Chapter Text
(Y/n)'s POV
In the shadows at the back of the classroom, Patrick Hockstetter saw you-truly saw you-for the first time.
The corridors of Derry Middle School were forever steeped in chalk dust and the cheap smell of sweat. You had long grown accustomed to making yourself scarce, folding yourself into nothingness. Average grades, quiet as a mouse, no friends-in class, you were like a scrap of paper someone had forgotten in a corner, crumpled by anyone who bothered, glanced over by all.
It wasn't that you lacked the ability to shine. But your parents had always taught you to keep your head down, to stay modest. So you remained reserved, unassuming. You knew all about the Bowers gang's cruelty-Henry's unforgiving fists, Patrick's unsettling smile that made your skin crawl. You gave them a wide berth, praying you'd never get swept into their chaos.
Until that one afternoon during lunch break.
You were quietly organizing your notes when Alex, some guy from class, deliberately knocked your books to the floor on his way past. As if that weren't enough, he "accidentally" stepped on your notebook, then, loud enough for everyone to hear, started mocking you-calling you short, ugly, friendless, a ghost no one wanted.
But you weren't the type to just take it.
That day, something inside you snapped.
You shot up from your seat, grabbed your water bottle, and hurled it at him. In the stunned silence that followed, with tears burning in your eyes, you lunged at him before he could react, tackling him to the ground. You had no idea how to fight-you just swung your fists, one after another, slamming into his face, your voice cracking as you screamed back at him, drowning out the gasps and cheers of the crowd.
The classroom exploded into chaos.
No one noticed the kid in the back.
Patrick had been idly spinning a pen, his gaze lazily drifting over the noise. But when you snapped-when you fought back-his eyes stopped. Fixed. He tilted his head slightly, those pale blue eyes glinting with a strange, cold curiosity. His fingers stilled on the pen, and the faintest, most unsettling smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
The quiet little nobody who always shrank into corners, who barely seemed to breathe-turns out she had teeth.
He watched as they pulled you off. Watched as you wiped the tears from your face, trembling with rage but refusing to back down. Watched as you held your ground, defiant even in defeat.
He didn't look away.
Patrick liked to observe. He watched the light fade from his prey's eyes. He watched the fear flicker in the gazes of the bullied. But this-this was different.
From that moment on, you were no longer just another face in the crowd.
You became his new subject.
Between classes, in the hallways, brushing past him-you started to feel it. A gaze, faint but unmistakable, lingering on your back like a thin silk thread, brushing against the nape of your neck. Quiet. Persistent. And utterly, unnervingly focused.
Patrick Hockstetter was watching you.
Slowly, steadily, without pause.
Watching.
Since that day in the classroom when you clashed with Alex, you'd become conspicuously noticeable in some people's eyes—in this school in Derry, not being afraid was practically a sin.
You tried your best to blend into the crowd, automatically ignoring those fleeting, malicious glances. It seemed even fewer people wanted to hang out with you now, but at least you weren't getting bullied anymore.
But some gazes were impossible to avoid.
Like Patrick Hockstetter's.
He never yelled like Henry, nor did he ever crowd around and whoop it up like the other losers.
He was quiet, persistent, like he was observing a specimen, or slowly winding up a prey.
That kind of stare was more chilling than any threat.
Clutching the old, worn-out library books you'd just borrowed, running your fingers over their curled edges, you walked from the back door of the classroom to the corner of the hallway. Out of the corner of your eye, that boy was leaning against the wall at the far end of the corridor. His gaze, like a thin filament, wrapped around the nape of your neck again. You didn't need to turn around to picture his expression.
That thread was pulled too tight.
If it got any tighter, you'd suffocate.
Slowly, you turned around, pressing your back against the cold lockers, hugging your books to your chest. He wasn't far off, standing with Henry and Victor. They were laughing, shoving each other, but his eyes were fixed on you, unwavering.
You lifted your chin and met his gaze directly.
The smile faded from his face.
You curled your lips, throwing him a defiant grin—a smile of utter recklessness, like the day in the classroom when you'd splashed water in Alex's face.
He straightened up, pushed past the guys beside him, and walked towards you, step by step.
You didn't back down.
He stopped right in front of you, towering a head taller, his shadow completely engulfing you. His fingertips lightly brushed against your arm that was holding the books—ice-cold, like a reptile's touch.
"What are you smiling at?" His voice was soft, unreadable.
You evaded his unnatural touch and looked him in the eye. "I'm smiling," you paused, your voice steady, "because someone finally dared to look me in the eye."
His fingers hesitated for a moment. Then, he laughed. His eyes lit up. "Good."
With those two words, he turned and walked away, without giving you a second glance.
---
Patrick's POV
Life in Derry was always boring.
Henry's violence, Belch's stupidity, everyone else's fear... I'd grown tired of it all long ago. Standing in the hallway every day wasn't really about being part of the crowd; it was more like waiting to see if anything could possibly break through this stagnant puddle.
She was the only interesting thing to come along recently.
The way she'd fought back against Alex in the classroom that day—it wasn't like resistance, more like the outburst of someone who'd been holding back for too long and just didn't give a damn anymore. I'd taken a second look at her then. There was something different about her, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
After that, I just got used to watching her.
Watching her hug the walls as she walked, watching her leave the classroom as soon as class ended, watching her always go to the bathroom alone (okay, maybe that sounds a bit creepy).
I thought she'd just keep hiding forever.
Then, suddenly, she stopped and turned around.
Back against the lockers, chin up, staring straight at me.
The next second, she smiled.
It was a blatant challenge.
Like she was saying: Come on, then.
I pushed past Henry and walked towards her. She didn't move an inch.
I stood in front of her, my shadow blanketing her completely.
"What are you smiling at?"
"I'm smiling because someone finally dared to look me in the eye."
I was stunned for a moment.
No one had ever dared to talk to me like that.
Fear, disgust, fawning, numbness—I'd seen it all.
But never this. It was like...
I laughed. A genuine laugh, because I found it truly interesting.
"Good."
I turned and walked away.
I didn't need to look back to know she was watching me.
This time, the prey had walked right into the line of sight all on its own.
The Next Day:
You thought yesterday's confrontation in the hallway would at most earn you another mark in Patrick Hockstetter's book.
You thought he'd observe you like a newly discovered insect for a few more days, then get bored and move on to some other amusement.
You were wrong.
The moment the lunch bell rang, the classroom was still in chaos.
You kept your head down, organizing your notes, trying to shake off that ice-cold gaze from yesterday. Patrick lingered in your mind, impossible to shake. Actually, he was strikingly good-looking—if he weren't a total psychopath, he'd probably be a player. Wait, why am I even— (chaotic thoughts)
Until—
The noise from the last three rows suddenly dropped by half.
Footsteps, slow and unhurried, approached from the back door of the classroom.
In this class, who else could make them fall so cautious?
Your fingers, the ones holding the pen, paused almost imperceptibly.
I really hope this isn't as bad as I think.
Thank God—it was even worse than I imagined.
The footsteps stopped right next to your desk.
A shadow fell, covering half your notebook page.
Slowly, you looked up.
Patrick Hockstetter stood by your desk, one hand in his pocket, the other resting casually on the corner of your table, his fingertips tapping lightly against the wooden surface.
The room had gone completely silent.
Even breaths seemed careful and deliberate.
He looked at you, and spoke—his voice low, but exceptionally clear:
"I remember what you said yesterday."
Your fingers tightened, the pen scratching a faint line across the paper.
He leaned in slightly, close enough that the air itself seemed to freeze for a moment.
"From today on—"
He paused for half a second, a cold, intrigued glint flashing in his eyes.
"I'm going to 'look you in the eye' very, very carefully."