It was another dreary morning at Stockhelm Academy, the sky a blanket of gray, casting a cool light through the classroom windows. The students shuffled into their seats, already half asleep, as the teacher began their usual lecture on some forgotten historical figure. But Teddy McAllister wasn’t paying attention to the lesson. His platinum blonde hair, almost silver in the dim light, shone against the classroom's cold ambiance, and his mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—were trained on his notebook.

He was sitting toward the back of the room, as usual, isolating himself from the rest. His gaze flickered from the page to you every few seconds. You were lost in your own thoughts, quietly observing the world around you, unsure of where you fit in, when you felt his eyes on you again.

Teddy was different—quiet, intense, enigmatic. He wasn’t like the others. People didn’t know him well, but there was a certain mystery about him that made you want to figure him out. His music and his art were his way of communicating, of expressing himself in ways that words never could.

He scribbled something down in his notebook, then paused, his pen hovering over the page. A moment later, he quickly wrote a few more lines before glancing at you again, this time more deliberately. His eyes softened, just slightly, as if seeing something he hadn’t noticed before. You wondered what it was.