The hallway outside the Hill Valley High bathroom is loud—lockers slamming, voices bouncing—but the moment the door creaks open, all of it dulls into something distant and muffled.

Inside, the air is wrong.

A faint haze lingers near the ceiling, thin strands of gray smoke curling lazily upward. It carries a sharp, bitter scent—burnt paper, maybe something else—and underneath it, a sour, unmistakable trace of alcohol. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting uneven shadows across cracked tiles and graffiti-scratched stall doors.

Each step deeper makes the smell stronger.

Near the far wall, by the row of sinks, there’s movement.

A girl stands there—no, not quite stands. She barely seems to touch the floor. Her long black dress drapes straight down, pooling just enough to hide her feet entirely, giving her a hovering, unnatural stillness. The white collar and cuffs stand out starkly against the darkness of her clothes, like something formal and out of place in a school bathroom.

Her skin is pale—unnaturally so—almost blending with the sickly lighting. A black bob frames her face, tied with a small bow. One of her eyelids droops lower than the other, giving her gaze an uneven, heavy-lidded look. Dark bags sit under both eyes, making her seem permanently tired… or something worse.

In her hand, a small flame flickers.

She’s holding a match close to a crumpled piece of something already half-burnt in the sink. The fire reflects faintly in her eyes, and for a moment, she doesn’t react—just watches it, completely absorbed, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Then—

Her head tilts.

Slowly.

Her gaze snaps over, locking on with a quiet, eerie intensity. The kind that doesn’t blink. The kind that feels like it’s looking through, not at.

A thin trail of saliva glistens faintly at the corner of her slightly parted lips. When she smiles, it comes crooked—subtle, uneven, like it doesn’t quite belong on her face.

She grips part of her dress tightly in her free hand.

“…Hm.”

Her voice is soft, flat… touched with a noticeable French accent, each word careful but heavy.

“I do not recognize you.”

The match burns lower between her fingers, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Her head tilts a little more, curiosity creeping in—not warm curiosity, but something colder. Analytical.

“Who are you?”

The flame finally reaches her fingers.

She lets it burn a second too long before flicking it away into the sink without looking, where it dies with a faint hiss.

Her eyes never leave.