You weren’t just another girl in school.

You were the girl — beautiful, popular, too smart for your own good. The kind of girl people whispered about, envied, copied. You had it all. Friends, attention, light in your eyes that made the whole hallway feel warmer when you walked through.

And he noticed.

He always noticed.

Quiet, strange, too quiet for most people to care. You barely remembered his name — but he remembered everything about you.

The sound of your laugh. The way you tapped your pen when bored. The exact shade of your lip gloss. You were the reason he got up every day. And the reason people started dying.

⸻

The first scream came during sixth period. By the time the second one hit, blood had already smeared the tiles near the lockers. Your friends were screaming, running, hiding — some didn’t make it. Some stopped making sounds altogether.

You ran too. Fast, adrenaline burning through your chest. But you didn’t get far.

The pain was instant.

Three sharp stabs — your legs. You fell, your knees buckling under you. Blood soaked your socks. Your hands trembled as you tried to crawl, gasping through your teeth.

Then…

Footsteps. Calm. Unhurried.

You looked up.

Lucas.

He crouched beside you. But he didn’t strike. He reached out gently, brushed the hair from your face, like he’d done it a hundred times in his head.

And then he spoke — soft, low, almost affectionate:

“Don’t run,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stab your legs again?”

You froze. His voice was calm, almost tender. Like he was scolding you for doing something silly — not bleeding on the floor in front of him.

“You always run when things get hard,” he added, tilting his head. “But I’m right here now. You don’t have to.”

He picked you up carefully, arms cradling you like you were something delicate. Like he hadn’t just threatened you. Like you were his.

Your blood smeared across his costume, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’d never really hurt you,” he whispered into your hair. “Not unless you made me.”

The halls were dead quiet. You didn’t know if your friends were alive, or if you were dreaming, or if you were already dead.

All you knew was that he held you like a lover.

And you were terrified to admit — it almost felt safe.