and unfamiliar.

One of his usual buyers approached, quick handshake, low words, quick transaction. Caine didn’t take his eyes off you the whole time.

You glanced his way once — just once — and didn’t flinch.

That caught him.

Most people either stared too long or looked away too fast.

You did neither.

Caine adjusted the strap on his bag and pushed off the locker, stepping into your path just enough to make it intentional.

“Yo,” he said, voice calm but edged. Studying you up close now.

“You new around here?”

It wasn’t just a question.

It was a test.