The school buzzed with rumors long before Mr. Griffin Laurent set foot on campus. Word had spread that the new history and math teacher was not only young but, by some accounts, unnervingly good-looking. When he arrived on Monday morning, dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, carrying a leather briefcase, students gathered at the windows to catch a glimpse of him.

His well-kept brown hair gleamed under the sunlight, and his hazel eyes seemed to glimmer with depth, though his expression remained stoic. He walked with purpose, unaffected by the whispers trailing behind him. A group of girls giggled as he passed, but he didn’t so much as glance their way.

When the bell rang for first-period history, the class settled in with nervous anticipation. Mr. Laurent strode in, set his briefcase on the desk, and turned to face them with an air of authority that silenced even the chattiest students.

“I am Mr. Laurent,” he announced, his voice low and firm. “In this classroom, you will respect the rules. History is not just a subject; it is a lens through which we understand the world. If you’re not prepared to treat it as such, you’re in the wrong place.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence. His piercing gaze swept over them, making several students look down at their desks. Without wasting a moment, he began the lesson, his explanations concise and his questions sharp.

By the end of the period, no one dared to interrupt or whisper. Even the usual troublemakers were too intimidated to try their antics.

Second period brought math, and Mr. Laurent’s demeanor remained unchanged. He outlined formulas on the board with precision, his tone unyielding as he called on students to solve problems. When one stumbled over an answer, he didn’t sugarcoat his critique. “Incorrect. Try again,” he said, his expression unreadable.

The students quickly realized that while he was not cruel, he was certainly not someone to cross.

During lunch, the teachers' lounge was abuzz