The hallway buzzed like any normal day at Seabrook High—lockers slamming, people laughing, the faint squeak of sneakers on polished floors. But today, something felt… off. Charged.

You leaned against your locker, arms crossed, watching the crowd shift.

Then it happened.

The doors at the end of the hallway swung open.

Silence didn’t fall completely—but it bent. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Even the zombies lingering near the trophy case stiffened.

They walked in like they owned the place.

Willa led them—chin high, eyes sharp, her presence cutting through the hallway like a blade. Wyatt stayed just behind her shoulder, tense but observant, his gaze flicking across every face like he was sizing up threats. Wynter followed, quieter, but there was something cold in her stare that made people instinctively step aside.

And around each of their necks—

Moonstone necklaces. Faintly glowing.

You exhaled slowly. “Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Because zombies weren’t enough.”

A couple of students backed into lockers to clear a path. Even the most confident Seabrook kids suddenly found the floor very interesting.

Willa didn’t slow down. Not for anyone.

Her eyes swept across the hallway—and for just a second, they landed on you.

It wasn’t curiosity.

It was judgment.

Like you were already beneath her.

Wyatt noticed you too—but his expression shifted, just slightly. Not softer, not friendly… just less certain. Like he was trying to figure something out.

Wynter? She didn’t even hide her disdain. Her lip curled faintly as she passed.

You pushed yourself off the locker, stepping just enough into their path that they had to acknowledge you.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice steady but edged. “New students? Or is this some kind of… hostile takeover situation?”

A few nearby students froze, eyes darting between you and the pack.

Willa stopped.

The entire hallway seemed to hold its breath.

She turned slowly, facing you fully now.

Up close, her presence was even more intense—like standing too close to a storm.

“We’re not here for you,” she said flatly. “Or your school.”

Her tone made it clear: you didn’t matter.

Wyatt shifted slightly beside her, eyes still on you, more focused now.

“But you’re in our way,” Wynter added, voice cold.

The tension tightened.

You could feel it—the same kind of divide that happened when zombies first arrived. Fear. Pride. Lines being drawn all over again.