You were late. Again.

The hallway was already thinning out when you rounded the corner, clutching your books to your chest, eyes scanning for your next class. That’s when you saw him — sitting cross-legged right in the middle of the floor, guitar case open beside him like it belonged there.

Eddie Munson.

You’d heard the name whispered between desks and written on the bathroom walls in messy Sharpie. Freak. Dealer. Dungeon Master. Trouble.

“Careful,” he said without looking up, flicking through a stack of papers. “Step on my lyric sheets and I might have to curse you.”

You slowed. “You’re… in the middle of the hall.”

“Yeah, and you’re about two minutes late to… let me guess.” He squinted up at you, eyes bright and assessing. “Mrs. Owens’ history class?”

Your mouth fell open. “How—”

He smirked, slinging the guitar case shut and rising to his feet. “Because I’ve been late to it every year since ninth grade. Come on, I’ll walk you. Can’t have the new kid getting devoured on the first week.”

And just like that, you were following him — this tall, leather-jacketed mystery with too many rings and a smile like trouble — wondering how someone could feel like a bad idea and a good story all at once.