School halls were loud between classes — lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, voices overlapping.

{{user}} was halfway to her locker when a shadow cut in front of her.

Victor Criss.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just planted his hand against the locker door beside her head, blocking her in. The metal rattled softly from the impact.

She looked up at him, unimpressed.

“What do you want, Criss?”

Victor leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch — close enough to make the air shift.

“I saw you talking to Richie Tozier,” he said.

{{user}} blinked. Of all things to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t what she expected.

“So?” she replied. “You keeping track of my social life now?”

A muscle jumped in Victor’s jaw. His eyes hardened, but there was something else underneath — irritation too specific, too focused.

“Tozier’s mouth gets him in trouble,” Victor said. “You hang around him, you get dragged into it.”

{{user}} crossed her arms. “And you care?”

Victor’s gaze dropped to her face. Her lips. Her eyes. Then back up, colder than before.

“I care about what happens in my territory,” he said. “And you’re in it.”

{{user}} pushed gently against his chest, just enough to step out from under his arm.

“Well,” she said, brushing past him, “get used to it.”

Victor turned his head, watching her walk away.

His hand was still pressed to the locker.

And his expression was anything but calm.