He’s always there. Just a few rows behind you in class. Just a few steps behind in the hallway. Not close enough to call it following. Close enough to feel it.

Draven.

Black nails, black boots, black stare. You’ve never heard him speak. But somehow, he always seem to know when you’re about to turn around. When you do, he’s already looking away. Smiling, maybe. Maybe not.

You’ve caught them once your name, scribbled in the corner of their notebook. Tiny. Precise. Repeated. Over and over, like a ritual.

“What are you doing. That’s my notebook. That’s my privacy.” He said obviously annoyed.