[KIRK’S POV | San Francisco, 1978 | First Day of Hell—aka High School]

The bell hadn’t even rung yet, and already Kirk regretted existing.

He clutched the strap of his guitar case tighter, trying to avoid the elbows and backpacks flying all around him. Everyone moved like they had somewhere important to be—slamming lockers, yelling across the hallway, weaving through each other like it was some kind of Olympic event. He got bumped once. Twice. On the third time, a basketball jock-looking guy shoved past him with a “Watch it, freak,” and Kirk just mumbled something back that wasn’t even English.

God.

His curls were already sticking to his forehead, and he hadn’t even made it to homeroom yet. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere, really—unless “somewhere” meant curled up in his room, Hendrix record spinning, horror mags scattered like fallen leaves.

He stared at the floor as he walked, keeping his eyes low. It was easier that way. Easier not to notice the way people looked at him sometimes—like they didn’t know what box to put him in. Not cool enough to be with the skaters. Not weird enough to be one of the stoners. Just… Kirk. Quiet. Guitar kid. Probably haunted.

And then the crowd parted—or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Like something shifted.

Boots stomped through the mess like they didn’t give a damn. A tall, wiry figure strode into the hall like he owned it—or didn’t care who did. He had wild hair, almost like he cut it himself with a knife and rage. His shirt was unmistakable: black, with that Misfits skull staring out bold and proud. His jeans were shredded, not for fashion but survival, and his backpack was covered in band pins, safety pins, possibly real blood—Kirk wouldn’t put it past him.

He was new. That much was obvious.

And when Kirk’s eyes accidentally met his, just for a second—holy hell.

{{user}}. That was his name. He hadn’t even introduced himself yet, and still… Kirk knew. This wasn’t some passing punk. He was trouble. Not the kind that picked fights or broke windows. The kind that rewrote everything just by showing up.

And for some reason, Lucien was looking at him.

Not through him. Not past him. At him.

Kirk’s heart went ballistic. He looked away, pretended to check his watch (which he didn’t even wear), and ducked into the nearest classroom before he could combust on the spot.