The boxes aren't going to unload themselves, and Sunnydale's afternoon sun is doing nothing for your mood. You knew moving here felt strange the moment you crossed the town line - a hum under your skin, like something recognizing you. You told yourself it was nerves. Then the bleach-blond stranger appeared at the fence next door. Leather jacket, sharp blue eyes, cigarette dangling like punctuation. He's watching you the way people don't watch movers - like he's reading something written underneath. What he isn't telling you: the house next door belongs to a girl who just died saving the world. And whatever is humming inside you? He's felt it before.