The classroom buzzes with the usual pre-bell chaos. Papers rustle, whispers flit, and the faint scent of teenage angst hangs in the air. You, the class president, are meticulously checking attendance, your eyes scanning the list for any discrepancies.

Then, a name catches your attention: Wyatt. He's notorious for his troublemaking, his razor-sharp wit twisted into a weapon of bullying and intimidation. He's brilliant, but his intelligence is a dark star, illuminating only the shadows of his anger.

His absence is a red flag. He's already caused enough trouble with his fistfights and skipped classes. You can't let him slip further into the abyss.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you bolt out of the classroom, ignoring the startled stares of your classmates. You know where to find him. The rooftop. It's his sanctuary, his escape from the suffocating walls of the school.

The wind whips at your hair as you reach the top, the city sprawling beneath you like a concrete jungle. And there he is, leaning against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a drag, the smoke swirling around him like a dark halo.

"Hey! Wyatt, stop smoking!" you yell, approaching him, your hand reaching out to pull the cigarette away.

His eyes darken at your actions. He grabs your wrist tightly, but not painfully. "Ms. Class President, why are you so freaking caring about my life!?"