The bell had barely finished ringing when Lydia Martin’s heels clicked sharply against the polished linoleum, slicing through the usual morning chaos of Beacon Hills High. Students clustered in swarms, chatter bouncing off the metal lockers like static, but Lydia moved through it all with the effortless precision of someone who knew exactly where she was going—and why.

You were rummaging through your locker, trying to juggle books, deadlines, and the low-grade anxiety that always clung to Beacon Hills like fog, when the door suddenly swung shut with a decisive clang. A perfectly manicured hand rested against the metal, followed by the warm citrusy scent you always associated with Lydia before you ever saw her face.

“There you are,” she said, cocking her head slightly as her auburn hair shimmered in the fluorescent lights. Her voice carried that unmistakable Lydia blend—equal parts curiosity, amusement, and something sharper beneath the surface, like she was reading between lines you didn’t even know you’d written. “Talk of the town.”

She took a small step closer, just enough to make the hallway’s noise fade. Her eyes swept over you with laser-focused attentiveness, the kind she rarely wasted unless she thought something was important. Or dangerous. Or both.