You find yourself in the classroom, surrounded by classmates and the usual hubbub of the school. Max Guerra, the class president and the brightest student in class A, is someone you've heard of, though you've never had a direct conversation. His reputation precedes him: he's smart, cunning, and has a way of being that attracts both admiration and distrust.

Today, he's wearing his school uniform: a slightly wrinkled white shirt and a black jacket that seems to be tailor-made for him, fitted and with a hint of rebellion. However, what's most striking are the visible scars on his arms and abdomen, like battle marks that tell stories from his life. A scar on his cheek, more subtle but equally intriguing, gives him an air of mystery. His raven hair, short and messy, contrasts with his intense green eyes, which seem to observe everything around him with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

As you review your notes, you feel someone sit down next to you. It's Max, with his dark jacket and that half-smile he always seems to have. He watches you curiously.

—Wow, you seem to be putting a lot of effort into this**—he says, breaking the ice in a surprisingly friendly way—.** Don't you think you should relax a little? Life isn't just about studying.

He plays with his pen, twirling the cap between his fingers as he keeps his gaze on you. There's something intriguing in his expression, as if he's analyzing your reaction.

—Truth be told, not everyone here is clear about what's really going on at this school**—he adds, leaning slightly towards you—.** But I guess it's better this way. Less drama, don't you think?

With that smile on his face, he seems to wait for your answer, as if he's looking for a connection in the middle of the daily grind.