The school felt normal the next morning — painfully, suspiciously normal.
The hallways buzzed with the usual chatter. Groups of girls compared nail polish and gossip. Boys shoved each other playfully while pretending not to care about exams. Teachers carried stacks of papers and sighed dramatically at the thought of another Monday.
Everything looked ordinary.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because inside Susan's mind, nothing was ordinary anymore.
She could still see the picture Dexter had shown her — the photo taken from across the street, of her house, at night. The porch light was on. The curtains in the living room were open just enough to show shadows moving inside. Someone had been there. Someone close enough to watch. Someone who wanted her to know she had been watched.
And Dexter had shown it to her like it was a casual joke.
He had smiled. Calm. Controlled. Amused.
And she had smiled back, pretending she wasn't terrified.
So now, sitting at her desk in first period, she tried to breathe like everyone else, speak like everyone else, be normal like everyone else — even though normal felt like a lie gripping her throat.
Then something unexpected happened.
During second period, the classroom door opened and the principal walked in, beaming.
"Everyone, we have a new student joining us today. Please welcome Aria Lennox."
The class perked up instantly — new students were entertainment.
Aria walked in, but the room shifted in her presence like she carried her own atmosphere. She didn't look shy or nervous or eager to impress. She moved with a slow, deliberate elegance, like someone who had already measured the room and decided she was above it.
But the unsettling part wasn't her entrance.
It was her reaction the moment her eyes found Mr. Dexter.
Her gaze didn't flutter away politely like everyone else's. She stared at him directly, boldly — with familiarity, not attraction. Almost like she was identifying a threat.
Dexter froze.
Barely half a second, so quick it could have been imagined. But it wasn't imagined. Susan had memorized every microexpression of his. And that pause — that tiny, involuntary fracture in his composure — meant something.
Then the professional smile returned, and he gestured toward the desks.
"There are plenty of empty seats, Aria. Take whichever you'd like."
There were several near the girls, a few near the windows, some in the back where the troublemakers sat. Any normal new student would have chosen safety — numbers, comfort, distance.
Aria didn't.
She walked past every empty desk and stopped at the front — at the one closest to the teacher's desk. The one nearly brushing Dexter's chair.
A collective ripple of whispers spread through the class.
But none of that mattered to Susan. What mattered was the look on Aria's face — not admiration, not nervousness, not eagerness.
She wasn't looking at Dexter like a crush.
She was looking at him like an opponent.
Dexter continued teaching as if nothing had shifted. His voice steady, his writing sharp, his body language precise. But something was wrong. He walked around the room as he always did, explaining the text, leaning over desks to help students…
But not Aria's.
He didn't go near her. Not once.
Susan's heart pounded in her throat as she watched Aria lean forward just slightly, pretending to write something in her notebook. She didn't look up, didn't raise her hand, didn't break character as a student.
But she spoke — barely above a whisper, only loud enough for Dexter to hear.
"It's been a long time."
The sound cut through the room like a thread snapping.
Dexter didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't react.
But the pen in his hand slipped and rolled across his desk.
A detail so small most of the class didn't even notice. But for a man who never slipped — who never let anything fall or falter — it was seismic.
---
Scene 2:
At lunch, Emily tore into her sandwich and shook her head dramatically.
"That new girl acts like she owns the school already. Did you see the way she talks to teachers? Someone needs to humble her."
Susan didn't respond — because her eyes were fixed on something across the cafeteria.
Aria wasn't eating.
Aria wasn't talking.
Aria wasn't even pretending to blend in.
She sat alone at a corner table — posture perfect, hands resting calmly, gaze locked on Mr. Dexter across the hall as if she were waiting for him to slip again.
And Dexter — pretending not to notice — kept glancing toward the glass that reflected her.
They weren't strangers.
But they weren't friends either.
They looked like two people who shared a past neither wanted revealed.
---
After school, Susan stayed behind in the classroom to pack her bag. The room was quiet, almost peaceful, sunlight spreading across the desks in soft gold.
She didn't even realize she was alone until she closed her locker.
Aria was standing right behind her.
No footsteps. No warning. No smile.
"You're close to him."
Not a question. A statement. A verdict.
Susan's throat dried. "Not really."
Aria tilted her head slightly, examining her expression like she could pull truth out of the pores of her skin.
"Mr. Dexter likes students who don't ask questions."
The tone wasn't jealous. It wasn't possessive. It wasn't protective.
It was… experienced.
Like she had spoken the sentence before. More than once.
Susan tried to form a reply, but her voice wouldn't come. Aria continued.
"Do yourself a favor. Watch how he treats the girls he really notices… and how suddenly they disappear from his life."
She didn't blink. She didn't change expression. She didn't wait for a response.
She delivered the warning — or threat — and walked away.
The door closed behind her with a soft click that rang like a gunshot.
---
That night, Susan sat at her desk, textbooks open but unread. The numbers and words blurred together. Her brain replayed every moment from the day like a scratched record.
'Aria's stare.'
'The pen dropping.'
Something was happening — something bigger than her — and she was caught in the middle without knowing why.
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
From Mr. Dexter.
Did anything unusual happen today?
Her breath stopped.
Before she could type a reply, another message arrived.
If someone approached you, tell me exactly what she said.
Her fingers went numb.
He didn't mention Aria's name.
But he already knew.
A minute of silence passed — so heavy she could feel it pressing against her ribs.
Then a final message appeared.
I want to protect you, Susan. But I need you to trust only me.
Her hands shook. Not because the message was threatening — but because it sounded almost gentle.
And that made it worse.
Because she didn't know if Dexter was warning her…
or concerned for her.
And she didn't know which possibility frightened her more.