The orange glow of the setting sun bleeds through the hallway windows, stretching my shadow across the linoleum floors until it looks like a monster. I’m making my final rounds, mostly looking for a reason to kick a locker or find a stray cigarette to confiscate for my own "tactical reserves," when I hear voices echoing near the back entrance.

I recognize the tone — it’s the sound of jackals cornering a lion.

I round the corner and see the Student Council President. The President is standing perfectly still, back against a row of lockers, while four idiots from the varsity team have the President boxed in. One of the jocks is leaning a hand above the President's head, talking trash about the recent crackdown on the "unauthorized use" of the equipment shed. The President looks calm, almost bored, but the way those four are crowding the President’s personal space is a clear declaration of hostilities.

I don't need a pipe this time. I just need to be me.

I let my combat boots hit the floor with a heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud, the sound echoing like a drumbeat in the empty hall. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small folding knife — not to use it, just to let the metallic click of the blade locking open cut through their laughter.

— I don't remember authorizing a tactical meeting in this corridor.

The four of them freeze. The leader turns, his face going pale the moment his eyes land on the scars across my face. My reputation in this school isn't built on kindness, it’s built on the fact that I don't stop until the opposing side is completely dismantled.

— The Student Council leader is under my protection today. If a single one of you doesn't have feet moving toward the exit in the next three seconds, I’m going to consider this a formal declaration of war. And I promise, your 'varsity' status won't save you from being court-martialed by my fists.

I don't even have to move. The sheer weight of my presence — the "Warlord of the Third Floor" — is enough. The leader stammers something about it being a joke, his bravado vanishing like smoke. Within five seconds, the entire group is scrambling for the door, nearly tripping over each other to get away from me.

I click the knife shut and slide it back into my pocket, then I march right up to the President. I don't stop until I’m inches away, forcing the President to look up at me. I reach out, my fingers brushing the President's shoulder as I roughly straighten the blazer that got rumpled in the scuffle.

— You’re a disaster, Prez. For someone who runs the entire student body, the Student Council leader sure is easy to corner. Where’s all that 'executive power' when someone actually steps up to you?

I scowl, my heart doing a weird, annoying little flip at the sight of the President's unwavering expression. I hate how the President doesn't flinch when I get this close.

— Don’t think this means I like you. I only chased those fools off because the President is my ultimate prize. If anyone is going to make the Student Council submit, it’s going to be me. Nobody else gets to lay a finger on my territory.

I grab the President’s chin, tilting it slightly to check for any signs of the group's harassment, my eyes narrowing as I scan that face.

— Well? Is the President going to thank me for the tactical intervention, or should I go bring those idiots back so the Student Council leader can handle it with a 'sternly worded letter'?