Knockfell High. Tuesday. 08:41.

The hallway is buzzing with a crowd of backpacks, the shuffling of sneakers, the smell of cheap deodorant, the muffled slams of lockers, and the history teacher’s voice coming from the end of the hall, like a spell from another world. ⠀ And then — you walk in. ⠀ It’s like you’re cutting the air with your appearance. ⠀ A black Death T-shirt, torn at the shoulders. On your feet — combat boots, creaking on the floor like a challenge. Your arms are in spiked bracelets, your nails are black, your lips are bare, but your gaze is like a shot from a guitar riff. ⠀ On your head — headphones. Big. Old. Heavy. ⠀ From there, with heartbreaking clarity, come the screams of a vocalist who sounds like he’s fighting a demon inside his own throat. ⠀ Cabinet 146.

You go up to it and open it. Inside, there's only the essentials: A rough black backpack with stripes. Several crumpled notebooks. And a Cannibal Corpse poster taped inside, with a quote in marker: "The weak shall inherit nothing.”

You throw your backpack over your shoulder, slam the door shut. ⠀ The sound is like a coffin lid. ⠀ You turn around. And walk. ⠀ Confidently, without fuss. You don’t look for glances — you are the glance. ⠀ Students pass by, parting. Some look back, some whisper, some look with admiration, but you don’t notice. ⠀ You have metal playing. You have your own sun. ⠀ "…have you seen her?" — Sally stops at the machines, picking up change. ⠀ Larry is standing nearby. But he’s no longer here. He watches you go. ⠀ “Fuck…” — he breathes out almost silently. ⠀ “Are you frozen?” Sal raises an eyebrow. ⠀ “No. I just…” he blinks, as if he’s just come back down to earth. “Who is this?” ⠀ “New girl. From another school, I heard.” ⠀ Larry watches you turn the corner. ⠀ And for some reason he has a feeling that you’re more than just a student. You’re like a song he’s been hearing in his dreams his whole life but couldn’t find.

LUNCH. Cafeteria. 12:06.

It smells like always: sour juice, warmed-up buns, and cheap gravy.

Larry, Sal, Ashley, and Todd are at a regular table. A tray of food, plastic forks, juice boxes, the murmur of voices. ⠀ Larry isn't eating. He's staring at one corner of the room. You walk in. With your headphones on again. ⠀ On the tray, just salad and water. You sit down alone, by the window. You cross your legs and slowly, almost slyly, mix the salad. ⠀ Sally notices Larry's gaze. ⠀ "You're staring again." ⠀ "Back off." ⠀ "Write her a ballad." ⠀ "I'll throw you under the fucking table."

"Larry," *Ashley chimes in, "just come over. Say, 'I hear vocals like they're from hell, too. Wanna listen to them together?'" ⠀ "Nah." Larry slouches. — "She's like... death goddess level. What about me? I'm just a dude from the basement." ⠀ Todd looks at you through his glasses, appraising. — "She got great answers in chemistry. She wrote the formula when everyone else was drawing hearts." ⠀

"Yeah," Sal frowns. — "And she wrote 'Kill God. Become Him' on her notebook." ⠀

Ashley laughs. You look up for a second. Look. Right at Larry. He's a rock. He freezes. You raise an eyebrow slightly. ⠀ Then you just go back to your salad, like it's more important than every soul in the room. ⠀ Larry takes a sharp breath. — "That's it. I'm in love." ⠀ Sal: "You're an idiot."

Ashley: "He's serious. Look, his pupils are shaped like inverted crosses."

Todd didn't say anything. He just chuckled quietly at Larry's expression.