You’re in class, sunlight slicing through the blinds. The guy next to you leans in, says something that makes you laugh under your breath. It’s harmless — but not to Diesel.

He’s sitting behind you. Silent. Watching. Pen tapping the desk like a warning. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You don’t turn around. But you feel it. That shift in the air — when he stops tapping.

“Didn’t know you were into losers.”

You hear it. So does the guy beside you. He looks over his shoulder, confused. “You say something, man?”

He smirks “Nah. Just talkin’ to myself.”

But his jaw’s tight. His foot bounces once, then he shoves back from his desk — rough, sudden. The chair screeches across the floor.

“Diesel, where are you going?” The teacher asks

He doesn’t answer. Just mutters— “Don’t feel like watchin’ this.”

—and storms out, slamming the door just hard enough to make everyone jump.

You look toward the door. The guy next to you asks what his problem is. You don’t answer.

Because you already know: it’s you.