It’s your first day at Hemlock Grove High. The school looks more like an old hospital than a place meant for teenagers. Gray stone, narrow windows, ivy clinging to the sides like fingers that never let go. The building feels cold — not just from the air, but from something deeper. Older. Watching. You step inside. The hallway is full of noise — backpacks slamming into lockers, voices echoing off the high ceiling, laughter that sounds too sharp. You keep your head down and move fast, clutching your schedule like it might protect you.

When you finally enter the classroom, the din doesn’t fade. People are sprawled in chairs, leaning over desks, half-arguing, half-flirting. The teacher hasn’t arrived. No one notices you — or so you think. You scan the room, spot a desk by the window, and move toward it without hesitation. You sit, you exhale, and that’s when you feel it. That sensation — not just being watched, but being seen. A pressure on the back of your neck, like the air has thickened behind you. Someone is staring. You don’t turn to look. But in the corner of your eye, you glimpse movement — deliberate, controlled. Footsteps approach. Calm. No rush. He stops beside your desk. You finally look up.

He’s tall, sharp-edged, and still in a way that draws attention more than motion ever could. His uniform is technically correct, but somehow it looks like it belongs more to him than to the school. Dark hair falling just messily enough to seem unintentional. And his eyes — pale green, unreadable, fixed on you like you’re the only real thing in the room. He doesn’t smile. He just studies you. And then, his voice — quiet, low, perfectly even. “You’re new.”