Evelyn’s Corridor of Time

Chapter 11: The New Kid’s StareUntitled Episode

The school hallway was a sweaty, buzzing hive, a chaotic artery pulsing with the lifeblood of Monday morning—lockers slamming like gunshots, sneakers squeaking on chipped linoleum, and the air thick with the sour tang of gym bags and cheap body spray. The walls were a patchwork of faded posters, peeling at the edges, screaming about last week’s bake sale and some long-dead pep rally, while fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow on the swarm of kids shoving past each other like ants on a sugar high. I stood at my locker, a rusted metal coffin scratched with a dozen old initials, my black leather jacket creaking as I yanked it open, the hinges groaning like they’d rather die than cooperate. My tight jeans hugged my thighs like a second skin, still streaked with faint ash from the courtyard fire, and my cropped tank top—black, ripped at the hem—rode up just enough to flash a sliver of stomach when I reached for my history book. My hair was a wild tangle, spilling over my shoulders, still carrying the faint smoky bite of last night’s victory, and I grinned, sharp and fearless, every bruise and scuff on me a badge of honor. I’d torched Maya and Liam’s empire, burned the pin’s curse to ash, and walked out of that dance a legend—Evelyn Parker, queen of the ashes, untouchable and unapologetic.

But the buzz wasn’t just about me anymore. Whispers slithered through the crowd, a low hum cutting through the chaos—“New guy’s hot,” “He’s staring at her,” “Who’s that dude?”—and I felt it before I saw him: a weight, a pull, like a storm cloud rolling in slow and heavy. I slammed my locker shut, the clang ringing out like a battle cry, and turned, my sneakers planting firm as my eyes locked on him—Noah Kane, the new kid, leaning against the wall ten feet away like he owned the damn place. His black leather jacket gleamed under the lights, slung open to show a tight gray tee clinging to a chest that looked carved from granite, and his jeans—dark, ripped, slung low—hugged legs that stretched out forever, one boot kicked up against the wall like he was daring gravity to try him. His dark hair flopped over one eye, a messy curtain framing a face that was all sharp angles and danger, and the other eye—green, piercing, glinting like a blade—pinned me where I stood, unblinking, unflinching, like he’d already sized me up and decided I was worth the hunt.

“Morning, legend,” he said, voice low and rough, sliding over the noise like oil on water, his lips twitching into a smirk that could’ve been a challenge or a promise—maybe both. He pushed off the wall, sauntering closer, his boots thudding soft but deliberate, and the air shifted, crackling with something electric as he stopped just close enough for me to catch the mint on his breath, sharp and cool, cutting through the hallway’s stink. “Heard you set the gym on fire—figuratively and damn near literally. That your thing, Parker? Burning s**t down?”

I tilted my chin up, meeting his stare dead-on, my grin sharpening like a switchblade. “Only when it deserves it,” I shot back, voice steady, my jacket creaking as I crossed my arms, leather brushing leather. “What’s your thing, Kane? Staring like a creep, or you got something to say?” My heart kicked up, a wild thump against my ribs, but I held my ground, every inch of me screaming bring it—because after last night, I wasn’t scared of shadows anymore, not even ones with eyes like his.

He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that sent a shiver racing down my spine, and stepped closer, his shadow falling over me, tall and lean and dangerous. “You smell like magic,” he said, low and deliberate, his gaze flicking over me—my scuffed sneakers, my ash-streaked jeans, the curve of my neck where sweat still lingered. “Not the cheap party-trick kind. Old magic. The kind that sticks to your bones.” His hand twitched, like he might reach out, but he didn’t—just stood there, close enough I could feel the heat rolling off him, his minty breath brushing my cheek as he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re trouble, Evelyn. And I like trouble.”

My breath hitched, a quick, sharp catch I couldn’t hide, and my skin prickled, heat flooding my face—damn it, I was blushing, red creeping up my cheeks like I’d just run a mile. I shoved it down, forcing a laugh, sharp and reckless. “Trouble’s my middle name, new guy,” I said, stepping into his space, my chest brushing his just enough to feel the hard plane of him, my jacket’s zipper snagging his shirt. “But you? You’re sniffing around like you know something. Spill it—or back off.”

His smirk widened, eyes glinting with something wild, and he didn’t budge—just held my gaze, green boring into me like he could see the chaos stitched into my soul. “I know you’re more than a dance-floor badass,” he said, voice a slow burn. “That light show last night? That wasn’t just rage. You’ve got a spark, Parker—something big. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” He pulled back, just a fraction, and the air rushed in, cold against my flushed skin, leaving me buzzing, half pissed, half hooked.

The bell screamed overhead, a shrill war cry scattering the crowd, but I didn’t move—neither did he. Kids shoved past, lockers banged, but it was just us, locked in this weird, electric standoff, my heart hammering like a war drum. “Gym, third period,” he said finally, turning away, his jacket swaying like a cape as he strode off, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t flake, legend. I wanna see what you’ve got.”

I watched him go, my pulse racing, a laugh bubbling up—half thrill, half warning. Who the hell was this guy? The hallway emptied, leaving me alone with the echo of his words—you smell like magic—and that damn text from last night: He knows more than he’s saying. Watch him. My grin faltered, then snapped back, fiercer. Watch him? Oh, I’d do more than that—I’d c***k him open, figure his game, and if he was trouble, I’d bury him deeper than Maya and Liam’s dignity.

Third period rolled around fast, the gym a sweaty cathedral of rubber mats and echoing shouts, the air heavy with the tang of sweat and the thud of dodgeballs slamming into walls. I stormed in, leather jacket swapped for a tight black tank and leggings that hugged every curve, my sneakers squeaking as I hit the court, hair tied back in a messy knot that still smelled faintly of smoke. The bleachers were packed, kids buzzing about last night—“She took down Liam!” “Maya’s done!”—and Noah was there, sprawled on the top row, one leg kicked out, his green eyes tracking me like a hawk as Coach barked orders.

“Line up, you lazy punks!” Coach yelled, whistle blasting, and the game kicked off—balls flying like cannon fire, kids ducking and diving, screams ricocheting off the rafters. I dodged a wild throw, spinning low, and snatched a ball mid-air, hurling it back with a c***k that nailed some jock square in the chest. He hit the mat with a grunt, and the crowd roared, but Noah just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his smirk daring me to do more.

“Nice arm, Parker!” he called, voice cutting through the chaos, sharp and taunting. “But can you take a hit?”

I grinned, feral and fearless, snagging another ball and whipping it at him—hard, fast, a missile aimed for that smug face. He caught it, one-handed, without blinking, and stood, tossing it back so quick I barely ducked, the air whooshing past my ear like a bullet. “Guess we’ll find out!” I shouted, charging the court, balls raining around me as I danced through the storm, every throw a declaration—I’m here, I’m untouchable, and I’m not backing down. I nailed two more kids, ducking a barrage, my tank top sticking to my skin with sweat, my leggings stretched tight as I lunged, every move a middle finger to the world.

Then it happened—mid-game, mid-chaos, I pivoted to dodge a ball and tripped, my sneaker catching on a mat’s edge. I went down hard, knee slamming the floor with a jolt that shot up my spine, and the crowd gasped, a collective inhale that sucked the air dry. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but before I could scramble up, Noah was there—off the bleachers in a flash, his boots pounding the court as he slid to a stop beside me. His hand shot out, palm pressing firm against my waist, heat searing through my tank top, and he hauled me up, his grip steady but electric, sending a jolt straight to my core.

“You okay, legend?” he asked, voice low, his face close—too close—minty breath brushing my cheek, his green eyes searching mine, glinting with something that wasn’t just concern. His fingers lingered, warm and rough against my skin, and my heart slammed, heat flooding my face—damn it, I was blushing again, red creeping up like a wildfire I couldn’t stomp out.

I shoved him off, stumbling back, my knee throbbing but my grin snapping back fierce. “I’m fine, Kane,” I snapped, voice sharp, brushing dirt off my leggings, my tank top riding up to flash more skin. “Takes more than a fall to break me.” But my cheeks burned, traitorously hot, and I turned away, limping slightly as I waved off Coach’s whistle, the crowd buzzing—half cheers, half whispers.

He didn’t push—just stepped back, hands in his pockets, smirk softening into something unreadable. “Good to know,” he said, turning for the bleachers, but not before slipping something into my hand—a small, cold weight that clinked against my palm. I glanced down, breath catching: a pendant, silver and rough-hewn, etched with a tiny hourglass, its sand frozen mid-fall. “Keep it,” he called over his shoulder, already climbing the steps. “Might come in handy.”

I stared at it, the metal cool against my sweaty skin, my pulse racing as the game roared back to life around me. What the hell? Magic, he’d said—old magic—and now this? My phone buzzed in my gym bag, ignored but insistent, and I knew without checking it was that unknown number again, watching, waiting. The crowd chanted—“Evelyn! Evelyn!”—but Noah’s stare burned hotter, a green flame flickering from the bleachers, daring me to step into whatever game he was playing.

I flipped the pendant in my hand, grinning—wild, unhinged, ready. “Alright, Kane,” I muttered under my breath, shoving it in my pocket as Coach blew the whistle to end the game. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” The bell rang, kids spilling out, but I lingered, the pendant’s weight a promise, a hook sinking deep. Trouble was coming—big, bad, and badass—and I was all in, ready to burn it down or rise from it, whatever hit first.