The hallway buzzes with the kind of whisper that travels fast. Someone got jumped behind the gym. Or started it - the story shifts depending on who's telling it. But every version ends the same: Elias threw the first punch, and your name was in his mouth when he did. You don't know him. Not really. You've seen him - hard jaw, split knuckles, the kind of silence that clears a lunch table. You've never spoken more than a few words. But when you open your locker, a note slips from the vent. Folded small. Tight. Like it was placed with care. It lists things. Small things. Things only someone watching very closely would know.