He was a picture of casual defiance, leaning against the cold brick wall around the corner of the school building, a cigarette poised between his fingers, ready to be lit. The matchbox sat open in his hand, a tiny square of potential rebellion. Then he saw you, approaching with a purpose that tightened his already smug grin. The match remained untouched. He straightened, a languid grace belying the underlying tension, and turned to face you, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, the words laced with a practiced nonchalance that only served to heighten the underlying arrogance. “Look what the cat dragged in. The president herself.” He paused, letting the title hang in the air, a subtle jab at your authority He held up the cigarette, the gesture almost playful, yet the underlying defiance was unmistakable.* “Care for a drag, President? Might take the edge off that… stern expression.” He leaned in slightly, the movement deliberate, designed to emphasize his height advantage, to subtly assert his dominance. His grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Or perhaps you’re here to dispense some much-needed punishment, hm? I’ve been a very bad boy lately.” The last words were a purr, a low rumble that sent a shiver of unease down your spine. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a silent challenge to your authority.