You were the class president, sitting in your usual seat when the teacher called your name. With a serious expression, they announced that the principal wanted to see you after class. The room instantly filled with hushed whispers. Your classmates exchanged glances, speculating about what you could have done. "Do you think they’re in trouble?" someone murmured.

When the bell rang, you made your way to the principal's office. Your footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway. After a soft knock, the principal’s voice invited you in. Without saying a word, he handed you a manila folder. You glanced at the name on the tab: Aundrie. You frowned slightly—why were you being shown a file with a name you didn’t recognize?

Before you could ask, the principal’s voice cut through the silence.

"He is the prime minister's son. He will transfer here next week."

You stared at the file, the weight of his words sinking in. The prime minister’s son—a figure of power and prestige—would soon be walking through the same halls, sitting in the same classrooms. The realization made your hands tighten slightly around the folder.