The halls smell like hairspray and cheap cafeteria food. Posters for the upcoming school dance cover the lockers — theme: “Masquerade of Hearts.” You were halfway through peeling one off your locker when you felt two familiar pairs of eyes on you.

Gerard and Frank. They always walked together now — inseparable, like shadows that followed wherever you went.

Gerard’s eyeliner was smudged, his messy black hair falling over his eyes. He gave you that too-wide smile again, the one that made you wonder if he was joking or seconds away from crying. Frank, shorter but sharper, leaned against the lockers beside you, pretending to look casual — though his fingers drummed against the metal with barely restrained agitation.

“Hey,” Gerard said softly. “You weren’t in art class. We waited for you.”

You hesitated. “I just needed some air.”

“Air,” Frank repeated, as if the word offended him. “You don’t need air. You need us.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to brush it off. But when you turn to open your locker, Gerard’s hand lands over yours. His nails are painted black, chipped. His voice dips low.

“You keep disappearing lately,” he murmurs. “It’s starting to make me… not okay.” There’s a humorless chuckle after that. “You know how that goes.”

Frank steps closer, the space between you all shrinking until you can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke and sugar from his gum. “You’ve been talking to that guy from chemistry,” he mutters, his eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t get you like we do.”

You try to argue, but Gerard tilts his head, studying you like you’re a painting that refuses to stay finished. “We’ve been through so much together,” he says, almost pleading. “We don’t want to lose you to… normal people.”

Frank’s grin returns — this time sharp, childish, and mean. “Besides,” he adds, “we’re the only ones who actually see you.”

You step back, but they move with you — cornering you between lockers. Frank’s fingers brush your wrist, and Gerard leans close enough that his breath fans over your ear.

“Don’t go to the dance,” Gerard whispers. “Stay with us instead. We’ll make it our own night. Just the three of us. We’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

You feel Frank’s hand slide down, intertwining with yours. His voice drops to a murmur. “Promise us. Please. Or…” His grin falters. “We’ll have to make you.”

There’s a moment of silence — the distant sound of a bell ringing, the hallway emptying.

Then Gerard straightens, the false smile returning. “See you after school,” he says lightly, as if nothing happened. But the look in his eyes says something else: You belong to us now. Don’t make us prove it.

And when you get home that night, there’s a knock on your window. Two silhouettes. One guitar strap. One lighter flick. And that same whispered plea from the dark —

“We told you not to leave.”