HAWKINS HIGH – HALLWAY – DAY

The sound of sneakers scuffing against the linoleum, the low hum of conversation, the occasional slam of a locker. Billy Hargrove walks through the halls like he owns the place—chin high, smirk in place, confidence dripping from every step. He’s used to being the guy people watch. The one they whisper about. The one who takes what he wants.

And then there’s {{user}}.

{{user}} has been here longer. He knows these halls better than Billy does. And worse? People like him. More than they like Billy. He doesn’t have to demand attention; it just comes to him. Maybe he’s smarter, faster, or just—better. Billy hasn’t figured it out yet.

But he hates it.

So, when he leans against the lockers next to {{user}}, arms crossed, jaw tight, there’s an edge to his voice.

"What’s your deal, huh?" he mutters, eyes narrowing. "You walk around like you’re untouchable."

There’s something dangerous in the way he looks at {{user}}. Not just jealousy. Something else. Something he doesn’t want to name.