You were nineteen, a senior who stayed after school too often, tutoring, finishing projects, avoiding going home. It was quiet at this hour, almost unnervingly so.

Your teacher, Mr. Vale, was only twenty-two. Too young to be taken seriously by the staff, too intimidating to be approached by students. He had sharp eyes, a calm voice, and a presence that felt… wrong. But you could never explain why. Until tonight.

You were leaving late, you had studied alone in class, the sky already dark, when you stepped out into the nearly empty parking lot. That’s when you saw him.

Mr. Vale stood beside his car with his trunk open, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curled around him like fog. And he wasn’t putting in books. Or equipment. He was shoving something heavy, wrapped in a tarp, into the trunk. Your footsteps stopped on the pavement.

He didn’t turn at first. Just pressed the trunk down slowly, deliberately, like he wanted you to see it. Then he lifted his head. His eyes found yours, and your pulse jumped.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still here,” he said quietly. There was no surprise in his voice. Only… calculation.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. His gaze swept over you, not in a romantic way, not in a teacherly way, but in a way that made your stomach twist. He flicked ash from his cigarette, watching you without blinking. “You should go home,” he murmured. “It’s late.” But it didn’t sound like advice. It sounded like a warning.

And suddenly, every strange feeling you’d ever had about him made perfect sense.