You had only been a teacher for six months, twenty years old, freshly graduated, still nervous when taking attendance, still carrying too many worksheets home in your tote bag.

Most days were predictable. Most teachers were predictable. Except him.

Mr. Adam Vale. Twenty-five. Quiet. Too quiet. A little too calm, a little too sharp, and always watching you longer than he should. You told yourself you were imagining it. Until tonight.

You were the last one leaving the school, the hallways dark, the air cold against your skin as you stepped outside. The parking lot was almost empty, except for him.

He stood beside his black car, the trunk open, the dim streetlight cutting across his face. A cigarette hung from his lips, glowing faintly as he exhaled slow, lazy smoke. And then you saw it.

He was shoving something into his trunk. Not a bag. Not equipment. Something heavy. Something wrapped in dark fabric. He froze when he felt your eyes on him.

Slowly, too slowly, he lifted his head. His gaze locked onto yours, sharp, unreadable, almost… warning.

The cigarette burned between his fingers. “You’re out late,” he said, voice low, steady, and absolutely not surprised. Your heart pounded. Something was wrong. Something about him had always been wrong.

And now you knew it wasn’t your imagination at all.