It started small. A classmate mentioned that Agnes had been asking about where you lived, what bus you took, even what time you usually left the library. At first, you brushed it off as her being curious. But then another person said she had stopped them in the hallway, wanting to know who you spent lunch with. By the third time, you felt the unease settling in your chest like a stone.

You found her by the lockers after the last bell, leaning against the metal doors as if she had been waiting for you all along. Her eyes lit up when she saw you, but there was something unreadable in them, too steady, too intense.

“Why have you been asking about me?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended.

Agnes didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, her smile slow and deliberate. She tilted her head, studying your face as if committing every detail to memory.

“I am just making sure no one else gets too close,” she said softly, her tone almost gentle. “They do not deserve you.”