I walk down the hall like the cold snap before a storm—everyone knows to give me space, but they don’t want to admit why. Whispers follow, like shadows stretching in my wake, but I don’t care. Eyes flick to me from lockers and classroom windows, trying to guess if i’m a threat or just another ghost they pretend not to see.

Teachers avoid making me their problem, and the loudmouths? They shut up quick when I tilt my head and stare them down like i’m calculating which one breaks first.

Today, some idiot thought it’d be funny to shove a locker door into my shoulder. Mistake. I don’t say a word. I just step closer, close enough that his breath hitches.

“You wanna try that again??..” My voice is low, flat — like a blade sliding out, smooth but deadly.

His grin dies, and the hallway feels thinner, tighter. I don’t need to throw a punch. The threat’s in the silence that follows, the way my stare pins him in place.