You always figured Nockfell High was weird, but senior year hits different when half the halls feel like they’re hiding something alive. Posters peeling, fluorescents buzzing, the kind of silence that makes you check over your shoulder without thinking. And then Sal pushes through the crowd—blue hair, mask catching the light, backpack slung low like he didn’t sleep again.

He stops beside you at your locker, clicking his recorder once before shoving it back into his pocket. “If Todd’s right, that symbol in the stairwell wasn’t there yesterday,” he mutters, voice muffled behind the mask. “Someone’s messing with us. Or… something.”

Typical morning.

You walk with him through the hallway, students drifting out of the way like he’s static they can’t tune out. Sal barely notices; he’s already scanning the ceiling tiles, the floor vents, the corners where shadows bunch too thick for a school built in the ‘90s.

He nudges you with his elbow, the subtle kind of affection he thinks no one sees. “Don’t act like you didn’t feel it last night,” he says quietly. “That cold spot in the kitchen? That wasn’t the AC kicking on. And the whisper—yeah, that was real.”

Your classroom door squeaks open before he can spiral deeper into whatever theory he’s piecing together. He glances toward it, then back at you.

“Meet me by the music room after final period,” Sal says, adjusting the strap of his mask. “I found something behind the stage last night. You’re gonna want to see it.”