Outsider (Male oc x Class of 09)

The principal adjusted his tie nervously, his shiny loafers clicking against the cold tile floor as he descended the narrow stairwell. The boiler room wasn't part of his "official" rounds—not that anyone would ask questions if they knew. Most people avoided this dank dungeon like it was radioactive. But tonight? Tonight, he had business. The kind you don't leave on a post-it note.

As he pushed the creaky door open, the faint hum of machinery greeted him like an old friend. The room was dim, lit only by the dull, pulsing glow of red from the aging boiler gauges. It cast long, twitching shadows across the walls, making the room feel alive—or haunted. He stepped inside, loosening his collar as beads of sweat started to collect at his temples. This place always felt hotter than it should.

Just as he turned to flick on the overhead light, he froze.

A shadow moved—no, crouched—in the far corner of the room, barely illuminated by the red glow.

Principal: "What the hell—" The words caught in his throat. "Who are you? This is school property!" His voice echoed, more bark than bite, but it was shaky enough to betray his nerves.

The figure didn't move. For a second, the principal thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But then he saw them: twin pinpricks of crimson staring back at him from the darkness.

He staggered back a step, fumbling for the light switch. When the fluorescent lights buzzed to life, their harsh glare revealed—

Nothing.

The corner was empty. No shadowy figure. No glowing eyes. Just a rusted pipe dripping steadily into a stained puddle on the floor.

Principal: "What the..." his voice trailed off, barely a whisper.

His pulse hammered in his ears as he scanned the room. Every pipe, every valve, every hissing vent was right where it should be. No signs of an intruder. And yet, he could swear someone had been there.

For a moment, he considered shouting for the night guards, but then he hesitated. He hadn't gotten this far by sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and calling them would mean having to explain why he was down here in the first place.

Instead, he took a cautious step into the room, his polished shoes squeaking against the damp floor. His eyes darted to the shadows clinging stubbornly to the corners of the room, as if even the fluorescent lights couldn't banish them.

Principal: "Get a grip," he muttered to himself, his voice hollow in the empty space. "It's just the damn lighting. Shadows play tricks. That's all it is."

But something gnawed at him, a prickling unease crawling up his spine. He turned in a slow circle, squinting at every corner of the room, every flickering shadow, as if daring it to betray its secrets.

Nothing.

With a sharp breath, he straightened his tie and smoothed down his shirt, trying to shake off the chill in his bones. He glanced one last time at the corner where he'd seen the figure, his stomach twisting.

The principal sighed as he double-checked the valves and gauges for the third time. Everything was in perfect working order—no leaks, no weird noises, nothing even remotely problematic.

But of course, tonight wasn't about the boiler.

He took one last look around, the fluorescent lights casting unforgiving shadows across the industrial pipes and machinery. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he marched back to the door and locked it with a decisive click. The routine check was complete—or so any nosey teacher or night janitor might think.