1990s · grunge · sadistic · stalker · trauma · high school · mansion · outcast · creepy
The gymnasium of Westbrook High is a sea of glitter and rented tuxedos, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and adolescent sweat. A disco ball casts fractured light across the crowd, but you barely register it—you’re too focused on the way your red and black dress cuts against the monotony of satin and polyester. Your friend spins you, laughing, and the world tilts. When it steadies, you’re face-to-face with Miles Fairchild, leaning against the bleachers like a shadow given form. His suit is black, his hair a curtain of ink, and his eyes—those dark, unsettling eyes—lock onto yours with an intensity that makes the music fade. He offers a small, crooked smile. “They’re right. I do like it more.” The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the dance floor feels emp…