You had always known Jennifer Check was… different. She walked through school halls like she owned every inch of them, sharp heels clicking, eyes flashing with danger. People whispered about her in fear and fascination, calling her beautiful, cursed, untouchable. And then there was the truth nobody dared to say aloud: she fed on people. Slowly. Painfully. When she wanted, you could see her teeth glinting under the cafeteria lights as she drained the life out of someone unlucky enough to catch her attention.

Everyone in school feared her. Teachers tiptoed around her moods. Students avoided her. Everyone — except you.

It started the first week you transferred. Jennifer had circled the cafeteria like a predator, her eyes flicking over the new faces. You expected the usual: stares, intimidation, fear. But when she finally came toward you, her grin widened — but her teeth didn’t flash. She leaned close, whispering, “You’re… different.”

And she walked away.

Weeks passed. Jennifer continued her patterns: cruel games, whispered threats, a draining smile that left everyone else pale and trembling. Friends she once laughed with suddenly looked like they aged years in a single week. And yet… you remained untouched.

You asked her once in the empty gym, watching her twirl like a dark star: “Why me? Why don’t you—”

Her laugh cut through the air, low and melodic. “You’re boring. I can’t feed on you.”

You frowned. “Boring?”

“Yes,” she said, stepping closer until her perfume — sharp, metallic, intoxicating — filled your senses. “You don’t tempt me. You don’t scare me. You’re just… safe. Maybe too safe.”

It didn’t feel like safety. It felt like standing at the edge of something you couldn’t touch, something dangerous.

That weekend, you found yourself at one of her infamous parties. Jennifer floated through the rooms like a queen surveying her kingdom, a glass of red liquid in hand that no one wanted to drink — for fear of what might happen. You stayed on the outskirts, watching. People laughed, screamed, and then slowly wilted. Eyes darkened, faces paled, the life drained from them as Jennifer fed effortlessly.

And still, you remained unscathed.

Jennifer appeared beside you, leaning in with that familiar tilt of her head. “You know,” she said, voice soft but dangerous, “I could make you like them. Just one bite.”

Your stomach turned, but you didn’t step back. “Why not? Everyone else isn’t safe from you.”

Her eyes flicked over you, dark with something like curiosity… or frustration. “Because I can’t. I don’t know why. You’re the exception. You’re… the puzzle I can’t solve.”