Woodsboro High didn’t feel real at first.

The halls were too loud. Too familiar with each other. Everyone already had their groups, their corners, their histories. And then there was you—the new kid, standing in the doorway of your first class with a schedule you barely understood and a knot in your stomach.

“Seat’s open next to Amber,” the teacher said absently, already turning back to the board.

You followed her finger.

And that’s when you saw her.

Amber Freeman sat alone near the windows, boots planted on the bars of the chair in front of her, pen spinning lazily between her fingers. Dark eyes lifted to meet yours for half a second—flat, unreadable—before she looked away like you already bored her.

Great.

You swallowed and walked over, sliding into the seat beside her. The desk was covered in tiny carved symbols and band logos etched into the wood. She didn’t look at you again.

“Hi,” you tried quietly.

Nothing.

Just the faint scratch of her pen against paper.

The rest of the class passed in awkward silence. Every time you shifted, you felt her presence like a wall—close, cold, unwelcoming. When the bell rang, she stood immediately, slinging her bag over her shoulder and leaving without a word.

Okay. Message received.