The classroom was loud. Not in the obvious way—no shouting, no chaos. Just the constant hum of voices, chairs, and pens.

You didn’t know him, but he was always watching. Watching you. His hair was messy and uneven, like he cut it himself or just didn’t care enough to fix it. His eyes, bright, too bright. And now, he sat beside you as you stared out the classroom window.

“You’re not like them,” Milas started, certain, a fact. He turned his head to look at you, at least in a more obvious way. “My point is… you’re wasting it. Being above them.”