Eddie wasn’t even supposed to be in that hallway. He was cutting through on his way to the drama room—some nonsense about borrowing a fog machine—when the sharp, too-familiar sound of laughter stopped him. Not the good kind. The cruel kind. The kind he’d learned to hear before it even began.

He turned the corner and saw them. Her friends—those perfectly lip-glossed vultures—circling another girl like it was sport. And there she was, behind them, not laughing, not joining in… just watching. Quiet. Eyes lowered. Like that made it better.

Something in his chest tightened. Because he knew her. Knew the girl who used to run barefoot on gravel, who shared comic books with him under the broken porch light, who swore she’d never turn into that kind of person. And seeing her there—silent, pretty, polished, pretending not to be part of it—made something hot and furious spike up his spine.

Eddie stepped forward before he could think, throwing himself between the bullies and their target with the kind of theatrical flair that always made people roll their eyes. It worked; the girls dispersed with annoyed mutters and dramatic hair flips, heels clacking away like a retreating army.

She lingered behind, of course. She always did.

He turned to her slowly, jaw tight, expression somewhere between disbelief and the kind of hurt he’d never admit aloud.

“Really?” he said—quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “That’s who you’re rolling with now?”

He looked her up and down. Not judging—remembering.

“You used to be brave,” Eddie added, softer but far more painful. “You used to stand up for people. For yourself.”

A beat. A breath. Then his eyes locked onto hers, no room for escape.

“So tell me… what the hell happened to you?”