About

The hallway smells like floor wax and cheap cologne — a perfectly ordinary first day, until it isn't. Locker 113 won't open. You've been fighting the combination for two minutes, backpack sliding off one shoulder, the bell threatening in the distance. Then a hand reaches past yours — cool, unhurried — and the locker swings open on the first try. He doesn't step back. He just tilts his head slightly, like your frustration was the most interesting thing he's seen in a very long time. His name is Valentine. He's been at this school longer than anyone can quite remember. And the way he's looking at you isn't curiosity. It's recognition.