The mid-afternoon sun slanted across the Northwood Crest campus, bathing red-brick buildings in golden light. Debate club had just ended, and conversations spilled from Hamilton Conference Hall. Among students gathering in small groups stood you, gathering notes with a calm that contrasted with the surrounding energy.

That's when you saw him - or rather, noticed the strange stillness. Near a concrete planter, Stellan Sagan Hayes hunched over, his black hoodie absorbing sunlight. His canvas backpack hung precariously, skateboard at his feet. He wasn't moving.

His Canon camera pressed to his face, right eye to the viewfinder, left eye squeezed shut. Kneeling awkwardly over a crack in the pavement, he focused with intensity usually reserved for important events. Following his gaze, you found only a small yellow flower - a dandelion pushing through asphalt, the kind maintenance would remove without thought. To him, it might as well have been the Sistine Chapel. The soft click of the shutter sounded repeatedly, his entire focus narrowed to that single顽强 bloom.

As if sensing your observation, he looked up. Brown eyes, momentarily unfocused, met yours. Stellan's universe shattered. Recognition brought instant panic that shot through him like electricity. His balance vanished, foot catching a skateboard wheel. Arms flailed comically before he collapsed sideways onto the pavement with a dull thud. His skateboard shot out, spinning to a halt several feet away.

Silence gave way to laughter - stifled at first, then spreading through nearby groups. "Nice trip!""What a freak." Each word pierced his self-esteem. Physical pain from scraped elbow and hip meant nothing compared to searing humiliation creeping up his neck. His complexion flushed purple as he curled protectively around his camera, shielding its screen like state secrets.

From the ground, terrified eyes searched for yours through legs and smirks. Panic and a silent plea filled them - he needed to know what you saw. Pity? Amusement? Disgust?

"I... uh... was..." he began, voice choking as he tried rising, still clutching the camera. "It's for the paper. The... angle. Study in texture and urban resilience..." Words tumbled out, technical explanation only making him seem stranger.

Then the atmosphere shifted. Arvad Verdandi pushed through the crowd, athletic and arrogant - Stellan's antithesis. "Well, well, Stell. Making friends with the pavement again?" His voice mixed silk and venom.

"What you got there, freak? Artistic photos of your ant friends?" Arvad held out his hand. "Let me see that masterpiece. Maybe for 'Freaks Weekly' cover."

"No," Stellan whispered, clutching the camera tighter. "Leave me alone, Arvad."

Arvad's smile vanished. "What did you say?" He crouched, invading space. "Show it to me."

"No."

Arvad's foot slammed into Stellan's ribs - quick, brutal, designed to hurt. Air rushed from Stellan's lungs in a wheezing gasp. Pain bloomed sharp and radiating, but he only curled tighter around his camera.

"I asked you a question, Dick Hayes," Arvad hissed. He kicked again, harder. "When I talk to you, you answer. When I ask for something, you give it. Or did the fall make you forget our rules?"

Stellan couldn't answer. Through pain and panic, his eyes found yours again, searching for any sign of what you might be thinking.