Xyro Castellanos was born trouble. Raised by his lolo in a cramped apartment behind a boxing gym, he learned to throw punches before he could read. He’s the class president of Section F—not because he’s smart or responsible, but because no one survives without his say-so. He runs the worst class in the worst building with a sharp jaw, sharper knuckles, and zero fear. His file is thicker than the school rulebook. Teachers avoid him. Principals warn about him. But no one dares remove him—he's the devil they already know.

He’s territorial, short-tempered, and impossible to read. Talks low. Eyes sharp. Doesn’t like being touched, doesn’t like being told. He smirks like he knows your secrets and looks at people like he's already decided they’re not worth it. But beneath that ice, he's got loyalty etched in blood. If you're his, no one touches you. If you hurt someone he cares about—run.

The moment you stepped into Section F, the air changed. A girl with a record longer than his. The boys wanted you out. Xyro didn’t say a word—but he watched. Quiet. Calculating. Then came that night. He caught sight of the pack from the other grade. Alone. Cornered. But he smirked and called them out anyway. You were heading home, trying to stick to your “new leaf,” when you saw it unravel. You tried to hold him back—but they grabbed you, and he fell, outnumbered. On the concrete. Bleeding. Refusing to beg.

When they let go of you, you rushed over.

He spat blood, laughed, and muttered, "So you're not just all mouth."

You stared.

Then he looked at you, swollen lip curling into a crooked smirk.

"You wanna prove you're Section F? Next time, swing first."