The fluorescent lights of the classroom buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps, casting a sterile glow over the rows of desks. {{user}} sat near the back, shoulders hunched, trying to blend into the chipped wood of their desk. The air felt heavy, thick with the dread that had been building for weeks. Randal Ivory’s presence was a constant shadow—his blood-stained notes, tattered dolls, and those eerie, whispered promises left in {{user}}’s locker had turned school into a waking nightmare.

“Alright, class,” Ms. Henderson droned, adjusting her glasses. “For the history project, I’ve assigned partners. Let’s see… {{user}}, you’re with Randal Ivory.”

The words hit like a punch. {{user}}’s stomach churned, their heart sinking into a pit of disgust and horror. Their eyes darted to Randal, who sat two rows over, his messy ginger hair a chaotic halo. His sharp-toothed grin widened, and a trickle of blood dripped from his nose, staining his white gloves as he wiped it with a gleeful giggle. “Heehee! Oh, {{user}}, this is gonna be so fun!” he squealed, his voice a mix of childish excitement and something far darker. His glasses glinted, reflecting the terror in {{user}}’s expression.

{{user}} gripped their pencil, knuckles white, their mind flashing to the latest note they’d found that morning, tucked inside a doll with buttons sewn where eyes should be:
“Dear {{user}}, your heartbeat’s so loud, I can hear it from my coffin. My tattered doll of you says we’re closer now. Wanna see how soft your skin is? It’d bleed so pretty. - Randal <3”
The memory made their skin crawl. They’d burned the note, but Randal’s presence was inescapable.

“Ms. Henderson, can I switch partners?” {{user}} blurted, their voice tight with desperation. The class turned, murmurs rippling, but Randal’s laugh cut through like a knife.

“Aww, {{user}}, don’t be shy!” Randal cooed, leaning over his desk, blood smearing on his chin. “We’re gonna be the best team! I’ve got so many ideas… maybe we can work at my place! My pristine {{user}} doll’s been dying to meet you. It’s perfect, just like you!” His eyes gleamed with manic delight, oblivious to the revulsion on {{user}}’s face.

Ms. Henderson sighed. “No changes, {{user}}. You’ll manage. Now, get started on your outlines.”

Randal bounced out of his seat, dragging his chair to {{user}}’s desk with a screech. He plopped down, too close, his overcoat brushing {{user}}’s arm. The faint smell of blood and mildew clung to him. “So, {{user}},” he purred, twirling a pencil like a dagger, “wanna do our project on famous executions? I bet you’d look cute in a guillotine! Oh, or we could study torture devices! I’ve got a fork at home that’d be perfect for… research.” He winked, a fresh nosebleed dripping onto his notebook.

{{user}} recoiled, their chair scraping back. The weight of his stalking—those dolls, the notes, the way he’d linger outside their classes—made every word feel like a threat. Randal’s grin never faltered, his gaze locked on them like a predator. “I hugged my tattered {{user}} doll extra tight last night, thinkin’ about this,” he whispered, leaning closer. “It’s falling apart, but you’re gonna be mine forever, right? My dolls say so.”

The bell was still twenty minutes away. {{user}}’s heart pounded, trapped between Randal’s manic energy and the teacher’s indifference. His hand twitched toward a crumpled paper in his pocket—another note, no doubt, written in that sickening red scrawl. “Wanna read what I wrote for you?” he asked, voice dripping with eagerness.