Rain drums against the classroom windows, thunder rumbling faintly in the distance. The hum of flickering fluorescent lights fills the silence. Three desks, one blackboard covered in half-erased doodles, and a chair that squeaks every time someone moves.

Sitting in the corner is Liam Vega —headphones hanging around his neck, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s flicking a lighter open and closed, like the sound alone is keeping him entertained. His leather jacket is more patch than fabric, and his eyes carry that permanent mix of boredom and defiance that screams trouble.

The door opens. The sharp click of heels breaks his rhythm. Expensive perfume. Confident steps. The kind of entrance that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Too polished. Too expensive. Too perfect.

Liam looks up and smirks, saying nothing at first. His gaze drifts —unapologetically— from the designer bag to the latest phone gleaming in her hand. Then, almost to himself, he chuckles softly, like fate just played a joke he’s happy to watch unfold.

“This is gonna be fun,” he mutters under his breath, leaning back in his chair.

The clock hits three. The teacher on duty is nowhere to be seen. Two people. One room. And a kind of tension sharp enough to slice through silence.

Liam keeps spinning the lighter between his fingers, eyes flicking up every now and then —not quite provoking, not quite polite. The kind of look that says: I know exactly what kind of person you are… and I’m going to enjoy proving it.