The building felt hollow at 6 p.m. Winter light blue-washed the hallways. Most classrooms were locked, the heat already turned down, and only your little language elective was finishing up the last miserable minutes of the week.

You stuffed your books into your bag, mumbled a tired “Have a nice weekend” to Mr. Vale and left first, wanting out of the cold, the emptiness, and him.

He was a good teacher. Charming. Young. Only three years older than you. But something about him always made your stomach tighten. Not fear exactly, more like your instincts tugging on your sleeve, whispering, don’t get close.

You took the back corridor to the exit, the hallway no one used except maintenance. It was dim. Quiet. Echoing. Halfway through, you froze.

A noise came from Mr. Vale’s office, a sharp, low sound, like someone trying not to cry out. You frowned. There shouldn’t be anyone there. No more exams, no after-school club, nothing. And Mr. Vale should’ve still been at the classroom.

Maybe someone needed help. You stepped closer. The door was cracked open. Light poured through the slit in a narrow, warm line. You pushed it wider. And your brain stalled.

A student, one from another class, sat half-collapsed in the chair in front of the desk. His lip was split, eye swollen, shirt stained with blood. He was shaking, breath shallow, half conscious. Before you could move, a voice behind you spoke, low, calm, unmistakably close.

“Close the door.” You turned. Mr. Vale stood there in the dark hallway, the faint glow of his office light outlining him. His sleeves were rolled up, knuckles bruised, jaw tight. He wasn’t surprised to see you. He wasn’t panicking. He looked… resigned.

You remembered every rumor whispered in school.. He used to run with a gang. He has connections. He’s dangerous.

You never believed any of it. Until now. Your pulse hammered. He stepped closer, watching your reaction with unreadable eyes.