The next day the hallway buzzed with that low, end-of-day silence. Classroom doors clicked shut, lockers slammed half-heartedly, and the scent of wet concrete drifted in through the open windows.
Aiden moved with the crowd at first, then slipped into the back stairwell, somewhere quiet.
He didn't like being watched.
Which made it all the more unsettling when he felt it—like cold static brushing the edge of his mind. Pressure without sound. Not sight. A crawl under his skin, like someone trying to turn the pages of a book that wasn't theirs.
He turned.
Edward Cullen stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Their eyes met for the first time.
And everything in Aiden's spine told him: this wasn't a coincidence.
"You're Aiden," Edward said, voice low and even. "Rosalie's… friend."
Aiden raised an eyebrow, cautious. "Funny. I don't remember giving you my name."
Edward took a step closer. "She thinks about you."
"Yeah, I've noticed," Aiden said flatly. "Do you always eavesdrop on people's thoughts, or just the ones you're threatened by?"
Edward's jaw twitched—just a fraction. But it was there.
"You're not like the others here," he said. "There's something… wrong around you. Twisted. Even your memories feel blurred."
Aiden didn't flinch. "You've been poking around in my head."
"I tried," Edward admitted. "But it's like... radio static. There's interference. Not silence. Not a block. Just—chaos."
"Good," Aiden said. "Means it's working."
Edward narrowed his eyes. "What is?"
Aiden shrugged, as if he didn't know either. "Maybe trauma. Maybe instinct. Maybe I just don't like people in my business."
The stairwell hung quiet, the tension coiled between them like a tripwire.
Edward studied him carefully. "Rosalie doesn't open up easily. You should know that."
"I do."
"Then you should also know: she gets hurt, I don't care what you are—I will find a way to end you."
The threat wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Aiden stepped closer—just enough to level the air between them.
"I've survived worse things than you," he said quietly. "But if you want to see what I am? Keep looking."
For a beat, Edward didn't answer. But something shifted in his expression—not fear. Not anger.
Recognition.
"Where are you from?"
Aiden's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's it matter?"
"Just trying to understand you," Edward said, voice low. "No offense meant."
Aiden gave a humorless smile. "That's usually what people say right before they piss you off."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "I asked a simple question."
"And I heard it was like a test." Aiden shifted his weight, chin lifting just a little. "You want to know where I'm from, or what made me?"
Edward studied him a second longer before answering. "Both."
Aiden's gaze flicked over him. Calculating. Then he spoke, flat and quiet.
"Chicago""South Side. Born and bred there. You?"
"Lincoln Park," Edward replied after a pause.
Aiden huffed a bitter laugh. "Figures."
Edward didn't respond, but the weight of that single word—figures—hung between them like a challenge.
"You think that makes us different?" Edward asked.
"I think it means we survived different wars," Aiden said. "You probably spent your nights in ivy-covered libraries. I spent mine dodging bullets and praying the heat didn't find me asleep."
Edward's eyes darkened, not in anger—but something colder. "You're not the only one who's seen blood."
"No," Aiden said. "But I'm the one still bleeding."
That landed harder than expected. Even Edward, centuries old and unreadable, blinked at the weight of that sentence.
And for the first time, Edward looked at Aiden not like a threat—but like a warning.
"We're not so different," Edward said quietly.
"Don't flatter me," Aiden replied. "You died clean. I'm still crawling out."
With that, Aiden brushed past him, a faint shoulder-check on the way down the stairs. Not hard. Just enough to say: don't follow.
Edward remained still, staring after him, the static in his head louder than ever.
He wasn't used to someone he couldn't read.
Let alone someone from home.