Friday evening, Midtown High.
The Spring Formal had transformed the ordinary high school into a different world.
The lockers in the hallways were hidden behind streamers and balloons, and neon-colored banners hung from the ceiling, with “Spring Formal” spelled out in crooked sequins.
The cafeteria had been turned into a temporary dance floor; lighting techs were still adjusting the equipment, sending red, blue, and purple beams sweeping across the walls, stretching shadows to strange lengths.
The scent of cologne overpowered the floral arrangements, mingled with the smell of cheap scented candles and the warm aroma of butter and frosting wafting from the auditorium kitchen.
The sound of camera shutters was incessant, laughter echoed from every direction, and the sharp click of high heels on the floor was punctuated by the intermittent sounds of the band tuning their instruments.
Ryan Quinn stood in front of the wall where the program was posted, looking up slightly at the A3 sheet detailing the evening’s events—more accurately, his head was tilted as if he were looking, though he seemed like he might fall asleep at any moment.
He was wearing a black suit, sharply tailored but without a tie.
The top button of his shirt was undone, leaving the collar loose and open.
He leaned against the wall, his weight resting entirely on his right shoulder, standing with zero posture.
The crowd surged around him, but Ryan Quinn didn’t react.
He just stood there with half-lidded eyes, occasionally letting out a yawn.
“Alex?” A voice spoke up behind him, carrying a hint of tentative surprise.
Ryan Quinn turned his head sluggishly—first tilting his neck, then allowing his shoulders to follow, a process that took about two seconds.
A young, beautiful girl stood before him.
Her long red hair fell to her shoulders, the ends slightly curled.
She wore a white formal dress that clearly traced the curves of her figure.
Her lips were turned up in a slight smile, and her gaze was candid, unashamedly checking him out.
“MJ,” Ryan Quinn said her name in a flat, quiet tone.
“Wow, you actually know my name.” Mary Jane’s smile widened as she took half a step forward.
“I thought you didn’t care about anyone at school.” “Well…
I really don’t,” Ryan Quinn said, shifting his gaze back to the program with a lazy sincerity that bordered on dismissive.
“But I can remember a name.
We are classmates, after all.” As he spoke, he drew out the end of the sentence, as if he’d forgotten it the moment it left his mouth.
Mary Jane tilted her head, seemingly unbothered by the lack of conversation.
“To be honest, when I saw you standing here from a distance, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
You never participate in school activities, do you?
You skip PE, you don’t join clubs, and you even eat lunch alone in the classroom.” She paused, then added in a matter-of-fact tone, “Everyone says you’re the cool, aloof heartthrob type.” “Aloof?” Ryan Quinn blinked, repeating the word slowly before letting out another small yawn.
“Ah…
it’s not that.
It’s just that things are a hassle.” “A hassle?” “Yeah.
Changing clothes for PE is a hassle.
Club meetings are a hassle.
Lunch—” he thought for a second, “—waiting in line at the cafeteria is also a hassle.” Mary Jane stared for a moment, then let out a laugh.
It wasn’t loud, but it was clear.
“So you’re not aloof; you’re just lazy.” “Pretty much.” Ryan Quinn shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, leaning his shoulder further against the wall as if he might slide down it at any second.
“This suit is already uncomfortable enough…
a tie would be more of a hassle, so I didn’t wear one.” “Then why did you come tonight?
Isn’t the formal a hassle?” “Ah…” Ryan Quinn looked up at the ceiling as if seriously considering the question, taking two seconds before answering.
“I promised someone.
If you promise, you have to show up.
Even if it is a hassle.” Something flickered in Mary Jane’s eyes.
Her gaze was direct, possessing a composure usually found in adults.
“Do you have a date tonight?” she asked.
“Yeah…” Ryan Quinn drawled, as if searching his memory.
“Gwen Stacy.” Mary Jane was taken aback.
Then she smiled, a look of understanding crossing her face.
“Gwen.
That’s…
very fitting.” She took a step back, smoothing her skirt.
When she looked up again, her expression had shifted to something more casual.
“Well, since you already have a date, I won’t bother you.
But—” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice: “If you change your mind, or…
if you’re looking for somewhere to go after the dance, you can call me anytime.” Ryan Quinn slowly turned his head, looking at her with those half-open eyes.
His expression didn’t change; he just blinked.
“A call, huh…
we’ll see.” He pulled a hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head.
“Besides, after the dance, I usually just go straight home to sleep.
Today’s already been tiring enough.” Mary Jane gave a small laugh and turned to leave.
Her white dress stood out in the crowd, her red hair bobbing under the lights.
Ryan Quinn watched her for about three seconds before turning back to the program.
He wasn’t really reading it; he just felt like turning his head to find something else to do was too much effort.
*** Gwen actually hadn’t wanted to come today.
To be precise, she had been conflicted all day, only making up her mind at four in the afternoon.
The reason was simple—Ryan Quinn hadn’t given her a clear answer.
At the end of that phone call, she had asked, “Would you mind being my date?” and Ryan Quinn hadn’t said yes or no.
He had just said, “Ah…
sure.
But I have things to do, gotta go,” and then hung up.
Since then, there had been nothing.
Not even a text message.
What was that supposed to mean?
She had spent the entire afternoon staring at her phone screen, watching the battery drop from eighty percent to twenty.
Outside, day turned to dusk, and Helen called her for dinner three times.
Nothing.
If it weren’t for the fact that she had a performance tonight, she really might not have come.
She had even thought of excuses—a stomachache, a headache, or saying Howard had shredded her dress.
Anything would have worked.
But she was Gwen Stacy.
She didn’t skip rehearsals, she didn’t miss performances, and she didn’t stand people up at the last minute.
It was a matter of principle.
So she came.
Wearing the dark purple gown, with light makeup, her blonde hair down and pinned with a silver clip.
She stood at the entrance of the auditorium, thinking: *I’m just here to play the drums.
Once I’m done, I’m leaving.
Who cares about a date?* Then she saw Ryan Quinn.
In a black suit, his lean frame leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway—or rather, he was slumped crookedly against it.
Alone.
The crowd flowed past him, but no one approached.
Gwen froze.
She was just about to walk over—perhaps to pretend it was a chance encounter, perhaps to say “You’re here,” or perhaps just to stand beside him—when she saw a flash of red hair emerge from the crowd, heading straight for Ryan Quinn.
Mary Jane Watson.
Her white dress was blindingly bright, her red hair draped over her shoulders, her smile radiant.
She walked up to Ryan Quinn, tilted her head to say something, and laughed.
Ryan Quinn turned to look at her.
The turn was ridiculously slow; Gwen could almost imagine the “Huh?
Who’s calling me?” look on his face.
Mary Jane leaned in closer.
As she tilted her head, her red hair slid off her shoulder.
When she stepped back, she adjusted her skirt and then leaned in to whisper something in Ryan Quinn’s ear—Gwen watched this, a lump of discomfort forming in her chest.
What the hell?
She lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening around her skirt.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t coming to the dance.
He just…
didn’t come with her.
She suddenly felt ridiculous.
She had spent the whole day agonizing, checking her phone repeatedly for unread messages, even specifically preparing this dress for tonight—and what about Ryan Quinn?
He was leaning against a wall in a black suit, laughing and talking with the prettiest girl in school.
No, that wasn’t right.
Knowing his personality, he probably wasn’t “laughing and talking.” But Mary Jane was laughing, and that was enough.
Gwen took a deep breath, pushing down that inexplicable feeling.
The hem of her purple dress swayed gently at her feet as she lifted her chin and walked toward the backstage area.
*I’m just here to play the drums.* She repeated the thought to herself.
*When I’m done, I’m leaving.* The backstage corridor was crowded with students preparing to go on stage.
Gwen pushed through the throng and found the band’s spot.
Betty was already tuning her guitar; seeing Gwen approach, she raised a hand in greeting.
“Gwen, you look a bit pale.
Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” Gwen sat down behind the drum kit and picked up her sticks.
“Just a little nervous.” Betty looked at her but didn’t press further.
On stage, the lights dimmed.
The host walked to the center of the stage and said something into the microphone, met by a wave of cheers from the audience.
Gwen gripped her drumsticks, her gaze falling on the dark void of the audience at the edge of the stage.
She didn’t know where Ryan Quinn was sitting.
And she didn’t want to know.
*** Outside the auditorium.
The roar of engines gradually subsided as an old car pulled into the far end of the parking lot, sluggishly squeezing into a spot.
The car door opened.
Karl King climbed out of the driver’s seat.
He was wearing a dark gray suit today.
The fabric wasn’t great, the cuffs were pilling, and the tie was tied so tightly he uncomfortably tugged at his collar.
He glanced at his watch—8:15.
He shut the door, took two steps, and then suddenly stopped.
Straightening his body, he looked toward the auditorium.
Warm yellow light spilled from the auditorium windows, and music drifted out through the gaps in the doors—the band was playing, the drumbeats crisp, the bass vibrating through the air.
The dance had begun.
Karl King stood at the edge of the parking lot, moonlight illuminating his freckled, round face.
The dark gray suit didn’t fit well; the shoulders were baggy, and the pants were too long, bunching up over his shoes.
He looked almost comical.
But his eyes were different.
Deep within their sockets, his eyes glinted with a dark light in the shadows.
He stared at the auditorium, unmoving.
“The hunt,” he whispered, “is about to begin.” He straightened his tie and began walking toward the auditorium.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, every step steady.
The dark gray suit looked almost black under the streetlights.
The auditorium doors grew closer.
The music grew louder.
The corners of Karl King’s mouth slowly curled upward.
A strange expression appeared on his freckled face, like a smile, yet like an uncontrollable muscle twitch.
He reached out and pushed open the door.