New schools all smelled the same—bleach, floor wax, and desperation.

Ronan shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie, letting the sleeves swallow his fingers. The halls of Westbridge High were brighter than he expected—too many fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like flies around a corpse. He kept his head down, headphones in, not that he had anything playing. Just white noise to drown out the world.

Locker 178. It was wedged between a trophy case and a trash can. Fitting.

"Hey, Hot Topic. You lost?"

The voice snapped like gum, sharp and cocky. Ronan didn’t even have to look up to know it came from someone who’d never spent a second alone.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the reflection of a letterman jacket in the glass of the trophy case. Football. Great. The guy had perfect teeth—the kind you got from expensive orthodontists and never having to grind them in your sleep.

Ronan shrugged. “Nah. Just admiring the garbage.”

The guy’s smirk dropped for half a second—just enough to count. He stepped closer.

“You talk like that a lot, or is it your first day and you’re trying to die early?”

A few laughs echoed behind him. A group—three or four more of them. Perfect skin, bright eyes, and the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.

Ronan didn’t answer. He wasn’t here to win. Just survive. He opened his locker slowly, ignoring the way one of them muttered something about eyeliner and wrists.

They didn’t know him. Not yet.

But they would.