The hallway swallowed me whole, buzzing with voices and slamming lockers. I kept my head down, moving through the crowd like a shadow. No one looked at me; no one called my name. It was like I didn't exist here.
I tightened my grip on my backpack strap, the silver cross pressing against my palm. The secret burned in my pocket, but around me, life was normal—kids laughing, swapping books, shouting across the hall.
Then I heard it. A sharp laugh, cruel and loud.
Up ahead, a group of guys had cornered someone against the lockers. He was tall and awkward, with dark hair that stuck up like he'd lost a fight with a comb. His clothes were plain, but his eyes darted nervously as the bullies shoved him.
"C'mon, Harris," one of them sneered, pressing a hand against his chest. "Got anything smart to say today?"
The boy tried to smile, but it faltered. "Just… trying to get to class," he muttered.
The bullies laughed, one of them knocking his books to the floor. Pages scattered across the hallway, trampled by passing sneakers.
The boy bent down, scrambling to pick up his books. The bullies shoved him again, laughing louder.
I froze, watching. I need to step in. As I took a step forward, a hand caught my shoulder from behind. I turned to see.
As I turned, the girl's smirk hit me first. Perfect hair, perfect posture, and a confidence that filled the hallway like she owned it.
"Cordelia," she said, like the name alone should explain everything.
I blinked. "Uh… hi?"
She gave me a once-over, eyes narrowing slightly. "New kid, right? Figures. You've got that lost puppy look. Word of advice—don't waste your time playing hero. Harris is basically a magnet for humiliation. It's his thing."
I glanced back at the boy still gathering his books, cheeks flushed red. My fists unclenched, but my chest tightened.
Cordelia flipped her hair, unimpressed. "Seriously, you'll thank me later. Getting involved with him? Social suicide. And trust me."
Her tone was sharp, but there was something underneath it—like she'd seen this scene too many times and decided it wasn't worth caring anymore.
Cordelia tilted her head, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle. "You really were about to jump in, weren't you? Cute. Totally misguided, but cute. What class do you have"
"biology, and I'm late."
"I will show you the way," she said.
She started walking, heels clicking against the tile. Without thinking, I fell into step beside her.
"So… you're Cordelia?" I asked, still trying to catch up with her pace.
She smirked. "Obviously. Cordelia Chase. You'll figure out pretty fast that I'm the one people listen to around here. Teachers, students, and even the janitor. Everyone knows better than to ignore me."
I nodded, unsure what else to say.
She glanced sideways at me, eyes sharp. "You're Damien, right? New kid from… wherever."
"How did you know my name?"
"That does not matter. Just don't make the mistake of hanging out with the wrong crowd. Harris, Willow, Buffy—ugh. They're all social disasters waiting to happen."
The name hit me like a jolt. Buffy.
I tried to keep my face neutral, but Cordelia caught the flicker in my eyes. "What? You've met her already?"
I hesitated. "Kind of."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Figures. She's got that whole mysterious transfer-student vibe, but trust me, she's trouble. You want to survive Sunnydale High? Stick with me. I'll make sure you don't end up eating lunch alone."
We turned a corner, the hallway narrowing as students rushed past. Cordelia walked like she owned the place, weaving through the crowd without ever slowing down.
Cordelia slowed her stride just enough to glance at me, her smirk curling like she was about to drop a bomb.
"You know," she said, lowering her voice but not enough to hide it from anyone nearby, "you're lucky you didn't get here last semester."
I frowned. "Why?"
She flipped her hair, savoring the moment. "Because the last biology teacher? I found him in the kitchen… with his head missing."
The words hit me like ice water. I stopped walking, staring at her. "Missing?"
Cordelia rolled her eyes, like I was being dramatic. "Relax. It's Sunnydale. Weird stuff happens. People vanish, teachers get… decapitated. The school board pretends it's all 'tragic accidents.'" She air-quoted the words with perfect disdain.
My grip tightened on my backpack strap, the silver cross pressing into my palm. "And everyone's just… okay with that?"
Cordelia smirked. "Please. High school is brutal enough without worrying about headless teachers. You either laugh it off or you end up like Harris—crying over spilled books while the rest of us move on."
Her heels clicked against the tile as she strode ahead, leaving me frozen in the hallway, the buzz of voices suddenly sharper, crueler.
I swallowed hard. Vampires, red eyes, Buffy, and now Cordelia casually tossing out decapitation like it was cafeteria gossip.
Sunnydale wasn't just dangerous. It was normalizing the danger.
"Here's your first class," she said, stopping at a door and pointing. "Try not to embarrass yourself. And remember—high school is all about survival. Social survival."
She gave me one last smirk before striding off, her hair bouncing perfectly behind her.
The classroom door creaked as I pushed it open. The air inside was cooler, heavy with chalk dust and the faint tang of disinfectant. Students were already in their seats, voices low, notebooks open.
At the front stood Miss French, her smile polished, her posture perfect. She turned as I entered, eyes locking on me with that same deliberate stare she'd worn on our porch.
"Class," she said smoothly, her voice velvet and sharp, "We have a new student. Damien. And his late"
Every head turned. My stomach twisted.
I caught sight of Buffy and a redheaded girl near the middle row—Buffy leaning back with casual defiance, the redhead sitting straighter, her smile small but kind. Relief flickered through me. At least I wasn't walking into this alone.
Miss French's gaze lingered on me, too long, too steady. "Damien, why don't you take the seat behind Buffy and Willow?"
I nodded quickly, moving through the rows. Buffy tilted her head just enough to smirk at me as I slid into the seat. The redhead glanced back, offering a shy smile and a hand. "I'm Willow."
"I'm Damien," grabbing her hand.
"Quiet," Miss French said, turning back to the chalkboard. "Today's lesson," she said, "is about predators. How they hunt. How they survive." Her words were heavy, too sharp for a simple biology lecture.
Buffy muttered under her breath, pencil tapping against her desk. "Figures. Predators. She's practically auditioning for the role."
Willow shot her a look, whispering, "Buffy…" but her lips curved into a nervous grin.
Miss French's voice dripped like honey over glass. "Predators," she said, chalk squealing against the board. "They stalk. They wait. They strike when the prey is weakest."
Her eyes flicked toward me as she spoke, and for a second, I swore she wasn't teaching—she was remembering.
I shifted in my seat, the silver cross burning against my palm inside my pocket. Buffy did not turn toward me, tapping her pencil like she was bored. Did she forget me? Willow scribbled notes furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Miss French's voice cut through the room, velvet and sharp. "Buffy Summers. Do you have something to share with the class?"
Buffy tilted her head, all casual defiance. "Just agreeing with you. Predators are sneaky. You never know when they're sitting at the front of the room."
The class chuckled nervously. Miss French's smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
Willow nudged Buffy's arm, whispering, "Careful…"
After 30 minutes or so The bell rang, chairs scraped, and students scattered. Buffy stood first, Willow right behind her, already halfway to the door.
I started to rise too, but Miss French's voice cut through the noise, velvet and sharp.
"Damien."
Her eyes locked on me, polished smile fixed like a mask. "Tomorrow, we'll discuss how predators feed. I expect you to pay close attention."
The words weren't just instruction—they were a warning.
I froze, caught in her stare. My throat tightened. "Yes, ma'am," I managed, the words tasting like ash.
By the time I shoved my notebook into my bag and looked up, Buffy and Willow were gone. The doorway was empty, the hallway already buzzing with voices.
My chest tightened. The silver cross burned in my pocket, heavy and urgent. I'd meant to give it to her, to put it in her hands where it belonged. But Miss French's gaze had pinned me in place, and now the chance was gone.
I hurried out, scanning the hall, "Buffy!" I called.
She turned, eyebrows raised, already halfway down the hall. Willow glanced back too, curious.
I jogged up.
"Lo ki Loki, the frightening boy from Erayler, turned out to be one of my classmates."
fumbling in my pocket. "Here. You should take this." The cross gleamed as I pulltit it into from my poket.
Buffy looked at it, then back at me, her smirk fading into something sharper. "You found it?"
I nodded, breathless. "Found it after… after the cemetery."
Her fingers closed around the cross, knuckles white. For a moment, her confidence cracked, and I saw something else in her eyes—recognition. Fear. Resolve. Buffy slipped the cross into her jacket pocket, her smirk returning like armor.
Willow's voice was soft, but it carried. "You two… you know each other."
Buffy didn't answer right away. She just kept walking, her leather jacket brushing against desks as she moved. Finally, she tossed a glance over her shoulder.
"Let's just say… we've crossed paths."
Willow's eyes widened, curiosity sparking. "Crossed paths? Where?"
I tightened my grip on my backpack strap, For the first time all day, I felt lighter. The weight was gone from my pocket, and with it, the gnawing dread that had followed me since the cemetery.
I'd done something right. I'd given Her something she needed. The thought made me smile, faint but real. My chest loosened, my steps steadier.
But then I felt it.
A prickle at the back of my neck, like eyes boring into me.
I turned, scanning the crowd. Students rushed past, laughing, shouting, slamming lockers. Normal chaos. But beyond them, at the far end of the hall, Miss French stood perfectly still.
Her polished smile was fixed, her posture flawless. But her eyes—her eyes were locked on me, deliberate and unblinking.
The relief in my chest curdled into ice. The predator's stare pinned me in place, reminding me that the danger wasn't gone.