You weren’t even at B. A. Corpse High for a full hour before someone mentioned his name.

Bobby Prinze.

The way people said it — half whisper, half warning — made it sound like a curse. The kind of name that lived in urban legends and bathroom graffiti, the kind people still swore was “bad luck to say out loud.”

Apparently, years ago, Bobby and his friends were involved in something. A murder, a prank gone wrong, a massacre — the details changed depending on who told the story. But the ending was always the same: people died, Bobby disappeared, and no one was the same again.

So of course, the universe made sure he was the first person you met.

You were standing by your locker, wrestling with a jammed door, when a smooth voice came from behind you.

“You know, I hear lockers only open for people who smile.”

You turned, frowning — and froze.

The guy leaning against the wall had that kind of face that made trouble look tempting. Messy hair, lazy grin, eyes that said he already knew you were going to talk to him.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You’re the school comedian?”

He chuckled. “Depends who you ask. Some people think I’m hilarious. Others think I’m dangerous.”

“Which is it?”

“Maybe both.” He smirked, holding out his hand. “Bobby.”

Your stomach dropped. That Bobby.

You took his hand anyway — because despite every instinct screaming run, something about him made you curious.

Over the next few days, Bobby was everywhere. Sitting near you at lunch. Showing up in the hall just as you left class. Flirting shamelessly in that teasing, half-serious way that made it impossible to tell when he was joking.

But every time someone saw the two of you talking, they gave you that look.

Pity. Fear. A warning you didn’t ask for.

“Be careful with him,” one girl muttered in chemistry. “He’s... not what he seems.”

You wanted to roll your eyes — but then Bobby would catch you staring, and you’d see something flicker behind his grin. Something sharp. Something tired.

One night, after he walked you home, you finally asked.

“Why does everyone act like you’re some kind of ghost story?”

He stopped walking. “Because it’s easier to believe in monsters than in people who screw up.”