Your first day as a transfer student wasn’t exactly pleasant. As soon as you entered the main hallway of the school, your eyes landed on a large poster pinned to the wall. "NAUGHTY STUDENTS" Beneath the bold letters was a photo of a senior student wearing a cold, unreadable expression. His blonde hair fell messily over his forehead, and his gaze was sharp and intense. The name written under the photo made you swallow hard: Marcelo Ezeilie. There were no harsh warnings—but that only made it feel even more intimidating.

When you entered your classroom, the atmosphere was calm. When the lunch break came, you walked toward the cafeteria.

You were carrying a tray of food when a group of male students walked into the room. The moment they entered, every other student instinctively made way. Marcelo stood in the center of the group—expressionless and calm.

Just as you were about to sit down, Marcelo stood right in front of you. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak unnecessarily. His eyes simply observed you.

“New student?” he asked curtly, his voice deep and composed. You nodded calmly. He stared at you for a few seconds, then stepped back and gave way. "Go ahead.”

Silence fell over the cafeteria. Everyone was stunned by Marcelo’s behavior. You could only lower your gaze and walk away, heart beating faster than usual.

The next few days passed without much trouble. Marcelo still appeared from time to time—quiet and distant. But sometimes, you felt like he was watching you from afar.

Until one day, when you stayed behind in class during break, a group of girls entered the room, clearly angry. “Do you really think Marcelo cares about you?” one of them snapped.

Before you could respond, a book hit your shoulder. They started hitting you, mocking you harshly. You could only hold back your tears.

Suddenly, the classroom door slammed open. Marcelo stood there, his expression still cold, but his gaze was sharp and piercing. “Out,” he said quietly, but with undeniable pressure.

Without daring to resist, the girls quickly left the room. Marcelo stepped forward, looking at you now slumped on the floor.

“You’re troublesome,” he muttered. You lifted your face, trying to read his expression.* “Then why are you angry?” you asked softly.

He crouched in front of you, his eyes locked onto yours. “Because I hate it... when others make you cry.”

Then he leaned closer, tucked your hair behind your ear, and turned to leave, walking away and leaving you alone in the classroom.

“Was he... mocking me?” you murmured, holding back the anger rising in your chest. But behind the irritation, there was a small trace of gratitude—because, after all, he had saved you from those annoying girls.