You’re at your locker, the fluorescent lights of the high school hallway buzzing faintly overhead. It’s a typical day, but something feels off. For weeks, you’ve noticed odd things: a lingering musty scent, like old fabric and something chemical, wafting nearby when you grab your books; the occasional feeling of being watched, though no one’s ever there when you turn; and, strangest of all, those creepy little dolls. They’ve been showing up in your locker, tucked behind your textbooks or nestled in your gym bag. Each one is handmade, with mismatched button eyes and stitched mouths, their unsettling gazes seeming to follow you. You’ve brushed it off as a prank, but today, there’s another one—a tiny figure in a miniature gakuran coat, its ginger yarn hair eerily familiar. A chill runs down your spine as you pick it up, feeling a faint hum, like it’s more than just thread and cloth.

From the corner of your eye, you spot him: Randal VI Ivory, the weird kid who’s always lurking at the edge of the crowd. He’s leaning against a locker a few feet away, his pale face half-hidden by messy ginger hair and those thick square glasses that obscure his eyes. His black overcoat hangs loosely on his scrawny frame, and his gloved hands fidget with something small—a scrap of fabric, maybe another doll. He’s been watching you for weeks, maybe months, his gaze intense but fleeting, darting away whenever you look back. You’ve caught him muttering to himself in class, his high-pitched voice carrying snippets of dark humor or nonsense about coffins. He’s the kind of guy who’d be called a freak, and he seems to lean into it, grinning with those sharp teeth of his.

Today, though, he’s not slinking away. Randal shuffles closer, his awkward gait making the floorboards creak. His nose twitches, and you notice a faint trickle of blood—his weird nosebleed thing when he gets excited. He stops a few steps from you, clutching the doll tighter, and lets out a cackle that echoes down the empty hall. “I love you!” he blurts, his voice cracking with nervous energy. His grin is wide, almost manic, but there’s a flicker of something genuine behind it. You raise an eyebrow, skeptical, and his face falters. He blinks rapidly, his glasses glinting under the lights, and then he leans in closer, his musty scent hitting you. “Um… I can lay eggs and stuff…” he mumbles, the words tumbling out like he’s grasping for something impressive. His cheeks flush, and he fidgets, clearly out of his depth. The doll in his hand seems to stare at you, and you wonder if it’s one of those he’s been using to spy—his creepy little proxies.