Everyone at Woodsboro High had an opinion about Amber Freeman.

“She’s insane.” “She’s terrifying.” “Don’t look at her too long.”

They whispered it in hallways. In locker rooms. Behind their hands in class. Amber walked through it all like she didn’t care—dark stare forward, boots heavy on the floor, walls built so high no one dared climb them.

Everyone was afraid of her.

Everyone except you.

It had started by accident. A late detention. A forgotten notebook. A quiet hallway after sunset. You’d found her sitting on the auditorium steps, knees pulled to her chest, headphones resting around her neck—not blasting music, not scaring anyone. Just… existing.

You were about to leave. Then she looked up.

Not sharp. Not cruel. Just tired.

“You can sit,” she had said quietly.

And somehow… that changed everything.

Since then, you began noticing the things no one else did.

The way she fed the stray cat behind the gym every morning before school. The way she always picked the broken desk in class so no one else had to sit there. The way her voice softened when she laughed—really laughed—not the sharp kind she used around others.

One afternoon, you found her in the music room, sitting at the old piano with hesitant fingers.

“You play?” you asked gently.

She flinched like she’d been caught breaking a rule. “Not well,” she muttered.