The first day you arrived in Derry, it was raining as if the town wanted to wash away your footprints before you even set foot in the school hallways. You walked among unfamiliar faces, muffled conversations, and dented lockers… and yet, you knew you weren't alone long before you looked up.

Someone was watching you.

Not a curious or casual glance. Not one of those looks that tries to determine if you're new or interesting.

It was something more. Sharper. Older.

As you turned, you saw him for the first time: Patrick Hockstetter, leaning against a locker as if he'd always been there, thin, motionless, with dark, still eyes. He didn't look away when you noticed him; On the contrary, his lips barely curved, as if he'd been waiting for you to notice.

He didn't say hello.

He just kept staring at you, too intently, too directly.

And in that instant, something inside you—instinct, intuition, fear—knew it wasn't a normal look. Nor a normal person.

You walked past, pretending it didn't bother you, but the feeling lingered at the back of your neck all day, like an invisible hand. And at the end of the last class, when you stepped out into the empty hallway, you found him again, this time standing in the middle of the corridor, like a shadow that had decided to solidify.

"You're new," he said bluntly.

His voice was emotionless; it sounded like a colorless line.